chapter 2. the bouquet

The next morning I dressed with deliberate care. A soft cashmere sweater in deep burgundy that clung to every curve, tailored trousers that made no attempt to hide the fullness of my hips, and the diamond studs my father had given me the Christmas before he died. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror and felt no urge to tug the fabric looser. The girl staring back had died once already. She had earned the right to take up space.

Downstairs the dining room smelled of coffee and warm brioche. Sophia sat at the far end of the table, already mid-conversation with Ethan. He had arrived early, as he often did, claiming he could not start the day without seeing my face. His smile when I entered was the same polished curve I remembered from the night he watched me collapse.

“There she is,” he said, rising to kiss my cheek. His lips were cool. “You look radiant this morning.”

I let the kiss land and then stepped past him to the sideboard. I filled a plate with scrambled eggs, thick slices of smoked salmon, and two pastries still steaming from the oven. When I sat, I met Sophia’s eyes across the white linen.

“You’re hungry today,” she observed, voice light.

“Starving,” I answered, and took a slow, deliberate bite of pastry. Butter and sugar melted on my tongue. I did not look away while I chewed.

Ethan laughed, the sound practiced and fond. “My future wife has an appetite. I like that.” He reached across the table and covered my free hand with his. The diamond on my finger caught the light. In another life that ring had still been on my hand when they carried my body out of the ballroom.

I smiled at him the way I used to, soft and slightly shy, and continued eating until the plate was clean. Sophia watched every forkful. When I reached for a second pastry she rose and poured me more coffee herself, the perfect stepsister once again.

After breakfast Ethan left for a board meeting. Sophia lingered, rearranging the flowers on the sideboard with unnecessary care.

“There’s a charity gala tonight at the Met,” she said without turning. “Alexander is hosting the after-party at his place. Ethan wants us all there. You should wear the blue silk. It flatters you.”

The blue silk had been chosen in the first life because it skimmed rather than clung. I had worn it and still overheard two women near the champagne table whispering that no amount of good fabric could hide a body like mine.

“I’ll wear the red,” I said.

Sophia’s hands stilled on the roses. “The red is... bold.”

“I feel bold today.”

She recovered quickly, offering another sweet smile, and left me alone with the empty plates and the quiet certainty that she would already be calculating how to adjust the powder in tonight’s dessert.

I spent the afternoon in my room with the notebook open. I wrote every detail I could remember about the original timeline—dates, conversations, the exact moment the poison had taken hold. Then I turned the page and began listing the things I would do differently. Eat without apology. Race without permission. Touch Alexander Blackwood until the careful distance he kept between us shattered.

By six o’clock the townhouse hummed with preparation. Sophia swept into my room carrying a jewelry box and the red dress still in its garment bag. She helped me into it with the same gentle hands that had once braided my hair. The silk settled over my breasts and waist and hips like a second skin. In the mirror I looked ripe, unapologetic, alive.

“You really do look different,” she murmured, fastening a ruby necklace at my throat. “Almost... dangerous.”

I met her reflection’s eyes. “Maybe I am.”

The Met was a sea of black ties and champagne flutes when we arrived. Ethan kept a proprietary hand at the small of my back while photographers flashed. Sophia floated beside us, laughing at every joke, the perfect picture of sisterly devotion. I let them perform. My attention had already moved past them, searching the crowd for the one man who had never needed an audience to be kind.

I found him near the far end of the gallery, standing beneath a painting of a storm at sea. Alexander Blackwood wore a black tuxedo the way other men wore armor—perfectly, without effort. Silver had begun to touch the hair at his temples since the last time I had seen him in that other life, but the quiet intensity in his eyes was unchanged. He was speaking with two board members, yet the moment our gazes met he excused himself and started toward me.

Ethan noticed the direction of my attention and tightened his hold. “Uncle Alexander,” he called, voice bright. “Look who finally decided to join the living.”

Alexander’s gaze moved from my face to the red silk and back again. Something flickered behind his usual restraint—surprise, perhaps, or the first crack of interest.

“Isabella,” he said. My name in his mouth sounded different than it ever had in Ethan’s. Deeper. More careful. “You look well.”

“I feel well.” I stepped forward just enough that Ethan’s hand slipped from my back. “I heard you’re hosting the after-party. I was hoping I might speak with you later. Privately.”

Sophia’s laugh tinkled beside me. “Bella, darling, don’t monopolize him. Alexander is a busy man.”

Alexander ignored her. His eyes stayed on mine. “I’m never too busy for family. Find me after the speeches.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of toasts and polite conversation. I ate the miniature desserts passed on silver trays. I drank only water. When the formal portion ended and guests began drifting toward the exits, I slipped away from Ethan’s side and followed the quiet corridor that led to the private terrace Alexander preferred.

He was already there, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a single glass of whiskey in his hand. The city lights painted silver across the river below us. He turned at the sound of my heels.

“You asked for a private word,” he said.

I closed the distance until only a few feet remained between us. Up close I could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the controlled set of his mouth. In the first life he had looked at me with gentle concern. Tonight I wanted him to look at me with something far less gentle.

“I want you to teach me to ride,” I said.

His brows lifted a fraction. “Ride?”

“The motorcycle you keep in the Hamptons garage. The black one with the custom pipes. I’ve seen photographs. I want to learn.”

Silence stretched. A barge moved slowly down the dark water. Alexander studied my face as though searching for the shy girl he remembered.

“Motorcycles are dangerous,” he said at last.

“So is living carefully.” I took one more step. The night air smelled of the river and his cologne. “I’ve spent years being careful. It didn’t protect me from anything that mattered. Teach me. Please.”

Something shifted in his expression—hesitation, curiosity, the first reluctant spark of heat. He set the whiskey glass on the stone balustrade.

“All right,” he said quietly. “This weekend. I’ll have the car brought around Friday evening. Pack for the coast.”

I felt the future tilt again, the same way it had that morning when I first woke. I smiled, slow and certain, and let my fingers brush the back of his hand as I turned to leave.

“I’ll be ready.”

Behind me I heard the soft sound of him exhaling, as though he had been holding his breath since the moment I asked. I walked back into the light and the noise and the watching eyes of the people who had once buried me, already tasting the salt air of the Hamptons and the roar of an engine that would carry me far beyond their reach.