The sharp knock on the door jolted Elara from her spiraling thoughts.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing in there?"
The voice was deep and stern, cutting clean through the thick silence of the bathroom. It carried authority—impatience, even—but beneath it, she thought she caught a faint undercurrent of concern, something almost human trying to hide under all that hardness.
Her breath hitched. For a heartbeat, she forgot how to move.
"If you don't come out within the next fifteen minutes," the voice warned, "I'm breaking down this door."
She flinched at the words, at the sheer certainty in his tone. Whoever he was—Kael Rhyne, her mind supplied hesitantly—he wasn't someone used to being disobeyed.
Her fingers trembled as she swiped at her damp cheeks, leaving faint streaks of moisture along her skin. She cleared her throat, forcing her voice to sound steady, though it wavered anyway.
"Yeah, I'm—" she swallowed, the word catching on the edge of a sob, "I'm coming. I'm coming out."
Her pulse thundered in her ears as she leaned back against the wall, trying to collect herself. The tears still stung at the corners of her eyes, but she forced them back. She couldn't afford to fall apart again. Not now.
Her gaze flicked toward the mirror. Celine's face stared back, pale and drawn, eyes too bright and rimmed with red. The sight made her heart clench, but it also sparked something steadier in her chest—a fragile resolve.
Inside her mind, the storm of thoughts never stopped.
All the answers I need are locked away with her—the real Celine.
She rubbed her palms against her knees, trying to ground herself. She left with her memories, and I'm left wandering through the ruins.
It wasn't fair. To inherit another woman's body was one thing—but to inherit her silence, her ghosts, her unfinished business? That was a cruelty Elara hadn't prepared for.
And yet, she couldn't run. There was nowhere to run to.
She exhaled slowly, pressing her hand to her chest as if to steady the unfamiliar heartbeat beneath her palm. The rhythm felt different—slower, calmer, alien.
Maybe, she thought, I can survive this one step at a time.
The thought wasn't brave, but it was enough.
She pushed herself up from the cold floor, her knees stiff from sitting too long. The tiles squeaked faintly under her bare feet as she straightened. She smoothed down her pajama top, trying to erase the wrinkled evidence of her breakdown.
The mirror caught her again as she moved—Celine's reflection, tear-streaked but composed. There was something haunting about that face. The kind of beauty that drew eyes, but also the kind that carried stories people didn't dare ask about.
Elara stared at her reflection for a long moment, then nodded once, as if silently agreeing to a pact.
You're gone, Elara Vaughn, she told herself. And until I find a way back—if there even is one—I'll be her.
With that, she reached for the doorknob. Her palm was slick with nervous sweat. The metal felt cold, grounding.
She turned it and stepped out.
The hallway beyond was warmer than the sterile bathroom. Soft light spilled through the windows, painting the walls in muted amber. The air smelled faintly floral—lavender again—and something deeper beneath it, maybe sandalwood. Everything felt too polished, too quiet, like walking into a photograph.
And standing there, framed in that light, was him.
Kael Rhyne.
Tall. Straight-backed. His posture precise to the point of rigidity. He looked like a man carved from the very rules he obeyed—impeccably tailored suit, not a hair out of place, his tie knotted with cold perfection. His dark eyes fixed on her, assessing, as though cataloguing every small tremor, every misplaced breath.
For a moment, Elara forgot to breathe.
This was her husband now. Or Celine's husband.
The man from the bed. The stranger whose name the voice had spoken like a sentence.
He didn't look angry—at least, not in any obvious way—but there was something in the tension of his shoulders, the way his jaw flexed, that told her he was holding it back.
"There's a dinner tonight with the family," he said, his tone even and unyielding. "You'd better act like everything's perfectly fine."
The words weren't cruel, but they were cold—polished into neutrality like stones smoothed by the tide. He wasn't speaking to a wife. He was giving instructions.
Her mouth went dry. "I…" She caught herself, forcing the hesitation away. "I understand."
Kael's eyes narrowed slightly. His gaze swept her face, pausing for a fraction of a second—long enough for her to think he might see something beneath the surface, something off. But whatever flicker of curiosity he had vanished just as quickly.
He turned as if to leave, but paused.
"And don't try to stray away like last time."
The words stopped her cold.
Last time?
Her stomach twisted. She had no idea what he was referring to, but the warning in his voice was unmistakable.
He looked over his shoulder at her, and though his tone remained level, something darker glinted in his eyes. "You remember what happened last time."
Elara's throat tightened. She didn't remember, but she nodded anyway.
"Yes," she murmured. "I… remember."
He studied her for a beat longer, and for a fleeting second, she saw something soften in his gaze—confusion, maybe, or guilt. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.
Without another word, Kael turned and walked down the hall. His footsteps were measured, deliberate, fading into the quiet hum of the house.
Elara stayed where she was, staring at the spot where he'd stood, her pulse racing again.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
She leaned against the wall, exhaling shakily. Only now did she realize she'd been holding her breath the entire time.
The scent of lavender lingered in the air, and the echo of his voice hung like smoke.
Her hands trembled faintly as she reached back to close the bathroom door behind her, shutting herself in again—not because she wanted to hide, but because she needed a moment to think.
Kael Rhyne. Her husband.
The words still didn't feel real.
Dinner with the family. Pretending everything was fine. Remembering something she'd never lived.
She pressed her palms against the door, closing her eyes. "Okay," she whispered to the quiet room. "I can do this."
When she opened them again, her reflection met her gaze in the mirror's faint glow from the hall.
Not Elara. Not quite Celine.
Someone new—fragile, frightened, but standing.
She drew in one last deep breath and stepped away from the door.
Whatever tonight brought, she would face it as Celine Arden.
Whether she liked it or not.