Freedom is earned, not granted—Serena Webster has always believed.
Economic independence is the only step she can control. Or so she thinks.
Alone in the Boston Opera House lobby, she rehearses her speech, restless energy coiling beneath her skin. Marble columns soar overhead, their veins traced in gold. Rococo curves ripple across the ceiling like sugar-drenched lace. Old money pretending it isn't afraid of being forgotten.
"Miss Webster? Serena Webster?"
Serena looks up—and freezes.
The woman before her glows like a chandelier. A royal blue mermaid gown—Zuhair Murad, no doubt—clings to every curve. Diamonds blaze at her collarbone. Her smile is polished. Her eyes are not.
Serena schools her expression. "Hello, Miss…?"
"The elusive Miss Webster," the woman says, extending a manicured hand. "Lena Cross. Channel Seven. Our Generation."
The handshake closes around Serena's fingers—warm, unyielding, like a contract signed without consent.
"I'd ask if you knew me," Lena continues smoothly, "but I know the answer. Not a fan of the media?"
"I haven't had the time."
"Well then," Lena coos, tightening her grip just enough to be felt, "what would it take?"
Serena eases her hand free. Too late.
"You're the brightest female economist of our generation," Lena says lightly. "Harvard appointment. AI-driven robo-investment models. That orphanage fund in Haiti. Twenty-eight and already a legend." Her gaze flicks over Serena with surgical precision. "Don't you think the girls watching deserve to hear from you?"
The compliment lands like a trap wrapped in silk.
"You flatter me."
"And stylish," Lena cuts in. "That slip gown—The Row?"
Serena nods once.
"Wear it for the interview," Lena says, lowering her voice. "You could inspire more than you realize."
There's no refusing a woman like Lena Cross.
Serena exhales and gives her number. Lena beams, kisses the air beside her cheek, and disappears into the crowd—like a storm that has decided to pass. For now.
Her date returns moments later. Handsome. Impeccably groomed. Forgettable. He smells of bergamot and wealth. Safe things. Predictable things.
She clings to him through the opera, letting the aria wash over her. She doesn't speak Italian, but she understands the feeling—the ache of forbidden love, of fate gone wrong. Two lives reaching for each other and failing.
Afterward: a limousine ride. Champagne buzzing in her veins. Casual affection. Casual sex. He'll be gone by morning. She won't remember his name—only the way her mind wanders even as they kiss, drifting to lesson plans, market projections, the folder of unfinished research waiting on her desk.
Then—
Metal screams.
A flash.
Silence sharper than sound.
Glass shatters like rain. Her body becomes air, flung weightless into nothing. Sirens blur red and white. Ceiling lights streak past like dying stars.
Is she breathing?
Is she whole?
Then—nothing.
Blackness stretches in every direction, vast and formless. No weight. No time. This is what Serena has always imagined death to be. Not pain. Not peace. Just absence.
She has no body to feel with. No lungs to burn. Only stillness—like a thought that forgot it was ever spoken.
Something shifts.
Light blooms.
A well opens in the dark—wide-mouthed, impossible. From it, a voice rises. Neither male nor female. Familiar in the wrong way.
"Hello."
Serena doesn't speak. Thought ripples outward instead. Who are you?
"I have many names," the voice says, slipping into the sound of her adoptive mother—warm, frayed, once safe. "But the most notable is… God."
The word reverberates through her.
Is this heaven?
"No."
Then where am I?
"You are… nowhere."
Not a place. A condition.
Am I dead?
"Your soul is no longer inside your body."
So—death.
"Not quite," the voice says. "There is an error."
The word glitches through the void.
"Your soul is bound to another. The balance is broken."
Faces flashed through Serena's mind.
A brother selling her.
A lover betraying her.
A king slaughtering her village.
The same eyes in every life.
A number pulses in her awareness. Twenty-two. It matters. She doesn't know why.
So I've been… reincarnated?
Silence.
Light churns. Pressure builds, dragging her downward—not falling, not flying. Remembering.
"You must go back," the voice says.
To my body?
No answer.
Only light—rising, consuming—until—
Her eyes snap open.
Water.
Blinding, fractured light ripples above her. Her lungs burn. Arms thrash. Legs kick. Up—up—
She breaks the surface with a violent gasp, choking, gulping air as voices crash over her.
Hands seize her. Silk. Brocade. Faces bent close, panicked and unfamiliar.
"Young Miss Rong Xi!"
The name barely registers before darkness takes her again.