Damien
The city hummed quietly beneath the Sterling tower, a sea of glass and lights stretching far beyond the horizon. Inside the boardroom, Damien Sterling sat at the head of the table—flawless in a tailored navy suit, his presence so commanding that the room seemed to revolve around him.
He listened, but his mind wandered.
The meeting was about mergers. Numbers. Expansion plans. His COO, Patrick, was droning on about international logistics. Damien's fingers tapped rhythmically on the polished oak table, betraying his restlessness.
Everything was going well. Too well.
On paper, Damien Sterling was untouchable—the youngest CEO in the industry, heir to a billion-dollar empire, cold, brilliant, admired. But today, he couldn't stop thinking about her.
Rameena.
He hadn't heard that name in years. And yet, last night, it came crashing back, vivid as thunder, haunting him the way perfume clings to memory. Her smile. Her voice. That ethereal sadness she carried, like she knew she didn't belong in this world.
She had been the wife of his fiercest competitor—the man who had once tried to destroy everything his father built.
Rameena had no place in his world.
But somehow, she'd carved one anyway.
They'd never touched, never dared to cross the line, but he had loved her. Loved her like a poem no one else understood. She had been quiet strength, all soft eyes and muted laughter, always watching him like she was searching for something behind his carefully guarded face.
She wasn't supposed to die.
He had watched her from a distance, held back by duty, pride, the damn complications of power. And then one day, she was gone. Just like that.
The woman he never got to love had vanished into the earth, and he'd buried the ache beneath layers of success and distraction. Until now.
"Damien?" Patrick's voice cut through his thoughts. "Your input on the Madrid expansion?"
Damien blinked. "Postpone it for Q3. We'll scale after the second quarter evaluations."
Patrick nodded, scribbling. The room moved on.
Damien leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his jaw. The ache in his chest tightened. Was he haunted? Or just lonely?
When the meeting ended, he stayed behind, letting the others file out with tight smiles and clipped goodbyes.
His phone buzzed.
Sofia.
His stepmother's name lit up the screen like a warning.
He swiped to answer.
"Darling," Sofia's voice was honeyed and sharp, like always. "Your father and I are attending the Van Doren gala next week. I want you to meet someone there."
Damien closed his eyes. "Not interested."
"She's lovely. Intelligent. Comes from a solid family. You'd like her."
"I never do."
Sofia sighed dramatically. "Damien, it's just a meeting. You can't stay detached forever."
"I've managed fine so far."
"Well, I already told them you'd be there. Don't embarrass me."
The line went dead before he could argue.
He stared at the screen. The date had already been set. Just like everything else in his life—strategic, arranged, expected.
Damien chuckled dryly. A woman he didn't know, waiting to be impressed. Would she be another hollow socialite? Another version of all the women who wanted his money but never understood his silence?
He stood, slipping his hands into his pockets, staring out at the sky beyond the tower.
And for the first time in years, he whispered a name that once meant everything.
"Rameena…"
Her ghost still lingered.
He didn't know that the soul he longed for had just returned—in a face he wouldn't recognize.
____________________________________
The crowd outside the lecture hall spilled over like a tipped jar of marbles—students laughing, grumbling, brushing past one another as they moved between classes. Ruth stood still in the middle of it, unmoving, unnoticed.
She used to hate the noise. Now, it was strangely comforting.
"Ruth!"
Mirabel's voice rang out over the buzz. Her honey-blonde curls bounced as she jogged over, clutching two cold drinks.
"You looked like you were stuck in another universe," she said, passing Ruth a can of iced tea. "You okay?"
Ruth forced a smile, nodding. "Just tired."
It wasn't entirely a lie. Between school, part-time work, and the constant noise in her mind, she was exhausted. But "tired" was the easiest way to sum up the weight of another life pressing against her own.
She wasn't just Ruth anymore.
She was Rameena—trapped in Ruth's skin.
Every time she looked in the mirror, it was still Ruth's face staring back. Same dark eyes, same delicate features, same stubborn curl that refused to stay tucked behind her ear. But beneath it was her—Rameena. The girl who had once been married, once held a newborn in her arms, once loved and was loved… until her life was stolen in blood and silence.
She didn't know how or why she was in Ruth's body. All she knew was she woke up in a stranger's bed, in a stranger's life, with memories that didn't belong to her and pain that did.
But now, after weeks of confusion, denial, and tears... she had accepted it.
She was alive.
And she would make it count.
She took a slow sip of her drink, her gaze wandering to a group of business majors chatting about internships and LinkedIn updates.
She should be one of them.
In her past life, Rameena was being groomed to handle a company. Trained, polished, placed on the arm of a man with too much power and too little soul. She had once been surrounded by luxury, suffocated by it.
But this… this world of 8 a.m. lectures, second-hand textbooks, and cheap coffee felt more real.
Still, reality didn't erase her purpose.
"I applied to that marketing internship you told me about," Ruth said casually, watching Mirabel's face light up.
"No way! That's awesome, Ruth. You're finally making moves."
Yes. Moves. Quiet ones.
She didn't need to storm back into her old world—not yet.
First, she'd learn. Grow. Build. Not just to survive… but to win.
Because the people who betrayed her still lived in gold towers, untouched and smiling. They thought Rameena was dead.
Let them.
Let them grow comfortable in their lies, in their stolen peace.
When she returned, it would be as someone they didn't see coming.
---
Later that night, Ruth sat by her small desk, lamp buzzing above her, textbooks open but untouched. Her fingers hovered above her laptop keyboard, not typing, not searching.
Instead, she was rereading the news article again.
"Stirling Group Reorganizes Board After Major Pushback."
Michael Stirling's name flashed boldly across the screen. Cold. Calculating. Beautiful. The man who had watched her fall.
She used to flinch at the sight of his name.
Now? She watched him the way prey studies a hunter—memorizing his moves, waiting for him to slip.
And then, there was him.
Damien Sterling.
His image filled half the page beside Michael's. Unbothered. Perfect. A storm in a black suit. Her soul flinched, remembering.
He had loved her once. Not enough to fight for her. But enough to haunt her now.
She shut the laptop, swallowed the lump in her throat, and grabbed her journal instead. Not Ruth's—hers. Hidden beneath the mattress, its pages thick with everything Ruth never remembered writing.
It was all Rameena now.
Every plan, every emotion, every quiet scream tucked between the lines.
Tonight, she added only one sentence.
"Rebirth is not a mercy. It's a second chance."