The performance clip wasn't long, just a thirty-second teaser of a live showcase held somewhere in downtown L.A. The lighting was sleek, the camera work professional. A girl stood on stage under a wash of soft blue light, mic in hand, eyes closed as she sang.
And the moment her voice hit the air, time froze.
It was effortless, crystal-clear and haunting, like her words came from somewhere deeper than language. The kind of voice that didn't need auto-tune or backup dancers to feel like a revelation.
Cole stared at the screen, unable to move.
Across the top of the video, in clean white font, the words flashed:
"Anna Smith – Hollywood's Newest Star."
He blinked.
Anna Smith.
The name meant nothing.
But that face.
Those features.
That voice.
His stomach turned cold.
It wasn't just the resemblance—it was her.
Jade.
The girl he'd lost. The girl he let go. The girl he'd assumed was gone forever.
Three years ago, she was declared dead after a devastating accident.
She and Vivien had been kidnapped together, caught in a nightmare no one had seen coming. When rescue arrived, Cole was forced to choose. Two lives. One rope. One hand to reach for.
He chose Vivien.
He didn't even ask if Jade was okay.
She had been pregnant—his child. And he left her behind on that cliff without looking back.
They never found her body.
Only pieces of wreckage. A shoe. A ring. Enough to build a grave around. The media called it a tragedy. A sad loss. A beautiful girl gone too soon.
But for Cole, it was the beginning of a slow, suffocating descent.
The guilt didn't fade. It calcified. It poisoned everything he touched.
He thought about her every single day.
So did her brother, Justin, who had spent months spiraling into silence and rage. Her parents never really recovered. Her room remained untouched. They still left a light on, just in case.
Vivien? She was long gone. Stripped of her glamour, exposed for what she truly was—manipulative, cold, and unfaithful. Cole left her without fanfare the moment her mask slipped.
But by then, it was already too late.
Jade was gone.
Or so he thought.
He clicked on the video again, watching the performance from the beginning. She moved differently now—graceful, confident, sculpted into perfection. The kind of stage presence that couldn't be faked.
Anna Smith wasn't a viral accident. She had been trained.
Polished.
Built.
According to a short bio in the caption, she had been scouted two years ago, brought in by one of Hollywood's top entertainment agencies. She spent two years in development—training, singing, performing. No interviews, no press. Just preparation. Then, last month, she debuted.
Now, she was everywhere.
But there was one detail the public didn't know.
Anna had no memory of her past.
No name before "Anna Smith." No childhood. No story.
The agency said she'd been found wandering near a beach in New York, barely conscious, injured, with no ID and no answers. The trauma, they claimed, caused total amnesia. Doctors called it a miracle that she survived.
And maybe it was.
But for Cole, it was something else entirely.
It was a second chance he didn't deserve.
He opened the comments section. The internet was already ablaze:
"She's the next big thing. I'm OBSESSED."
"Her voice is unreal. She sings like she's remembering something she can't explain."
"I don't know who she is, but I feel like I've heard her before."
That last comment hit him hardest.
Me too, he thought.
He clicked on her profile. Her official Instagram only had a few posts, clips from rehearsals, snapshots from photoshoots, a blurry video of her laughing backstage. All new. All clean. All Anna.
There was no trace of Jade.
No trace of the life she left behind.
And yet… she was there. In her smile. In the tilt of her head. In the voice that once begged him not to walk away.
He pressed a hand to his face, trying to catch his breath.
This wasn't a dream.
She was alive.
Not a ghost.
Not a memory.
Her.
The office door creaked open. Jake, Cole's assistant, stepped inside mid-sentence, holding a file in one hand and muttering something about a court date change, but froze when he saw Cole slumped in the chair, pale and shaking, phone in hand.
"Mr. Blaine? Are you alright?"
Cole didn't speak right away. His lips moved, but the words refused to form.
Then, finally, his voice broke free.
"She's alive," he whispered.
Jake furrowed his brow. "I'm sorry—who?"
Cole looked up, eyes glassy.
"Jade."
Jake's eyes widened. "…You mean Mrs. Blaine who?"
Cole nodded, too dazed to say more.
Then, slowly, like something sharp cracking open inside him, he smiled.
Not out of relief.
Not out of peace.
But purpose.
Because now he knew.
She wasn't gone.
She'd simply forgotten him.
And if he had even the smallest chance of being remembered—
He'd take it.