NOVEMBER 2025
LILLIAN
The car was a vacuum of sound. Inside the cabin, the only sound was the low, electric hum of the air conditioning fighting the humidity. Through the wet passenger window, the endless white headstones of Heritage Park blurred into a gray smudge behind the concrete perimeter wall, still dressed in the soggy remnants of yesterday's floral wreaths.
I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching the raindrops race each other down the glass. I was acutely aware of Isaac's presence—the scent of his coffee, the sharp line of his suit, and the heavy, exhausted stillness of his posture. He hadn't said a word during breakfast. He hadn't even looked at me when I entered the car.
Manong Jerry glanced at the rearview mirror, his eyes meeting mine for a split second with a look of quiet concern before focusing back on the road.
"Lillian."
His voice was a frayed thread, barely cutting through the drone of the road. I didn't turn. My throat tightened, my chest drawing in short, shallow breaths.
"I'm sorry," he said.
The words brought a strange stillness to the back seat. I slowly turned my head. Isaac wasn't looking at me; he was staring down at his own lap, but his hands were gripping each other tightly.
"For snapping at you last night," he continued, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "For... everything. I shouldn't have been so cold. I shouldn't have—" He cut himself off, his jaw clamping shut.
I finally turned to face him. There were dark, bruised hollows beneath his eyes. He leaned heavily against the leather seat, his breathing fast and shallow.
"It's okay, Isaac," I said softly, loosening my locked fingers in my lap. "I know what it's like to be pulled out of a dream you didn't want to be in."I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat, forcing myself to bridge the distance.
"But if you ever... if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. Not just because of the contract. Just... here."
Isaac's chest rose and fell in a sharp rhythm. He didn't answer. The heavy silence rushed back in, punctuated only by the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers. I shifted my weight toward the door, expecting him to turn away. But then, a long, shuddering breath escaped his lips, his shoulders dropped as he released it.
"It was Elijah," he whispered.
He dropped his hands onto his knees, squeezing his fingers into his suit fabric. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor mat.
"The public... the board... they all think it was a sudden heart failure," he said, his voice fracturing on the syllables. "A tragic medical anomaly. But it wasn't. He... he took his own life."
Air trapped in my lungs, my gaze fixed on the side of his face.
"I was in eleventh grade," Isaac said, his voice dropping lower, flat and uneven. "I had to watch him struggle, and I couldn't do a damn thing to change it."
A single tear broke over his lower lid, cutting a line down the edge of his cheek.
"Isaac..." I reached out, stopping my hand an inch above his fingers. "It wasn't your fault."
"I should have known," he said, turning his head to face me. Red veins streaked the whites of his eyes, and his lower lip twitched before he bit down on it. "I lived in the same house. I saw him every day. How did I miss how much he was hurting? I was his brother, Lillian. I should have saved him. I let him die."
My hand moved on instinct. I reached across the leather seat and wrapped my fingers over his fist, squeezed it softly.
Isaac froze. His gaze snapped down to our joined hands. His fingers trembled under mine, a small twitch running up his forearm before his eyes flew up to meet mine.
For a second, the air vanished from the car. Then, reality rushed back over me like a bucket of ice water.
My chest locked on a sharp, shallow intake of air. Slinking my hand down into the shadows of my lap, I felt the sudden flame of a flush racing up my throat. I stared out the side window, knees squeezed together as if trying to make myself disappear.
Isaac blinked, the sudden break in contact making him recoil slightly. Slowly, the glass walls began to slide back up around him, though they looked incredibly fragile now. He cleared his throat, a sudden, jerky movement as he straightened his posture and adjusted the knot of his tie, shifting his weight back into his corner of the seat.
"We're almost at the office," he said quietly, his voice returning to its controlled, quiet cadence, though it still held a faint tremor.
The rain didn't stop when the black sedan glided to a smooth halt in the underground executive bay of the Ramirez Headquarters. The engine cut out, and with it, the steady, rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers ceased, leaving only the muffled, echoing drips of water against the cold concrete floor.
I expected Isaac to snap the door open and immediately distance himself, instead, he stepped out into the damp, subterranean chill, rounded the hood with deliberate strides, and opened my door himself.
