Twenty-four hours later, I stood in Marcus's cramped apartment, staring at my reflection in a cracked mirror and marveling at how foreign everything felt.
The woman looking back at me wore clothes from what Marcus had called a "charity shop"—a concept that would have horrified my 1920s sensibilities, but which I was rapidly learning to appreciate for its practicality. Cheap jeans that clung uncomfortably to my legs, a simple white blouse that wouldn't have passed muster as undergarments in my time, and shoes that promised all the comfort of workman's boots with none of the elegance.
But my eyes... my eyes still held the fire that had once made London's most powerful men shift uncomfortably in their leather chairs.
"Eva," I said aloud, testing the name I'd chosen. Eva Sterling. Close enough to Evangeline that I'd respond naturally, but common enough to blend into this strange modern world. The backstory I'd crafted over a sleepless night was elegant in its simplicity: a business consultant from Edinburgh, specializing in companies on the brink of failure, recently relocated to London after a personal tragedy that conveniently explained any gaps in my knowledge of current events.
The amnesia story we'd told the hospital staff had bought me precious time, but it wouldn't hold up under serious scrutiny. I needed a bulletproof identity, and I needed it immediately.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted my preparations. "Eva? The car's here. Are you ready?"
Ready. As if anyone could truly be ready to impersonate someone from an entirely different century while attempting to save a company using business instincts honed in the aftermath of the Great War.
"Coming," I called, smoothing down the blouse one final time and picking up the leather portfolio I'd acquired the night before. It was modern but well-made, filled with papers I'd spent hours studying. Learning to read financial statements in this century's format had been challenging, but the underlying principles remained as constant as human greed and stupidity.
Marcus waited in the narrow hallway, and I was pleased to see he'd taken my advice about his appearance. Gone was the defeated slouch I'd witnessed in the hospital, replaced by something approaching proper posture. He'd shaved, combed his hair with actual care, and found clothes that didn't look like they'd been slept in for a week. Still not up to true Ashworth standards, but a marked improvement.
"You look..." he paused, searching for words as his gaze swept over me. "Professional. Confident."
"Good," I replied briskly, moving past him toward the door. "Today we find out if confidence translates to results."
The ride to the Ashworth Construction offices gave me precious time to observe this bewildering new world. The streets of London bore little resemblance to the city I'd known and loved. Where horse-drawn carriages had once navigated cobblestone streets with dignified purpose, metal beasts called automobiles moved in rivers of barely controlled chaos, their occupants isolated in glass and steel boxes.
The buildings stretched impossibly high, steel and glass monuments to engineering that would have been pure fantasy in my time. But if I squinted past the modern additions, I could still see the bones of the city that had made me who I was. London endured, as it always had. As the Ashworth name would endure, if I had anything to say about it.
"There it is," Marcus said quietly, and his voice carried the weight of a man showing someone the scene of a crime.
The building that housed Ashworth Construction was a far cry from the imposing granite edifice that had once housed Ashworth Industries. Three stories of weathered brick, squeezed between a coffee shop advertising something called "artisanal lattes" and what appeared to be a laundrette. The sign by the door was faded, and one of the windows on the second floor had been repaired with tape that had gone yellow with age.
The sight of it made something cold and furious settle deeper in my chest.
"How long has the company been here?" I asked as we climbed the narrow stairs, noting the way each step creaked under our weight.
"About fifteen years. We had to sell the old building when my father..." He trailed off, the familiar shame creeping back into his voice. "When things got bad. This was all we could afford."
The office itself confirmed my worst fears. Cramped, outdated, and reeking of the particular desperation that clung to failing enterprises like cologne applied too liberally. A handful of employees looked up as we entered, their faces carrying the hollow look of people who'd stopped believing in miracles long ago.
"Everyone, this is Eva Sterling," Marcus announced, his voice stronger than it had been in the hospital but still lacking the authority that should have been his birthright. "She's agreed to help us assess our current situation."
The silence that followed was deafening. I could read the skepticism in every face, the resignation that had settled over them like London fog. They'd stopped believing in salvation because they'd never seen anyone capable of delivering it.
Time to change that.
