The reflection in the gilded mirror was unfamiliar beautiful, yes, but foreign. I studied her: long lashes curling above hazel eyes, a slender nose, lips with a natural pout, and hair cascading in soft waves past her shoulders. But none of it felt like me. It was the body of this life's Evelyn Sinclair the heiress, the billionaire's fiancée.
I closed my eyes and saw another girl. Pale skin, bruised knees. Calloused hands from menial jobs. A girl who never had enough to eat, who hid in corners from raised voices. That was me. That was who I used to be.
The door creaked behind me. I opened my eyes slowly, pushing the memory away.
"Miss Evelyn, breakfast is ready," said Anna, my personal maid. Her voice was gentle, yet distant as if addressing royalty. I nodded.
Downstairs, the grand dining room was suffocating in its silence. The chandeliers glittered, the silverware gleamed, and the staff stood like statues. I sat alone at the head of the long, oak table, a feast before me croissants, fresh berries, eggs benedict, and freshly squeezed juice. A meal meant for ten.
I stared at it blankly. The scent should've made my mouth water, but my stomach turned instead.
"I'm not hungry," I said quietly.
Anna flinched. "Would you like something else prepared, Miss?"
I shook my head and stood up, walking toward the garden instead. Sunlight filtered through the rose vines, warm against my skin. And still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't belong here.
What kind of cruel joke was fate playing on me? Why bring me back like this in the body of someone powerful, beautiful, rich yet burdened with memories of pain, fear, and helplessness?
A butterfly landed on my arm. I watched its fragile wings open and close. And suddenly, tears welled in my eyes.
I remembered the weak girl I used to be.
She cried herself to sleep every night. She was told she was worthless. She was mocked, shamed, overlooked. She worked at cafés, cleaned bathrooms, and patched holes in her shoes with duct tape. Her world was gray and bitter and loud.
And yet… she was also the girl who survived.
That weak girl didn't break. She held on when no one else did. She kept dreaming when dreams were all she had. And maybe just maybe that was her strength all along.
I sat on a stone bench, wiping my cheeks. I had been given a second chance. A new life. A new name. And with it, power.
But the ghosts of my past weren't so easily banished.
Later that day, I found myself in the Sinclair estate's private library. I ran my fingers along the leather-bound spines, breathing in the scent of old paper and polished wood. It was peaceful here. Safe.
I pulled out a book at random, sat by the window, and opened it. But my eyes didn't read the words. Instead, they wandered to my reflection in the glass.
"The weak girl I used to be wouldn't have made it here," I whispered.
But maybe... just maybe, she did.
The door swung open. I turned.
There he was.
Damian Blackwell.
The billionaire heir. My supposed fiancé.
He stood tall, exuding an air of danger and refinement. His eyes were cold, slate gray, analyzing me like a puzzle he hadn't solved yet.
"You skipped breakfast again," he said flatly.
I blinked, unsure how to respond. "I wasn't hungry."
He walked in, each step deliberate. "That's the third time this week."
Why did he care?
I set the book aside. "Is it your business whether I eat or not?"
His jaw tightened. "It is if you collapse at an event and the media turns it into a scandal."
Ah. Of course. Image. Reputation.
"Good to know I'm nothing more than a potential headline," I muttered.
He was silent for a beat. Then, he walked toward the shelves, selecting a book without even glancing. His presence filled the room like a storm cloud.
"You've changed," he said suddenly.
I tensed. "Excuse me?"
"You're different than you were before the accident."
My breath caught.
He turned, staring at me with unsettling intensity. "You used to cling to me. Laugh too loudly. You liked attention. Now, you barely speak. You look at me like I'm a stranger."
That's because you are, I thought.
But instead, I said, "People change, Damian."
He stepped closer. "Not overnight."
I rose from the chair. "Maybe I woke up."
"Woke up from what?"
"From pretending."
We locked eyes. His were unreadable, but I refused to look away.
Damian Blackwell was the coldest man I'd ever met. But the more I saw of him, the more I wondered—was he just as trapped in this engagement as I was? Was he also playing a role?
"You don't need to pretend with me," I said quietly. "I won't beg for affection or pretend to love you."
"I know," he said. "That's what makes you... dangerous."
He left without another word.
I sank back into the chair, heart pounding. Dangerous? Me?
No. I wasn't dangerous. I was just a girl trying to rebuild herself from the ashes.
That night, I stood before the mirror again. This time, I met my own eyes with more strength.
I may live in a palace now. Wear silk instead of rags. Be engaged to a man who could buy nations.
But I would never forget the weak girl I used to be.
Because she was the reason I was still alive.