He stood tall, shielding me from the drafty wind of the garage. I swung my legs out and looked up, searching his face. His expression had already settled back into its familiar calm. The tremor in his hands disappeared as he buttoned his jacket, each movement precise enough to erase any trace of what had happened in the car. If I hadn't heard his confession myself, I might have believed nothing had happened at all.
Yet, as he offered his hand to help me up, the gesture was entirely gentle. His grip tightened securely around mine to steady me. He didn't make eye contact, but he didn't let go until my heels found a stable purchase on the ground.
"I have a consecutive line of board briefings," he said, his voice flat, completely stripped of the raw cadence from minutes ago. "Marco will ensure you have everything you need."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked toward the private elevator, his shoes clicking sharply against the polished floor until the steel doors closed between us.
Left alone, I took the adjacent lift up to the nineteenth floor—the creative nerve center of the Ramirez Empire's luxury fashion division. The floor was a sprawling sanctuary of minimalist white walls, rolling racks of silk and structured tweed, and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the financial district.
I walked into my private office, the heavy blinds-covered glass door clicking shut behind me, sealing out the low hum of fabric shears and pattern makers outside. I sank into the leather chair behind my desk, completely caught up in his confession. A heavy, hollow ache throbbed behind my ribs.
I never knew.
The thought repeated like a cruel, looping track in my mind. For three years in my past life, we had shared a house, and a name, yet our dynamic had remained entirely transactional.
A wave of bitter shame washed over me, hot and suffocating. In that first timeline, I had been so utterly consumed by my own resentment, so hyper-focused on the unfairness of life, that I had completely blinded myself to the man right in front of me. I had dismissed his coldness as arrogance. I had labeled his silence as cruelty.
Now, a frantic, worried eagerness tangled with my guilt. I wanted to help him. I wanted to tear down those high walls myself. If I had just looked closer back then—if I had stopped being so damn self-centered —could our future have been different? If I had reached out to share his weight, maybe the tragic, brutal end of Isaac's life in the previous timeline wouldn't have happened. Maybe I could have pulled him out of the dark before the vultures closed in.
I was trying to rewrite the blueprint of this life to save us, but I was playing with half a chess board.
Beyond my office door, the floor was already humming with activity. The sharp, metallic snip of shears echoed faintly through the glass, punctuated by the rhythmic clatter of clothing racks rolling across polished floors and the muted hushes of my team prepping for the new season's rollout.
I pressed my hands on top of my white wooden desk and took a slow, deep breath. Take things one step at a time.
The leather of my office chair creaked under my weight as I forced myself to sit up straight. I couldn't spend the morning staring out the window, drowning in memories of a past life that hadn't happened yet. My chest was still tight, but I needed to work.
I smoothed down the front of my blazer, picked up my tablet, and walked toward the door. My team was waiting in the main studio for our Monday morning pitch session. We had three weeks to refine the new collection, and as a Director, I couldn't afford to look distracted.
I reached out and grabbed the cold metallic door handle.
Before I could turn it, voices drifted through the heavy glass, blind-covered panel from the corridor outside. The sound was muffled, but the deep, measured cadence of the first speaker was instantly recognizable.
Marco.
"The Chairman wants the background check completed by Wednesday," Marco was saying, his voice low and clipped. "He doesn't care how many years back you have to dig."
My fingers stiffened around the cold metal handle, locking me in place. I stopped breathing altogether, sinking my shoulder deeper into the glass frame to shrink into the shadows.
A lighter, unfamiliar voice answered him. "Finding dirt on someone who has been off the grid for years takes time, Marco. The public records are clean."
"Then look at the private ones," Marco replied, his tone sharp enough to cut through the quiet hallway. "Isaac made it clear. This investigation stays off the company books. If this person is connected to the old case, we need every single piece of leverage before the end of the week."
A heavy pause settled over the corridor, punctuated by the faint rustle of paper.
"And it's not just the past they're hiding," Marco added, his voice dropping an octave as he pressed his phone closer to his ear. "Isaac caught a discrepancy in the Q3 audits from six years ago. Millions in missing revenues routed through offshore shell accounts. It wasn't an accounting error—it was systematic fraud, disguised to look like failed supply chain investments."
