If this was a story, this would be the part where I'm supposed to embrace destiny with glowing eyes, floating hair, and a choir of ancestors cheering me on in the background.
Instead, I'm sitting on my kitchen floor in a T-shirt that says Not Today, Universe, staring at my half-eaten bread like it personally betrayed me.
Because apparently, the bond — this soul-wrapped-in-red-tape disaster — comes with a clause.
I don't just have to wait for Julian Hart, the sleeping beauty of this cosmic telenovela, to wake up and remember me. Oh no. That would be far too simple.
I have to rise.
Rise. Like a literal rise. In power. In purpose. In some mysterious glow-up that isn't about contouring or waist snatching — though, to be honest, I wouldn't mind both.
And it's not optional.
The bond won't fully activate — won't reach its fated potential — unless I become everything I'm meant to be. For me. First.
I have to rise, not because it would bring him in, not because it would make the cosmic scales tilt, but because this is my life. My legacy. My choice.
And here's the kicker: He still gets to choose.
After all this, after all this soul ache, the waking nightmares, the tarot readings dragging my edges every time, he still gets a choice.
I laughed. Out loud. In my kitchen.
"You mean I have to build, break, bleed, heal, and rise… and this man still has the option to be like, nah?"
The silence said yes.
Of course. Because the universe loves a plot twist.
I stood up, wiped the crumbs off my hands, and looked myself dead in the reflection of the microwave.
"Fine," I whispered. "I'll rise. But not for him."
I'll rise for me.
And if the day comes when Julian Hart decides to stop being a universal yam and wake up… he better be ready.
Because I won't be standing at the starting line, waiting. I'll be running. And if he wants this… he'll have to catch up.