He arrives exactly on time.
I'm watching from my bedroom window when the Vere carriage rolls through our estate gates—black lacquer with silver trim, pulled by four matched grays that probably cost more than most families earn in a year. Understated by ducal standards, but the quality is unmistakable.
My hands tighten on the windowsill.
I'd chosen my outfit carefully this morning. A day dress in deep blue—elegant but not formal, expensive but not showy. My hair pinned in a simple style rather than the elaborate arrangements I used to favor. Minimal jewelry. I look like myself, not like someone trying to become the perfect duchess.
Mina had nodded approvingly. "You look strong, my lady."
Strong. I need to remember that. I'm not the desperate girl who died loving him. I'm someone with knowledge, with power, with choice.
I watch as a footman opens the carriage door. Cassian steps out, and even from this distance, I'm struck by how *present* he is. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the controlled grace of someone trained in combat. He wears dark gray—appropriate for an afternoon visit, nothing ostentatious. His black hair is slightly windswept from the journey.
He looks up at the house, as if sensing observation. I step back from the window quickly, heart hammering.
"My lady?" Mina appears at the door. "His Grace has arrived. Your father asks that you join them in the garden in ten minutes."
Ten minutes. I can do this.
I check my reflection one final time. The woman in the mirror looks calm, composed. Nothing like the churning mess of emotions inside.
"I'm ready."
The walk through the house feels eternal. Down the grand staircase, through the portrait gallery where my ancestors watch with painted eyes, out the rear terrace doors to the garden path.
I can hear voices before I see them—Papa's warm tones and Cassian's deeper, more measured responses. They're discussing the roses. Of course they are. Polite small talk while waiting for the main event.
I round the corner and see them standing by my mother's favorite bench. Papa notices me first, his expression brightening with what looks like relief. Cassian turns, and our eyes meet.
Gray. Cold gray, like winter sky. Exactly as I remember.
For a moment, I'm twenty-three again, looking up from the floor where I've collapsed, seeing those same eyes watching with detached surprise as poison burns through my veins.
Then I blink, and I'm twenty, standing in my own garden with the sun warm on my shoulders. Alive.
"Adeline." Papa gestures me forward. "Duke Vere has just arrived."
I move closer, offering a curtsy that's perfectly correct but not overly deferential. "Your Grace. Thank you for making the journey."
Cassian bows slightly. "Lady Adeline. The thanks are mine for agreeing to meet."
His voice is exactly as I remember too—deep, controlled, each word precisely articulated. No warmth, but no hostility either. Just perfect neutrality.
"Shall we sit?" Papa indicates the bench and two additional chairs that have been arranged nearby. "I'll remain close enough to satisfy propriety, but far enough to give you both privacy for conversation."
He settles onto a bench about twenty feet away, opening a book he's brought—though I doubt he'll actually read it. Papa's idea of chaperoning has always been benign surveillance.
Cassian gestures to the bench. "Please."
I sit, arranging my skirts with hands that only shake slightly. He takes the chair opposite, leaving proper distance between us. Proper. Everything about Cassian Vere is always so perfectly, rigidly proper.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. He's studying me with an intensity I don't remember from our previous interactions. Not impolite staring, but genuine attention. Like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
It makes my skin prickle.
"You look well," he says finally.
"As do you, Your Grace."
"Cassian, please. If we're to have a frank discussion, excessive formality seems counterproductive."
I almost laugh. In three years of engagement, he never once invited me to use his given name. I'd been "Lady Adeline" until the very end.
"Very well. Cassian." The name feels strange on my tongue. Too intimate for someone I'm about to refuse.
He leans back slightly, still watching me with that unnerving focus. "I understand you have reservations about our potential engagement."
Straight to the point. No dancing around it. Fine. I can work with that.
"I do."
"May I ask what they are?"
I'd rehearsed this. Prepared careful, diplomatic explanations. But sitting here, facing him, all those practiced words feel insufficient.
"We don't know each other," I say instead. Simple truth. "We've met perhaps four times, exchanged pleasantries, discussed nothing of substance. And yet we're expected to enter into a lifelong bond based on... what? Political convenience? