Chapter 2

A knock at the door snapped everyone’s heads towards the door. An attendant of no more than 20 came in. “Ah, sir. We have gone through the archives. It appears that Prince Costa’s beloved was the only daughter of an average household, lower-upper class at best. He was meant to marry someone else, but it appears in the records that he met Lady Shantali Imogen Jackson.”

The blood drained from Dr. Thorne's face. He spun toward the young attendant with fury blazing in his eyes. "You were instructed to review those files in private!"

But it was too late. The name hit me like a physical blow—Shantali Imogen Jackson. My name. Not "my lady" or "princess," but the name my mother had whispered when she thought I was sleeping, the name scrawled on school reports that my father never bothered to read.

"He wasn't supposed to marry me," I said, the pieces clicking into place. "He chose me."

The elderly woman stepped forward, her gentle demeanour replaced by something harder. "The genetic matching was perfect regardless of bloodline. The Council determined—"

"The Council?" I laughed, though nothing about this was funny. "You mean you decided to preserve the spare girl just in case your precious prince's actual bride didn't survive the process?"

Dr. Thorne's jaw tightened. "The selection criteria were complex. Social status became irrelevant when facing extinction."

"Where is she?" I demanded. "Where is the woman he was actually supposed to marry?"

Another exchange of glances. Another uncomfortable silence.

"Lady Cordelia's pod malfunctioned three centuries ago," Dr. Thorne admitted quietly. "A cascade failure in the life support systems. By the time we discovered it..."

"So I'm the replacement." The words tasted bitter. "Plan B. The backup princess for your breeding program."

"You're the woman Prince Costa chose," the elderly woman insisted. "The records are clear about that. He defied his family, his obligations, everything—for you."

I closed my eyes, and suddenly I could see him. Really see him. Not just green eyes, but the way they crinkled when he smiled. The way he'd taken my hand at the Le Glow Club like he'd been searching for me his entire life. The way he'd whispered my real name—not some royal title, but Shantali—like it was sacred.

"Wake him up," I said.

"I'm afraid that's not possible yet," Dr. Thorne replied. "His revival process is more complex. The prince sustained injuries during the Collapse that require—"

"Stop calling him that." I struggled to swing my legs over the side of the medical bed. "His name is Costa. And you're going to wake him up now, or I'm walking out of here and your precious genetic program can rot with the rest of your plans."

I paused, “So I’m how old now, 618 years old?”

"Biologically, you're still twenty-two," Dr. Thorne said carefully. "The stasis process halts all aging. But yes, chronologically speaking, you've existed for over six centuries."

The weight of that number settled over me like a shroud. Everyone I had ever known—my parents, friends, coworkers, even strangers I'd passed on the street—they were all dust now. The world I remembered was as dead as ancient history.

"What happened?" I whispered. "The Collapse—what was it?"

The young attendant who had revealed the truth about my identity stepped forward, ignoring Dr. Thorne's warning glare. "Environmental cascade failure. The oceans turned acidic, and the atmosphere became toxic. Most of the population fled to orbital stations or underground cities, but even those eventually failed. Only about twelve percent of humanity survived."

"And they rebuilt?" I gestured to the gleaming medical facility around us.

"Eventually. It took four hundred years, but yes. New Avalon is one of seven city-states that emerged from the recovery zones. Each one was designed around genetic diversity protocols—carefully selected bloodlines meant to ensure humanity's future."

Dr. Thorne shot the young man a murderous look. "That's enough, Marcus."

But Marcus continued, his voice gaining strength. "The thing is, Lady Jackson, the genetic profiles weren't just about compatibility. They were about control. The Council selected people they thought would be manageable and compliant. They didn't count on love."

I felt something stir in my chest—not just memory but warmth. Costa had chosen me over duty, expectation, and everything his world had planned for him.

"Where is he?" I demanded again.

A new voice cut through the tension—deep, familiar, tinged with an accent I remembered from whispered conversations in dark corners of the Le Glow Club.

"I'm right here, Shantali."

I turned, and there he was, leaning against the doorframe with that same crooked smile that had stolen my breath six centuries ago. His dark hair was tousled, his green eyes bright with mischief and something deeper—relief, maybe, or recognition.

"Costa," I breathed.

He pushed off from the doorframe and crossed to me in three quick strides, his hands finding my face like he'd done it a thousand times before. "Hello, love. Sorry, I'm late."

“So, I’m what? A 622-year-old Cinderella? Like the fairy tale of my time?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Costa laughed, the sound so achingly familiar it sent shivers down my spine. "I suppose that's one way to look at it, though I don't remember any cryostasis in that particular tale."

His hands were warm against my cheeks, solid and real in a way nothing else had felt since I'd awakened. The medical staff shifted uncomfortably around us, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from his face—the face I now remembered with perfect clarity.

"How long have you been awake?" I asked.

"Three days," he replied, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "They wouldn't tell me where you were. Said you needed 'specialised recovery protocols' first."

Dr. Thorne cleared his throat. "Prince Costa, you were instructed to remain in your recovery chamber until—"

"Until you could feed her whatever story you'd concocted?" Costa's voice remained light, but I felt his hands tense against my skin. "Until you convinced her she was born to be royal, that our meeting was arranged rather than chance?"