The air in the room was thick with the scent of jasmine and expensive cologne—a smell Julian Vane hadn't encountered in years. The last thing he remembered was the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and the soul-crushing silence of a cold mausoleum.
He bolted upright, gasping for air as if he'd just been pulled from the depths of the ocean.
The Awakening
Julian's hands flew to his chest, searching for the wound, but his skin was smooth. His fingers were steady, not the trembling, scarred wrecks they had become. He looked around the room: the sun-drenched mahogany desk, the unread newspapers dated June 12th, and the velvet box sitting on his nightstand.
His heart stopped. He knew that box. Inside was the sapphire ring he had given Elena—the same ring he had later ripped from her finger in a fit of misplaced rage.
"It can't be," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I died. I watched her die. I destroyed everything."
The Ghost of the Present
A soft knock at the door shattered his thoughts. The handle turned, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
Elena stepped in.
She wasn't the pale, hollow-cheeked woman who had breathed her last in a cold infirmary. She was vibrant. Her hair caught the morning light, and her eyes—those wide, trusting eyes—held no fear of him. She was carrying a tray of tea, a small, shy smile playing on her lips.
"You're awake late, Julian," she said, her voice like a melody he had forgotten how to hear. "I thought you'd be up early for the gala preparations."
Julian didn't move. He couldn't. He felt a sob building in his throat, a tidal wave of agony and relief. In his mind, he saw the flashes of the other life: the way he had pushed her down the marble stairs, the sight of the blood on her white dress, and the way she had looked at him—not with hatred, but with a terrifying, broken pity—before she lost their child.
The Choice
Elena walked closer, her brow furrowing with concern. "Julian? You're pale. Are you ill?"
As she reached out to touch his forehead, Julian flinched instinctively, expecting the sting of his own past cruelty. But when her warm palm met his skin, the reality hit him like a physical blow. She was warm. She was real.
He lunged forward, catching her in a desperate embrace, pulling her onto the bed and burying his face in her neck. He held her with a terrifying intensity, as if he could fuse their souls together and prevent the darkness from ever touching her again.
"I'm sorry," he choked out, the words muffled against her skin. "Elena... I am so, so sorry."
"For what?" she laughed softly, confused but leaning into him. "You haven't done anything yet."
Julian tightened his grip, his eyes burning with a cold, lethal resolve. Not yet, he thought. And never again. In his first life, he had been her executioner. In this one, he would be her shield—and God help anyone, including his past self, who dared to stand in his way.