Bridgette's heartbeat sounded like a battle drum as she stood on the edge of the rooftop. While standing there, cold air slammed against her skin. The city of Paris sprawled beneath her like a lovely painting, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding above. The Beaumont Tower, which formerly dominated the skyline as a sign of her family's dominance, was now nothing more than a prop for her live performance.
She had planned it so perfectly.
Anabella stood in front of her, trembling as tears streamed down her gentle face. The girl who had robbed her of everything, including Collin's adoration, The Parisian's gaze, the happiness that was once hers was finally at her disposal. Bridget's fingers tightened around Anabella's wrist as she leaned dangerously near to the edge.
"Please, Bridgette," Anabella pleaded, her voice shaking. "You don't have to do this."
"Don't have to?" Bridgette scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "You stole him from me. You stole my future. You ruined me!"
"Bridgette, let her go!" Collin's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. His golden-brown hair was windswept, his hazel eyes wide with desperation. He took a step forward, but Bridgette yanked Anabella closer to the ledge.
"Stay back!" Bridgette snarled. "Or I swear I'll—"
Her words were cut short. Collin pushed forward, using every ounce of his power to free Anabella from Bridgette. Everything seemed to come to a halt as Bridgette felt herself being taunted, her feet dangling precariously from the edge of the roof. Her breath caught. She was engulfed by the awful sense of falling, and for the first time in her life, she felt actual fear.
The cold air whipped against her body as she dropped through the darkness, the world blurring into wind and shadow. With every foot she fell, a new memory tore through her consciousness her father's joyful smile the day he told her she deserved the world; the glittering ballroom where she once believed love would save her; the shattering moment Collin ended their engagement, and she clung to a future already slipping away. Her chest tightened as the grief resurfaced: the sight of her father's lifeless body after the accident, the crushing collapse of the Lau Rue empire, and the cruel headlines praising Anabella's rise in Paris while her own world burned.
And beneath all of it a quiet, aching truth. She had been blind. Foolish. Desperate to be loved. She had ignored warnings, betrayed her own instincts, and held onto dreams that were never meant for her. As she plummeted, regret pressed heavier than the wind itself.
If only she could turn back time to the mornings when her father was alive and well, to the moments before the first lie, before the first desperate choice. If she could step into that life again, she would set everything right: undo her wrongdoings, choose differently, begin anew.
Until then, she could only fall, carrying the weight of her repentance through the dark, and whispering a promise to the past she could not reach: If I'm given one more chance, I won't waste it.
And then—darkness.
Bridgette gasped, her eyes snapping open. The familiar scent of ink and paper filled her nostrils. Sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating neat rows of wooden desks. The soft murmur of students talking and the distant sound of a teacher's chalk scratching against the board made her head spin.
She was in a classroom.
Her classroom.
She dropped her gaze to examine her hands, which remained unspoiled and undamaged. No bruises or wounds were visible. The uniform molded her physique as it fit snugly against her body. Her golden-blonde hair fell the way it always had before her world fell apart.
Frantically, she reached for her bag, pulling out her phone. The date flashed on the screen: five years before the night she fell.
Her breath hitched.
She was alive.
She was seventeen again.
Her heart pounded as she tried to make sense of it. Was this a dream? A cruel trick played by fate? Or was this her chance to change everything?
As she lifted her gaze, her breath caught in her throat. Sitting across the room, oblivious to the storm raging inside her, was Collin. His face was untouched by the weight of the years, his smile just as charming, his gaze just as warm.
And beside him sat Anabella still the shy, insignificant girl she had once dismissed.
The truth hit her with such force that her breath came in abrupt, shallow gasps. The sounds of the classroom receded into the distance, muffled as if she was underwater. The pressure of the past and the future lay heavily upon her chest. She had to escape; she needed air. She had to escape; she needed air.
With a sudden jolt, Bridgette pushed back her chair, the wooden legs screeching against the polished floor. The entire classroom fell silent. Eyes turned to her in confusion, but she didn't care. She barely registered the teacher's voice calling her name.
Without a second thought, she bolted for the door.
Her classmates exchanged stunned glances, whispering in hushed voices. Even the teacher seemed momentarily too shocked to react. But Bridgette didn't stop. She raced down the hallway, her breath ragged, her heart slamming against her ribs. The walls felt too tight, the world too small.
The hallway was empty as she stumbled her way to the nearest bathroom. She turned on the faucet, the cold splash of water against her face did little to steady her trembling hands. She stared at her reflection in the mirror of the school bathroom, her wide grey eyes searching desperately for proof that this wasn't just another cruel dream. The scent of old textbooks, the distant chatter of students it all felt so real. Too real.
Her past sins clawed at her chest, suffocating her. And then, like a crashing wave, she remembered her father.
Her fingers fumbled for her phone, dialing the familiar number with shaking hands. The line rang once, twice...
Then she heard it.
"Bridgette, sweetheart?"
Her father's voice.
Alive. Strong. Warm.
A strangled sob escaped her lips as she fell to her knees, clutching the phone as if it were her lifeline.
"Bridgette?" her father's voice was tinged with worry. "What's wrong?"
She shook her head, though he couldn't see it. "N-Nothing," she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I just... I missed you. I love you so much, Papa."
Silence. Then a soft chuckle. "You've always been dramatic, my dear. But I love you too. I'll be home early tonight, alright?"
She nodded frantically, even though he couldn't see. "Yes. Please, be home early."
He promised, and after a few more exchanged words, she hung up, clutching the phone to her chest. He was alive. He was really alive.
The school bell rang, signaling the end of class. Footsteps and laughter filled the hallway outside.
Bridgette barely had time to compose herself before she heard an unfamiliar, yet strangely familiar voice calls out her name.
"Bridgette!"
She turned sharply, her heart still hammering in her chest. Two figures approached her, their polished shoes clicking against the tiled floor.
Isabel and Cassie.
The two girls who had previously been her closest companions. Those who had laughed with her stood with her, bullying others alongside her. They, like her, had grown up in a privileged environment, their lives a well-crafted fairytale.
Isabel, with her striking auburn curls and piercing emerald eyes, always carried an air of superiority, her expensive designer dress immaculately pressed. She was sharp-tongued, cruel, and unafraid to wield her power.
Cassie, on the other hand, was softer in appearance, with honey-blonde waves and doe-like brown eyes. But her innocent looks were deceiving. She had a habit of whispering venom into people's ears, manipulating situations to her advantage with an effortless smile.
And both of them had shared Bridgette's disdain for Anabella.
"What's wrong with you?" Isabel asked, arching a perfectly shaped brow. "You ran out of class like you'd seen a ghost."
Cassie's gaze flickered over Bridgette's damp face. "Are you crying?" she asked, feigning concern. "Did someone upset you? Just say the word, and we'll handle it."
Bridgette's stomach twisted. The old her would have welcomed their support, would have relished in their cruelty. But now, their presence felt suffocating. Overwhelming.
Her fingers twitched. Her heart pounded.
And then—
She ran.