"Are you saying whoever we're digging into was siphoning funds from the main board?" the lighter voice asked, a sudden tension edge-lining the tone.
"I'm saying Isaac found the secondary ledger," Marco said coldly. "He knows who authorized the transfers, and whoever signed off on those wire routes is doing everything in their power to keep that paper trail buried."
My stomach dropped.
The old case. Dirt. An off-the-books investigation. Missing revenues and corporate fraud.
The air suddenly became icy cold. My mind flashed back to the previous timeline—to an asphalt street, flashing red lights. In my past life, Isaac's death had been ruled a hit-and-run. A tragic accident. But I knew it wasn't, and listening to Marco right now, Isaac hadn't been killed by a careless driver. He had been digging into someone. He had been looking for leverage, and whoever he was investigating had struck first.
This conversation was the thread I had been missing. If I could figure out who Isaac was investigating right now, I could stop the accident before it ever happened.
I leaned in closer, straining my ears to catch the second man's reply.
Silence filled the corridor.
The muffled footsteps outside stopped completely. Panic flickered in my pulse. I took a quick step backward, pulling my hand away from the handle just as the lock clicked.
The heavy glass door swung open.
Marco stood on the threshold, a thick leather folder tucked under his arm. His dark eyes swept over me, taking in my posture before settling on my face. His expression remained completely neutral, but his posture was rigid.
"Ms. Lillian," he said smoothly. "I did not realize you were right by the door."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced my shoulders to drop. I held my tablet up against my chest, offering him a short, polite nod.
"I was just on my way out to meet the design team," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Is everything alright?"
"Everything is fine," Marco replied, stepping into the office just enough to let the door close behind him. He extended his arm, offering me the folder. "The Chairman reviewed your initial pitch for the new collection this morning before his briefings."
I took the folder, the heavy paper feeling solid in my hands.
"He left detailed notes on the fabric selections and the production budget," Marco continued, his voice dropping into its usual professional tone. "Overall, he approves of the direction. You only need to make a few small revisions to the final presentation before taking it to the board next week."
"I see," I said, glancing down at the folder to avoid his direct gaze. "Thank you, Marco. I will go over these with the team right away."
Marco nodded, and took a step back toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He looked at me for a long beat, his eyes narrow. "Please let me know if you need anything else today, Ms. Lillian. Mr. Ramirez asked me to make sure your work goes smoothly."
"I will," I said.
He gave a single nod and walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar. I stood alone in the quiet office, my fingers gripping the edges of the file tightly.
The project revisions were in my hands, but my mind was already somewhere else. Isaac was running a secret investigation, and if I wanted to keep him alive this time, I had to find out whose name was written on that file.
I waited until Marco's footsteps faded down the carpeted hallway before I sank back into my chair. The heavy leather folder sat unopened on my desk, the project revisions completely forgotten.
My pulse still raced in my ears. The old case. Dirt. An off-the-books investigation.
As the initial shock settled, a sudden memory surfaced, sharp and clear.
The ledger.
In my past life, after Isaac's funeral, I had overheard those men who drowned me speaking in low, frantic whispers outside Isaac's bedroom. They were looking for a ledger.
Now, the pieces slammed together. It was where Isaac kept the evidence from his private investigations. If he was digging into someone dangerous right now, that ledger held the name of the person who would eventually order the hit-and-run.
I stood up and locked my office door. If I wanted to protect Isaac, I couldn't just sit back and watch history repeat itself. I needed to find that book before his secret investigation turned deadly.
I turned on my desktop computer and pulled up the internal directory. As Fashion Director, my access to the main corporate servers was strictly limited to design budgets and vendor lists. I typed in the search bar for the central vault: CASE FILE / AUDIT / PRIVATE ARCHIVE.
A red prompt flashed across the screen: ACCESS DENIED. AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED: EXECUTIVE ACCESS.
I clicked my tongue, my fingers tapping restlessly on the desk. Isaac kept his security tight. Trying to hack into the system from my office computer would only flag the security and IT department.
I needed access to his private records, or I needed his private credentials.
My eyes drifted to the blinds-covered glass window of my office. Isaac was locked in board meetings on the top floor until mid-afternoon. Marco was managing his schedule, which meant the chairman's private suite was likely empty.
