Warmth.
Soft sheets.
The faint scent of sandalwood.
Her eyes snapped open.
She sat upright, heart pounding, breath sharp in her throat. The room around her was familiar—too familiar. The cream-colored curtains. The dark oak furniture. The silk duvet embroidered with the Valtieri crest.
This was her bedroom.
Her bedroom from seven years ago.
Her trembling hands flew to her abdomen.
No wound.
No blood.
No pain.
Her skin was smooth.
Her body was whole.
Her mind spun.
"No… no, this isn't possible…"
The door clicked open.
She froze.
A tall figure stepped inside, adjusting the cuffs of his black shirt, dark hair still damp from a shower. His presence filled the room instantly—cold, commanding, impossible to ignore.
Leonel Valtieri.
Alive. Younger. Sharper.
And looking at her with mild annoyance, not the haunted emptiness she saw the night she died.
"You're awake," he said, voice low and cool. "Good. We have a meeting in an hour. Don't be late."
Her breath caught.
He was alive.
She was alive.
She had gone back.
Seven years.
Her heart thundered in her chest as realization crashed over her like a tidal wave.
She had been reborn.
Leonel paused at the doorway, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her pale face.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
She swallowed hard.
Because I died in your arms.
Because I thought you betrayed me.
Because I don't know if I can trust you.
Because this time… I won't be the naive wife you can manipulate.
But she forced a small, obedient smile—the smile she used to wear before everything shattered.
"No reason," she whispered. "Husband."
His eyes flickered.
Something unreadable passed through them.
And for the first time in two lifetimes, she realized something terrifying:
He wasn't the only one hiding secrets.
This time, she was too.