The nightmare always began the same way: the delicate, crystalline clinking of champagne glasses.
In the dream—the memory now etched into every nerve—Elara's world was gold and opulence, suffocating in its perfection.
Laughter rang like tiny bells, spilling over painted lips and silk gowns, but it carried a venom that only she could feel. The scent of lilies and expensive cologne seemed to seep into her lungs, burning. And there, at the center, stood Clara Valen. Fragile. Innocent. Perfect. A saint in white.
Elara's chest twisted. Possession. Rage. A sickening craving. She moved, as she had before.
Splash.
The red wine bloomed across Clara's pristine silk like fire across snow. The hall fell into a sharp, jagged silence.
"Ah—!" Clara's gasp sliced through the air.
Then came the hands. Rough, unyielding. Guards dragged her forward, heels scraping violently against marble. She was thrown to Dante's feet as if her existence were nothing but a broken toy.
"Dante… please…" she cried, voice cracking. "I didn't mean it… I just… I love you!"
Dante didn't flinch. His hand reached out, brushing a stray hair from Clara's face with a tenderness she had never received. Then his ice-blue gaze fell on her. Cold. Empty. Void.
"I've sacrificed everything for you!" she screamed, clawing at his trousers. "My family, my dignity—everything!"
"Did I ask you to?"
The whisper was lethal. Dante's hand moved slowly, deliberately, as he drew a gun. The barrel pressed against her chest, right over the heart that pounded too hard. Bang.
Pain erupted and a metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. a white-hot sun scorching her lungs. Her vision bled gray. Her life poured out onto cold marble.
And in that last moment, she saw Clara, standing like a predator cloaked in innocence. No tears. No shock. Just that small, smug smile. Victory. Cold. Calculated.
"—HAH!"
Elara jolted upright, sweat soaking her sheets. Her hands clawed at her chest, digging into the exact spot the bullet had struck in the dream. The panic clawed at her throat.
"It… it wasn't a dream," she breathed, voice ragged, trembling. "It's a warning. She… she set me up. Clara wanted me to lose it… to ruin myself."
The knowledge left her hollow, hollow with ice and fire. She wasn't just fighting Dante's fury. She was facing Clara's perfection, her cruelty, her intentional control.
The East Garden: Ghosts of a Past Life
The mansion was quiet as she slipped through corridors still bathed in predawn shadows. Her feet carried her to the East Garden, though her heart hammered for reasons beyond curiosity. Julian Moretti. In her real life, she had cared for him, quietly, in secret, before fate had ripped her from that world. Here, he was a memory, a tether to something she had lost—and perhaps something she could never regain.
The garden smelled of wet earth and roses. She stumbled once, silk catching on thorns, but kept moving until she found the old gardener.
"The young master… Julian?" Her voice shook.
The gardener's face softened, sympathy in his eyes. "No, my lady. Master Julian won't return until the night of the grand celebration."
Her chest tightened. The day she had seen in her nightmare, the day of the wine, the gun, the betrayal was coming. Without him, she would face the terror alone.
She lingered in the garden, speaking softly to the gardener about seasons, soil, life. Each word was a shield against the fear gnawing at her. She did not see Dante's gaze from above, hidden behind curtains, dark and unreadable, yet calculating.
The Lawyer: John Cabrio
Returning inside, she knew she needed allies, or at least information. The lawyer. John Cabrio.
Navigating the labyrinthine corridors, she finally found him, a young man this dark cold eyes but not as deadly as that of Dante, seated in a quiet office stacked with documents, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
His surprise was subtle, but real. Rumors painted her as cruel and untouchable, yet here she was—fragile, human, determined.
"Hello, Mr. Cabrio, I am Elara" she said, voice calm, though every word trembled inside her. "I wanted… to ask something. Hypothetically, of course. What if someone wanted to annul an engagement?"
He adjusted his glasses, expression tightening. "Both parties would need to consent. Especially… the young master."
Her lips pressed together. Of course. Nothing was ever simple.
He handed her a book, laws regarding marriage, divorce, annulment with she hadn't asked for maybe he did that out of shear pity . She scanned it, her mind racing. Family agreements… non-mutual dissolution. Interesting. Useful. Her eyes lit up
This was her weapon.
The Devil's Study: forbidden magnetism
Finally, she reached Dante's study. Three wrong doors and two dead ends later, she stood before the heavy oak.
She pushed it open. The air inside was heavy, dark, and intoxicating. Elara's hands trembled as she pushed open the heavy oak door. The air inside was different—dense, alive, almost breathing. And then she saw him.
Dante Moretti.
Every step forward made her heart pound harder, each beat echoing in her ears.
He sat behind the desk, shadows playing across the sharp angles of his face—his jawline chiseled like marble, cheekbones cutting across the light like shadows of steel.
His hair fell just enough over his brow to make him look untamed, almost dangerous.
And the tattoos… dark, intricate patterns tracing across his collarbone, down his arms, hints peeking from beneath the edge of his shirt… they whispered forbidden promises, the kind that made something ache deep inside her.
She tried to tell herself to stop, to remember this was the man who had tried to kill her in her nightmare. But the pull was magnetic. Breath hitched. Fingers tightened. Every nerve in her body screamed in simultaneous fear and need.
It wasn't desire in the ordinary sense. it was a craving for power, possession, and danger all wrapped into one. Now I understand…
she realized, almost horrified. This is why the original Elara loved him so fiercely. Why she wanted him all to herself. Why no one else could ever have him. He isn't just a man—he's… him.
Dante's gaze lifted, ice-blue eyes locking onto hers.
"Dante," she began, voice steady but soft, "I want to annul the engagement."
Silence followed, oppressive, like a storm waiting to break. He rose, filling the room with his presence.
"An annulment?" His voice was low, smooth, vibrating in the room, and somehow… in her chest. It wasn't sound as much as a pulse, a physical thrum that sank into her bones. Her stomach twisted, and heat flared behind her ears.
Her lips parted slightly, caught between fear and the shocking awareness of her own reaction. She could feel the vibration of his voice, like it was calling to something she didn't want to admit but couldn't stop herself from feeling.
I want him.. I want him to call my name, she realized in horror, the thought foreign and unwelcome, yet undeniably there. I want him to call me… to need me… to yearn for me…
The room felt smaller. Her chest rose and fell faster than her mind could process. That single sound, that single word vibrating between them, anchored her in the room. Anchored her to him.
And in that instant, she knew—the original Elara's obsession, her sacrifice, her terror and her love… it all began here. Right here. With him.
Dante sat behind his desk, shadow cutting across his sharp features. Tattoos peeked from beneath his shirt, a subtle promise of danger. but his eyes—ice-blue and unreadable—studied her. " After three years of pleading, crying, and throwing yourself at me… now you want to walk away?"
She felt her chest tighten. She could smell his sandalwood, feel the quiet hum of his power. Desire mixed with fear, raw and confusing, but she pushed it down. This wasn't the time.
"It's not a game," she whispered. "I'm not compatible with a man who sees me as nothing."
"Who is he?" His voice rose, tempered with suspicion, not obsession. "Is there someone else?"
"There is no one," she said firmly. "Only a girl who realized she deserves to live."
Her heels clicked urgently against the floor as she turned to leave. Dante's gaze followed, sharp, calculating—but for now, it was a restrained curiosity, not obsession.
The hunt had not yet begun.
The balance of power had shifted, even if only slightly. And she would need every ounce of cunning, every secret ally, every memory of the "other life," to survive what was coming.