The rain came down so hard it blurred the city into streaks of silver and black. From the sidewalk, Emilia could barely see her own reflection in the glass door of the building. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks, her shoes were ruined, but she didn't stop to fix herself.
She only thought of one thing: the message on her phone.
"Come home now."
No explanation. No warmth. Just three clipped words from the man she still called her husband.
Her heart had been pounding from the moment she left the dinner early. The restaurant had been loud, hot, filled with the scent of wine and steak. Alexander's voice in her ear had been cold when she excused herself.
"Don't embarrass me," he'd said.
And now here she was, dripping on the marble floor of the Saint-Claire penthouse, fumbling for her keys.
The door was unlocked.
Her first thought was that something had happened.
She pushed it open, called his name softly, but no one answered. The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of jazz playing somewhere in the back and the heavy patter of rain against the windows.
She took a step inside and froze.
A heel lay in the hallway, carelessly kicked off. A jacket — not hers — was draped over the arm of the sofa. The smell of perfume that didn't belong to her hung in the air, cloying and sweet.
Her fingers curled around the strap of her purse.
She already knew.
But knowing didn't stop her from walking toward the bedroom. She told herself she needed to see it. To see them.
Her hands shook as she pressed the door open.
And there they were.
Alexander's broad shoulders caught the light first. He was leaning over someone, his voice low and steady as he murmured something she couldn't make out.
Her sister's laugh floated up a moment later.
Sophia's legs were tangled around him, her nails dragging down his back, her face flushed with pleasure.
For a second Emilia thought she might faint. The blood rushed to her ears so fast she couldn't hear the music anymore.
Neither of them noticed her standing there.
When Alexander finally lifted his head, his eyes locked on hers without surprise.
"You shouldn't have come home early," he said.
Sophia giggled and buried her face in his neck, as though Emilia's presence was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Her vision blurred.
She didn't remember turning around.
Somehow she was back in the hallway, her shoes slipping on the marble. Then the elevator. Then the lobby.
The doorman tried to say something to her, but she couldn't hear him either.
The rain swallowed her whole when she stepped outside.
Her feet carried her across the street without thinking. The lights of the city smudged into meaningless colors. The air tasted of metal and salt.
When the headlights came, it was already too late.
There was a screech of tires. A sharp, sudden pain that stole the breath from her lungs.
And then nothing.
When she woke again, it was quiet.
The air was warm, heavy with the scent of roses.
She blinked up at a high ceiling she didn't recognize, her body sinking into what felt like marble.
A faint click of heels broke the silence.
A woman in black lace stood at the center of the room. Her face was hidden behind a thin, shimmering veil.
Emilia tried to sit up, but her body refused to move.
"Is this how you want it to end?" the woman asked. Her voice was calm, almost kind.
Emilia swallowed.
"I didn't… want it to end," she said finally.
The woman tilted her head.
"No," she agreed. "But you let it."
"I didn't know—"
The woman stepped closer until her silhouette filled Emilia's view.
"You knew enough," she said. "And now you do."
Her fingers brushed Emilia's cheek, light as air.
"You get one more chance," she murmured. "Don't waste it again."
When Emilia opened her eyes this time, the first thing she saw was the cracked plaster ceiling of her old bedroom.
She shot upright, gasping, her hand flying to her chest.
Her heart was hammering, but her body felt… different.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and ran to the mirror.
It was her face — but not as she remembered it from earlier that night. It was her face from years ago.
No lines at the corners of her eyes. No hollowed cheeks from months of crying.
Her skin glowed, her hair was still long and uncut, her eyes clear.
The air smelled faintly of lavender and dust. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She stared at it for a long moment before picking it up.
The name on the screen made her stomach twist.
Alexander Saint Claire.
She answered without thinking.
"Where are you?" his voice barked through the line. "We're already late for dinner with your sister. Don't make me come get you."
Dinner.
The dinner where they'd first started their little game, passing glances and smiles over her head.
This time she smiled too.
"I'll be there," she said softly, her voice steady.
She ended the call before he could reply.
In the mirror, her reflection stared back at her — the same face she'd seen all those years ago.
But something inside her was different now.
She leaned closer until her breath fogged the glass.
"You don't know it yet," she whispered, her lips curling at the edges, "but you're already mine."