"Good morning," I said, allowing my voice to carry the authority I'd once used to address board meetings filled with men who controlled the fate of nations. The subtle shift in my tone—the way I dropped my voice slightly and let each word carry its full weight—was a technique I'd learned from watching my father manage difficult shareholders.
The effect was immediate. Spines straightened almost involuntarily, and I caught several people exchanging surprised glances. Modern people might not understand the source of that authority, but they recognized it nonetheless.
"I'd like to begin by reviewing your current financial position, outstanding contracts, and employee roster," I continued, moving into the center of the room with the sort of purposeful stride that made people step aside without thinking about it. "Additionally, I'll need to see documentation of all pending litigation, supplier agreements, and any correspondence with your primary creditors."
A middle-aged woman with graying hair and tired eyes stepped forward. She wore a cardigan that had seen better decades and glasses that had been repaired with tape, but her spine was straight and her gaze direct.
"I'm Janet Morrison, the bookkeeper," she said, and I caught the hint of Scottish accent that spoke of working-class roots and hard-earned competence. "With respect, miss, we've had consultants before. They all say the same thing—close the doors and walk away while there's still something left to salvage."
I met her gaze directly, recognizing the challenge for what it was. In any organization, there was always someone who served as the unofficial guardian of institutional memory and morale. Win them over, and the rest would follow. Fail, and even the most brilliant strategy would crumble under passive resistance.
"Then they weren't very good consultants, were they?" I replied with the sort of dry wit that had once made stuffy board meetings bearable. "A consultant who tells you to quit is like a doctor who tells you to die. Technically accurate in some cases, but hardly worth the fee."
A startled laugh escaped from someone in the back of the room, and I saw Janet's lips twitch despite herself.
"The books are a mess," she warned, but I caught the subtle shift in her tone. She was testing me now, rather than dismissing me.
"Good thing I speak fluent mess," I replied. "Shall we?"
The next four hours were an education in just how thoroughly my family's legacy had been destroyed, but also a masterclass in the timeless nature of human incompetence. The financial records told a story of decline that would have made my father weep: contracts negotiated from positions of weakness, costs allowed to spiral out of control through lack of oversight, and opportunities missed through sheer inability to recognize them.
But underneath the carnage, I could see the bones of something salvageable. More importantly, I could see patterns that these good people had missed entirely—not through lack of intelligence, but through lack of perspective.
"Here," I said, spreading a collection of invoices across the conference table that dominated the cramped office. "This insurance claim from the Morrison project. Why wasn't it pursued further?"
Janet looked puzzled, her fingers worrying at the edge of her cardigan. "The claim was denied. The damage was ruled as normal wear and tear, not covered under our policy."
"But look at these photographs from the site inspection." I arranged the images in chronological order, using the same methodical approach I'd once applied to analyzing shipping manifests. "The deterioration pattern isn't consistent with normal wear. See how the damage radiates outward from these specific stress points?"
I pointed to details that were invisible unless you knew what to look for—knowledge I'd gained from years of watching my father deal with similar construction disputes in our shipping facilities.
"That's not wear and tear," I continued, warming to the analysis. "That's material failure. The supplier provided substandard materials, and the damage resulted from their negligence, not your workmanship."
Marcus leaned closer, his breath warm against my shoulder as he studied the photographs. "How can you tell the difference?"
The answer came from countless hours spent in my father's office, learning to read the subtle signs that separated quality from fraud, competence from deception. But I couldn't tell them that.
"Experience," I said simply, which was true enough. "I've seen this pattern before. Janet, who was your legal counsel on this project?"
"We..." She exchanged a glance with Marcus, and I could see the shame creeping back into both their faces. "We couldn't afford proper legal representation. Marcus handled most of the paperwork himself."
I managed not to wince visibly, though it took considerable effort. The idea of handling complex construction litigation without qualified legal counsel was like performing surgery with garden tools—theoretically possible, but inadvisable in the extreme.
"I see," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "And the Morrison family—they're still seeking additional compensation for project delays?"
"Yes, but we've explained that the complications weren't our fault—"
"They don't care whose fault it was," I interrupted gently. "They care about their inconvenience and their additional costs. What they need isn't explanations—they need solutions that make their lives easier."
