Chapter 2 – The Second Chance

Elise shot up in bed, heart racing.

Air flooded her lungs like she'd been drowning.

She bolted upright, the sheets clinging to her sweat-damp skin, her fingers trembling. Her chest rose and fell fast—too fast—like her body didn’t believe it was alive.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be.

She remembered the woods.

The gun.

The cold press of metal at her neck.

Cassian’s voice, low and final.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Then darkness.

And now—this.

She looked around wildly.

This wasn’t a hospital. It wasn’t the D’Amaro estate. It was—

Her eyes caught the mirror.

Elise scrambled out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold tile. She rushed to the mirror.

She froze.

The girl looking back at her wasn’t twenty-nine. She wasn’t even close.

Her face was rounder, younger. No scar behind her ear. No shadows under her eyes.

This was her face before the wedding. Before the empire. Before the blood.

She took a shaky step forward. Her fingers touched the glass.

It was real.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no..."

She stumbled back. Fell against the bed frame. She gripped the mattress like it would stop her from slipping through time again.

A second chance.

That’s what this was.

She was back. Somehow. She had time. Time to rewrite everything.

But first—she had to breathe.

Because underneath the shock was something else.

Rage.

It simmered just beneath her skin, slow and cold and sharp.

They killed her.

Cassian killed her.

She had loved him. Worshipped him. She’d bent herself into the perfect wife—silent, soft, composed. She never questioned his orders. Never made noise. Never made trouble.

And he gave her a grave.

Elise pressed a hand to her chest. She could still feel the echo of that final moment. The betrayal. The silence. The steel.

She thought of his face. How calm he’d looked. How empty.

Had he ever loved her?

Or had he loved the mask she wore?

The perfect wife. The polished smile. The obedient body in designer clothes.

Cassian didn’t fall in love with her. He fell for the version of her that never argued. Never questioned.

He loved the idea of her.

And when that idea became inconvenient, he let her die.

She tasted bile.

She would not be that girl again.

She wouldn’t die soft.

This time, she would burn.

The phone buzzed on her nightstand.

She stumbled toward the nightstand and grabbed her phone with trembling fingers.

The screen lit up.

May 12. 7:42 a.m.

Mum: Don’t forget the brunch starts at 11. You’re meeting Cassian today. Wear the lavender dress. He likes soft colours.

Her breath hitched.

That date. That cursed, elegant lie of a morning.

This was the day of the engagement brunch. The day she first met Cassian D’Amaro.

The day everything began to unravel.

In her first life, she’d worn lavender and smiled like she meant it. Played the perfect daughter, the sweet bride-to-be. Walked straight into a life that hollowed her out and spat her into the dirt.

But not this time.

She sat on the cold shower floor, knees pulled to her chest, steam wrapping around her like smoke. Her body trembled. Not from fear.

From rage.

It had always been this way. Softness as currency. Obedience as identity. Her entire girlhood had been a dress rehearsal for being someone else’s prize.

But Elise Caro had died in the woods.

And whoever had taken her place in this body was something else entirely.

An hour later, she stood in front of the wardrobe, towel wrapped around her.

The lavender dress hung where she remembered — floaty, delicate, the colour of things meant to be tamed. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head.

“Wear this. He’ll see you as gentle. Malleable.”

Instead of the lavender, she chose a fitted cream slip dress that skimmed her hips and revealed the curve of her back. Sleek. Simple. Nothing girlish.

No necklace. No earrings.

Just liner sharp enough to cut and a pair of nude heels that clicked with purpose.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

She didn’t look innocent.

She looked dangerous.

The Caro estate garden had been transformed for the occasion — parasols, crystal flutes, waiters weaving between manicured hedges. The kind of tasteful wealth that said nothing while showing everything.

Elise moved through it like a ghost in her own life.

Guests smiled. Women nodded politely. Her mother, Camila, flitted from table to table like a curator.

“Elise,” she called, “stop hovering by the terrace. Your fiancé will be here soon.”

Elise sipped her champagne. “Let him find me.”

Camila blinked.

But said nothing.

She felt him before she saw him.

The air shifted.

Conversations paused.

Cassian D’Amaro stepped into the garden like the world owed him applause.

He wore navy — tailored to perfection — and an expression honed to disarm.

His eyes scanned the crowd.

They landed on her.

And didn’t move.

He made his way across the garden, nodding to family elders, shaking hands. But his attention was fixed on Elise like he was trying to place her in a dream he didn’t remember having.

He stopped in front of her.

“Elise Caro,” he said.

She let her gaze move slowly over him.

“You’re punctual.”

His brow lifted, amused. “And you’re waiting for me?”

“No,” she said. “I just notice when something disrupts the symmetry.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” she replied, tone cool. “But you do take up space.”

That made him pause. Just slightly. Enough.

Then he smiled — a small, amusing thing. “I was told you were graceful.”

“Graceful doesn’t mean predictable.”

He offered his hand.

She looked at it for a moment too long — just enough to unsettle him — then slid her fingers lightly through the crook of his arm.

“You can play the gentleman,” she said quietly. “I’ll play along.”

They walked the perimeter of the garden together, poised like a couple from a portrait. But Elise’s thoughts were elsewhere — and her mask, perfectly in place.

Cassian glanced at her as they passed the rose archways.

“You don’t say much.”

“You speak enough for both of us.”

“That wasn’t a complaint.”

“Then clarify it.”

He laughed. It was genuine — surprised out of him.

“You’re not trying to charm me, are you?”

“No.”

“Good. Because it’s working.”

She didn’t smile back.

That night, Elise returned to her bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of her desk.

She pulled out a small leather notebook.

Not pink. Not monogrammed. Just black, unmarked.

She wrote one name at the top of the first page: Elena Cruz

And beneath it, a line in ink:

Let him believe. Let him want. Let him fall.

Then burn him.