Reborn For A Mission

I could feel it.

The beat of my heart—slow at first, then steady, as if it had paused to remember its purpose.

Air rushed into my lungs, sharp and cold, sliding through my nose like a knife of light.

The first breath was jagged.

The next was smoother.

And with it came life.

The last thing I remembered was stillness.

Silence.

A crushing dark that swallowed me whole.

I thought I had died.

But I was breathing now. And that meant something.

That meant I had a second chance.

Somewhere, a voice broke through the haze. Distant at first. Then closer.

A man’s voice—deep, shaken, full of something like desperation.

He whispered a name like a prayer.

“Jazzlin...”

Was that supposed to be me?

My fingers twitched. The voice grew stronger.

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re safe now, Jazzlin. You’re alright.”

I groaned. Pain flared along my wrist, hot and electric. But the voice—right beside my ear—was steady. Soothing. Close enough to anchor me.

I tried to open my eyes. White light slammed into them, and I squeezed them shut again.

Try again.

Slower.

This time, I saw color. Shapes. A shadow leaning over me, framed in soft gold.

Then he moved away, and the brightness dimmed behind heavy curtains.

When I opened my eyes again, he was still there.

Hazel eyes met mine. Tired. Beautiful. Ringed in dark circles, like sleep had been a stranger to him for days. His hair was a mess of dark strands that somehow still managed to look expensive. His smile flickered—hesitant but heartbreakingly real.

I knew that face.

Barra Ainsley.

Heir to the Ainsley Empire. Brilliant. Untouchable. Charismatic.

But how… how did I know that?

The door opened, and a woman stepped into the room—graceful and warm, wrapped in silk and concern.

“Has my beloved daughter opened her eyes?” she asked, voice thick with emotion. She came to my side, brushing a strand of hair from my face. Her touch was gentle.

"Thank God," she whispered.

Her name surfaced, unbidden.

Rose Ozza.

Her presence was unfamiliar. Her care, strangely maternal.

"How do you feel, dear?" she asked softly.

Before I could answer, Barra stood. “I’ll get her something to drink.”

He disappeared through a door, leaving me alone with a stranger who acted like she knew me. Like I belonged here.

I swallowed hard. My throat was cracked and dry.

My eyes dropped to my wrist. A clean white bandage circled it like a secret.

“Did I…” My voice rasped. “Did I try to end my life?”

My own words echoed like gunshots.

Then came the memory.

My name is Janielle Mckeen.

Nineteen. Raised in a government-run orphanage. A girl with no roots, no legacy, no face in the world’s eyes.

But I had family.

Haytham Zachary. My best friend. My only real person. He’d been adopted, but he never left me or Alia, our little sister in all but blood.

That day—it had rained.

Alia had begged us to visit Jennie, the stray cat behind the old bakery. Clarissa, the caretaker, said no. But Alia was nothing if not persistent.

We gave in.

Haytham had brought her favorite cookies. Alia beamed up at him with chocolate-stained teeth. I smiled. The kind of moment that should’ve been safe. Perfect.

But she ran.

Out into the street.

I screamed her name.

I ran after her.

I pushed her out of the way.

And then—

Impact.

Metal.

Pain.

Silence.

And then… nothing.

My breathing hitched. My nails dug into my scalp.

“No… no, no—this isn’t real.”

“Jazzlin, please—” Rose pulled me into her arms, rocking me gently. Her voice was soft. Her perfume unfamiliar. She held me like a mother would.

But I didn’t know her.

Barra returned. I felt his presence before I saw him—calm, commanding, impossible to ignore.

He knelt beside the bed and offered me a glass of water. I took it with trembling fingers and drank slowly. The coolness slid down my throat like mercy.

But when I looked into the glass—

Blonde hair.

Pale skin.

Not me.

Panic unfurled in my chest.

My gaze swept across the room—elegant curtains, marble floors, gilded mirrors.

A queen-sized bed. A walk-in closet. Windows that reached the ceiling.

This wasn’t my life.

“What’s wrong?” Rose asked.

I forced a smile. “Just… disoriented.”

She leaned in and kissed my forehead. “I’ll make you porridge.”

As she left, silence returned, heavier than before.

Barra’s eyes were still on me. Steady. Deep. Curious. And something else.

Something warmer.

“Welcome back, principessa,” he said, his voice low. The word rolled off his tongue with dangerous affection.

I turned toward him. “What did you call me?”

He grinned, one side of his mouth lifting. “Jazzlin’s what everyone calls you. But I call you my princess.”

His voice—it melted things inside me I didn’t even know were frozen.

He sat beside me again, and for one suspended moment, it felt like everything else faded. The pain. The questions. The world.

"You scared the hell out of us," he said quietly. "Three days. You were out cold."

Three days?

He reached for my arm, and the second his skin brushed mine—

A spark.

Literal.

Like static and fire had collided beneath my skin.

I flinched.

He pulled back immediately. “Sorry.”

But I didn’t think. I just… reached for his hand. Held it.

Warm. Real. Familiar.

Like I’d held it a thousand times before in a life I couldn’t remember.

Our eyes locked.

Then I let go.

"I didn’t mean—sorry," I whispered. "I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me."

He gave a low chuckle. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

His smile—it was dangerous. The kind that could rewrite stories.

"Did I really try to kill myself?" I asked.

His expression cracked. “I don’t know why. But I wish I’d been there. I wish I’d seen the signs.”

He looked down, jaw clenched. The hurt was raw. Open.

"I won’t do it again," I said softly. "Whatever happened… this is a second chance. I can feel it."

He nodded, eyes glassy. “You better not. I just got you back.”

The air between us felt charged. Heavy with something unspoken.

I lifted my pinky. “Pinky promise?”

He stared for a second. Then he laughed under his breath and hooked his pinky with mine.

“Pinky promise.”

The touch was small. Childish.

And it shattered something in me. Or maybe… it stitched something back together.

Who was Jazzlin?

Why was I here?

What life had I woken up in—and was it really mine?

Only one way to find out.