I stood and walked to the window, looking out at the London skyline while my mind raced through possibilities. In my time, I'd dealt with similar situations by understanding that business was ultimately about relationships and mutual benefit, not just contracts and legalities.
"Marcus," I said, turning back to face the room, "do you still have the Morrison family's contact information?"
"Yes, but I'm not sure what good—"
"Call them," I said, moving back to the table with renewed purpose. "Tell them we'd like to propose a comprehensive solution that will resolve their concerns while providing them with additional value they hadn't expected."
"What kind of solution?" Janet asked, and I could see her mental calculator already running scenarios.
"The kind that turns a liability into an asset," I replied, allowing myself a small smile that felt more natural than anything had since I'd awakened in that hospital bed. "Janet, I need you to calculate exactly what that insurance claim should have been worth, including compound interest on the delayed payment and additional damages for the time lost."
"What are you thinking?" Marcus asked, and for the first time since I'd met him, his voice carried a hint of the anticipation that should have been as natural to him as breathing.
I pulled out a legal pad—a quaint touch in this digital age, but sometimes the old methods worked best—and began sketching out a strategy that would have made my father proud.
"I'm thinking it's time the Morrison family discovered that doing business with Ashworth Construction means more than just getting a building," I said, my pen moving swiftly across the paper. "It means getting a partner who takes responsibility for making their lives better, not just completing a contract."
By the end of the day, we'd drafted three letters that would have made my father's legal team weep with professional admiration. One to the insurance company, demanding they reopen the Morrison claim with newly presented evidence of material defects. One to the original supplier, threatening legal action for providing substandard materials and demanding compensation for the resulting damages. And one to the Morrison family, proposing a solution that would not only resolve their current concerns but provide them with additional landscaping and maintenance services at cost.
More importantly, I'd watched the transformation of the team around that conference table. The hollow resignation had been replaced by something I hadn't seen since awakening in this strange new world: hope. Competent, intelligent people who'd simply never learned how to think strategically were discovering that their problems weren't insurmountable—they'd just been looking at them from the wrong angle.
"How did you know the insurance company would have to respond to that evidence?" Janet asked as we prepared to leave, her voice carrying a mixture of admiration and lingering skepticism.
The question hit closer to home than she could possibly know. How could I explain that I'd learned to read construction disputes from watching my father navigate similar challenges with dock masters and shipping inspectors? That I'd spent years learning to spot the difference between legitimate claims and bureaucratic stonewalling?
"Research," I said, which was technically true. "Good consultants do their homework. I spent last night reviewing case law and industry standards for this type of dispute."
It was a masterful blend of truth and misdirection—I had spent the night reading, though the sources had been century-old business journals rather than current legal databases.
As we locked up the office, Marcus turned to me with something approaching wonder in those familiar gray eyes. "That was... I've never seen anything like that. Where did you really learn to analyze problems that way?"
The question hung between us in the evening air, heavy with implications I wasn't ready to address. How could I explain that I'd learned it at my father's knee, in drawing rooms where the futures of entire industries were decided over brandy and cigars? That I'd been trained from childhood to see patterns others missed, to find opportunity in the midst of disaster?
"Does it matter?" I asked finally, buttoning my coat against the London chill. "The question isn't where I learned it—it's whether it's going to work."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment, studying my face in the amber glow of the streetlights. "You're not like anyone I've ever met, Eva Sterling."
If only he knew how right he was.
"Good," I said, starting toward the car. "Tomorrow we find out if different is enough to save this company."
As we drove through the London streets, I caught my reflection in the passenger window and felt a moment of disorientation. The woman looking back at me wore modern clothes and carried a modern name, but her eyes held the determination of someone who'd been born to command empires.
Eva Sterling was a carefully constructed fiction, but the will to rebuild the Ashworth legacy—that was as real as the Thames flowing past those office windows. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new tests of my ability to navigate this strange world while hiding my true nature.
But tonight, for the first time since awakening in that hospital bed, I felt like myself again. The Iron Rose of London society might be wearing modern dress, but she was still capable of making grown men step aside when she walked into a room.
The Ashworth name would rise again. I would make certain of that.
End of Chapter 2