Chapter 1: The Stranger Among the Ashes

I saved a young man from a pile of bodies just outside town. The stench of smoke and blood clung to the air—thick, metallic, unforgettable. Sometimes, late at night, I swear I can still hear the crackle of burning wood, taste the copper tang in the back of my throat. My hands shook as I pulled him free. I didn’t know if he’d survive. Didn’t even know his name. But that moment changed everything, tilted my world off its axis.

The air that day was heavy with the scent of scorched earth and the sharp tang of blood. My hands shook as I dragged him out, his weight awkward and heavy in my arms. For a split second, I thought—what if he doesn’t make it? What if I’m too late? But all I had was desperate, stubborn hope. Maybe saving one person could make a difference in a world gone sideways.

Just the desperate, stubborn hope. Maybe saving one person could make a difference in a world gone sideways. I didn’t have a plan. I just couldn’t leave him there.

Later, he made a comeback—reclaimed his place as heir to the Whitmore family fortune, forced his father to step down. People couldn’t believe it. Some called it ruthless, others called it destiny. He took back power and never looked back.

The Whitmores—everyone in Maple Heights knows that name. Their estate sits up on the hill, all white columns and sprawling lawns, the kind of place folks drive by slow, just to gawk. When Gabriel Whitmore returned, it was all anyone talked about. Old money, new drama. And me, right in the thick of it, though I barely belonged.

When we met again, it was in the grand hall of the Whitmore estate. He sat high above, looking down from his new throne, like a king surveying his court.

All marble and dark wood. The kind of place that makes you feel small before you even step inside. The room was so quiet you could hear the tick of the old grandfather clock in the foyer. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and something older—like secrets and dust. Gabriel looked different up there, older, sharper. The kind of man who could command a room with a single glance.

His voice echoed off the high ceiling. Cold. Formal. Almost bored. "Lila Reed, what reward do you want?" Every eye in the room flicked toward me, waiting. Judging. My skin prickled.

My heart hammered so loud I wondered if he could hear it from up there. His voice echoed off the marble and wood, carrying all the weight of the Whitmore name. I could feel every eye in the room flick toward me, waiting. Judging. It made my skin prickle.

In that moment, something flashed through my mind—A flicker. A shadow of something I couldn’t quite catch.

It was like déjà vu, a memory on the tip of my tongue. Faces, voices, the ache of old wounds—I felt them all at once. My heart pounded, and for a second, I wasn’t sure if I was standing in that grand hall or somewhere else entirely.

This wasn’t the first time.

The memory hit me so hard it almost knocked the breath out of me. I knew what would happen next. I’d lived it before—every awkward silence, every sidelong glance. The weight of wanting too much.

Last time, I asked for marriage. What I really wanted? A title. In my previous life, what I asked for was marriage; what I wanted was a real place in his world.

I remembered the way my voice shook, the hope trembling in every word. I wanted a place beside him. Not just as a helper. Not just as a friend. I wanted to matter. Maybe I was naive. Maybe I was just desperate.

But he married his childhood sweetheart, Sarah Langley, and kept me tucked away in the guest house. Out of sight. Out of mind. I watched their wedding from the window, the sound of laughter drifting across the lawn while I stood alone. My world shrank to four walls and a view of the lake, the promise of belonging slipping through my fingers like water.

I was a secret, a shadow. Always knowing I didn’t belong. Never would.

This time, I bowed deeply. The floor was slick beneath me. My knees ached. I kept my eyes down. My neck ached from the angle, but I kept my eyes on the floor. My heart thudded, but I forced myself to stay small, invisible. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

My voice was steady, but inside I was shaking. I swallowed. Tried to sound brave. "I’m just a girl with no family left. May I ask for a favor..."

The words caught in my throat. Stuck. My voice barely carried across the room, but I could feel the words hanging there, fragile as glass. I tried to keep my hands steady at my sides, but my fingers curled tight in my skirt.

"Would you let me call you big brother, Mr. Whitmore?" It felt strange, saying it out loud. The words tasted foreign, but safer than what I’d wanted before. Safe. Too safe, maybe. I could almost hear Nanny Ruth’s voice in my head, telling me to be careful, to keep my head down. I swallowed hard, waiting for his answer.

His voice echoed in my memory—"When you see Mr. Whitmore later, you keep quiet and don’t say anything you’ll regret." The warning ran through me. I felt the chill of the room settle on my skin.

The housekeeper’s voice cut through my thoughts. She fussed. Fixed my hair. Smoothed my dress. Every detail, just so. She fussed over me like a mother hen, her hands always busy—straightening my collar, brushing invisible dust from my shoulders. I nodded, promising, even though my stomach twisted with nerves.

I trailed behind her. Step by step. Heart pounding. I matched her pace, careful not to scuff the floor. The hallway seemed to stretch forever, lined with old portraits whose eyes seemed to follow me. I kept my gaze down, counting the steps.

Her shoes clicked on the tile. I kept my head down. Counted the steps. The autumn wind rattled the windows, and a maple leaf—red as blood—skittered across the marble floor at my feet.

The leaf caught for a moment on my shoe before swirling away, as if the house itself was exhaling. I shivered, pulling my cardigan tighter. The air inside felt colder than it should have.

For some reason, I felt off. Like I was missing something. It was more than just nerves. It was the eerie certainty that I’d walked this path before, heard the same distant laughter, smelled the same faint scent of cinnamon from the kitchen. Like the world was looping, waiting for me to make a different choice.

It was like waking from a dream you can’t quite remember. My heart thudded. Uneasy.

It seemed...

As if I’d been here before.

A shiver ran down my spine, like a memory on shuffle. My hand brushed the banister, rough with age. I half-expected to see my own fingerprints worn into the wood from another life. The thought sent a chill down my spine.

Three days. The whole estate was buzzing. Today was the third day since Gabriel Whitmore reclaimed his title as heir.

You could taste the tension. The whole town had been buzzing about it. The papers ran stories, the neighbors gossiped over coffee at the diner. The Whitmore estate was alive with activity—lawyers, relatives, people coming and going at all hours. The sense of change hung thick in the air.

In the main hall, he promised to reward those who had supported him: stock shares, management roles, prestige. Everyone wanted a piece. Everyone smiled, but their eyes were sharp.