I picked up my tablet, slipped the project folder under my arm to look like I was on my way to a consultation, and stepped out into the hallway.
Instead of turning left toward the design studio where my team was waiting, I turned right toward the private executive elevators. I pressed the call button, holding my breath as the floor indicator lit up.
When the metal doors slid open, I stepped inside and swiped my Director badge against the sensor and pressed the 35th floor.
When the doors opened, the executive floor was silent. The air up here smelled faintly of polished wood and lavender scent. The floor-to-ceiling glass offered a sweeping view of the city skyline, shrouded in the gray morning rain.
I stepped out onto the thick carpet, keeping my steps light and deliberate. Isaac's corner office sat at the end of the long corridor, behind a set of heavy double doors.
I checked my watch. 10:15 AM. His first board briefing had started fifteen minutes ago, and it was scheduled to run for two hours.
I reached the double doors and placed my hand on the brass handle. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. If someone caught me up here, I would blow any chance I had of earning Isaac's trust, but the thought of that silver sedan that night pushed me forward.
I turned the handle. The door swung open silently.
I slipped inside and closed the heavy door behind me, shutting out the rest of the world. Isaac's office was vast and spotless. A massive dark wood desk sat in the center of the room, completely clear except for a glass water pitcher and his closed laptop.
I moved straight to the desk and reached for the top drawer. I pulled the handle, but the wood held firm. Locked. I tried the second drawer, then the third, but both remained shut with physical keyways.
My eyes drifted to the smooth metallic casing of Isaac's laptop lying flat on the dark wood. I opened the lid, and the bright screen flickered to life.
A central box requested a biometric fingerprint or a passcode. I hovered my hands over the keyboard, my fingers cold. I typed a combination of his birthday, then Elijah's, and company initiation dates, but a harsh red border flashed across the display.
1 Attempt Remaining.
A small warning note beneath the prompt indicated that a third failed entry would trigger a local system lock and notify the central security desk. My heart hammered against my ribs. I only had one last chance.
I took a deep breath, my mind racing. I couldn't ask Marco for access without raising suspicion, especially after the conversation I had just overheard outside my office.
I leaned over the table, running through every corporate code and personal date I could remember, but none of them felt right for a personal drive. Then a single sequence came to mind. It was the passcode to our penthouse digital lock, the numbers representing our wedding anniversary written in reverse.
It was completely foolish to try it. Our marriage was a corporate arrangement, a contract built on legal obligations. Yet, as I stared at the blinking cursor, I realized it was the only piece of his personal life I shared. If this was my chance to uncover the truth and keep him safe, I had to take the risk.
My hands shook as I tapped the keys one by one.
3… 2… 5… 1… 2… 0.
I pressed the enter key and held my breath.
The red prompt vanished. The screen refreshed, and the central desktop icons appeared in precise, neat rows.
I stood frozen for a beat, staring at the unlocked display. The realization that he used our fake wedding date for his private device created a quiet knot in my chest. I shook my head, forcing my attention back to the monitor. This was not the time to overthink his motives.
I guided the trackpad, opening folder after folder. I searched for financial records, off-the-books transactions, or anything that resembled a hidden ledger, but every directory only held standard corporate cases and quarterly reviews.
I scrolled down to the bottom of the main directory, where a single folder sat isolated from the rest. The label read: CONFIDENTIAL – ARCHIVE 2015.
I clicked the folder open. Inside was a single document titled with Elijah's full name and index number.
Remembering Isaac's words in the car earlier that morning, I opened the document. I expected to find old medical reports, statements, or scene notes. Instead, a plain white window filled the screen.
There were no text entries. No scanned attachments. No official stamps. The entire record had been completely cleared, leaving only a blank digital file under an active index number.
My stomach dropped as I stared at the empty screen. You do not wipe an official file unless you are hiding a crime. This was what Isaac was quietly looking into. This was the dirt Marco had been talking about.
I reached out to insert a USB drive to copy the folder, but a soft chime echoed from the corridor outside—the distinct tone of the private elevator arriving on the floor.
Footsteps began to approach the double doors, heavy and deliberate, clicking against the polished floor.