CHAPTER 1 — THE RETURN
Rain tapped against glass like impatient fingers, a steady rhythm that felt strangely familiar. Aria Lane lay still on the silk sheets, eyes closed, breathing shallow, afraid to move—afraid that if she did, reality would come crashing back all at once.
It already was.
The hospital.The tabloids.The press conference.The betrayal.The cold white light at the end.
Her death.
She swallowed, the metallic taste of adrenaline collecting at the back of her mouth. Slowly, she lifted her hand and pressed her palm against her chest.
Her heart was still beating.
Her eyes flew open.
Instead of the hospital ceiling she remembered in shards and flashes, she found herself staring at the soft glow of a crystal chandelier. The light was warm—golden even—not the sterile blue she'd died under.
She shot up.
What.The.Hell.
Her gaze darted around the room. Soft carpets. Velvet curtains. White tea and cedarwood scented candles. Everything elegant, curated, expensive—and unmistakably hers.
Her old apartment.
Her breath fractured in her throat. She pushed off the bed and stumbled to the vanity mirror, nearly tripping over the corner of the rug. When her reflection appeared, she froze.
Three years younger.Skinnier.Fresher.Less broken.
Gone were the hollow cheeks and dark circles that came from sleepless nights fighting a war she never stood a chance in. Gone were the bloodshot eyes of the woman the world crucified online.
Aria looked… untouched.
She blinked once. Twice. Harder the third time.
"This can't be real," she whispered.
She reached up and touched her face, tracing the jawline she thought she'd lost along with her dignity. Her hair was longer again, falling in dark curls past her shoulders. Her lips were fuller, lipstick-free, uncracked.
The last time she'd seen this version of herself was before the scandal. Before the press destroyed her name. Before Damian Hale—her ex-lover, her boss, her executioner—threw her to the wolves to save his own empire.
Her hand trembled as she slid open the desk drawer and pulled out her planner. The date on the page almost made her knees buckle.
June 10th — The Board Meeting.
The day it all started.
The day she was blamed for the PR disaster that nearly tanked Hale Corporation's stocks. The day Damian looked her in the eye and chose business over her without hesitation.
The day she started dying.
She sank into the desk chair, planner clutched in hand. Footsteps echoed faintly outside her window as cars moved through the city, honks and engines blending with the sound of rain.
New York.Busy. Loud. Indifferent to her resurrection.
Resurrection.The word felt absurdly dramatic until she remembered the cold feeling in her limbs as the monitor beeped flat.
She really had died.
Her phone buzzed.
The name on the screen drained the warmth straight out of her skin.
Damian Hale.
Of course.
She should've anticipated him. He was always punctual when it served his interests. Always demanding. Always cold.
Her thumb hovered over the accept button for a long moment—too long, judging by the increasing impatience of the vibration.
She inhaled once and pressed it.
"Where the hell are you?" Damian's voice cut through the speaker like a razor—sharp, clean, and efficient. "The board's been waiting for fifteen minutes."
Aria didn't respond.
Her silence always made him irritable. Even three years later, she remembered that about him.
"Aria," he hissed, voice dropping lower, "don't make me repeat myself. They're staring at an empty seat and attaching your name to incompetence. I won't tolerate that today."
He ended the call before she could speak, as if the very concept of needing her response was beneath him.
Typical.
Aria stared at the blank phone screen for several seconds, absorbing every detail of the scene she'd once lived through—only this time without fear in her chest. No shaking hands. No lump in her throat. No desperate hope that maybe he'd believe her.
That version of Aria had died alone in a hospital bed.
This Aria started to laugh—not loud, not hysterical, but low and dangerous, like someone discovering a secret weapon that had always been hidden inside her.
She rose from the chair and walked back to the mirror, her bare feet cool against the marble floor. Her reflection looked back with eyes that held something new.
Self-control.Sharpness.Acid.Purpose.
"You idiot," she told her reflection softly. "You actually loved him."
She let the admission hang in the air for a beat.
Then she smiled.
Never again.
She moved with intention now, crossing the room to her closet. She slid open the doors and browsed through the rows of neatly hung dresses and suits her old self had once chosen based on what Damian preferred.
Muted colors. Conservative cuts. Quiet elegance.
He liked his women silent and tasteful—accessories, not flames.
Aria's fingers paused on a black fitted suit with a sharp waist and modern shoulder structure. Power wrapped in minimalism.
Perfect.
She stripped, showered quickly, and towel-dried her hair before applying light makeup. Then she reached for a lipstick she'd bought on a whim years ago and never wore—deep crimson with a matte finish.
She unscrewed the cap and smirked at the color.
"Let's see how you like this shade of trouble, Mr. Hale."
When she stepped out of the apartment, time seemed to have rewound not just for her, but for the city. The rain had calmed and the streets glistened, neon reflecting off puddles as taxis splashed by.
Her driver waved when he saw her."Morning, Miss Lane. Straight to Hale Corp?"
She almost forgot what that felt like—being greeted without suspicion, without whispers, without pointing fingers.
"Yes," she replied, sliding into the car. "Straight there."
The drive wasn't long, but it was enough time for memories to settle in like ghosts climbing into the backseat with her.
She remembered the boardroom. The accusations. The headlines.
SCANDAL INVOLVING HALE CORPORATION Model linked to financial fraud?! Hale's Mistress Ruins Stock Value?
Lies—manufactured, convenient, and perfectly timed to destroy her credibility while the real culprit walked away untouched.
As the car stopped at the front entrance of Hale Corporation, Aria stepped out into a swarm of umbrellas and dark suits. Employees hurried in and out, some whispering, some typing furiously on their phones.
Three years ago, she had walked through those doors terrified—carrying both her career and her heart like fragile glass, hoping neither would break.
Today, she walked through them like a loaded weapon.
The receptionist looked up, eyes widening slightly at the sight of her lipstick and posture. Not panic. More like confusion. Back then, Aria rarely looked like she could set a city on fire.
"Miss Lane," the receptionist greeted, "Mr. Hale is waiting in Conference Room B."
Aria smiled politely, but not warmly."Of course he is."
The hallway stretched long and carpeted, corporate art lining the walls like a gallery of capitalism. Every step she took echoed a little too loudly, and she enjoyed the sound more than she should have.
When she reached the door, she paused—not to gather courage, but to savor the moment.
She was about to re-enter the scene of her own destruction—and rewrite it.
She pushed open the door.
Voices cut off mid-sentence. Eleven heads turned. A dozen pairs of eyes widened. Damian Hale stood at the head of the table, tall and composed in a charcoal suit—the picture of power and efficiency.
He froze when he saw her.
Not because of shock—Damian didn't allow himself such human reactions. But because she wasn't the Aria Lane he was expecting.
Too sharp.Too calm.Too red-lipped.
"Miss Lane," one of the board members cleared his throat, "we were beginning to think—"
"That I wouldn't show?" Aria finished smoothly, sliding into her seat. "I apologize for the anticipation. I heard suspense improves crowd engagement."
A few brows shot up. Someone coughed. Damian's jaw tightened.
He hated being thrown off rhythm.
He opened his mouth to begin the presentation, but Aria beat him to it, tilting her head as she looked around the room.
"Well," she said, voice relaxed, "shall we begin?"
The board exchanged looks—uncertain ones.
Damian's eyes narrowed.
He didn't know it yet, but he was no longer facing the woman he destroyed.
He was facing the woman he created.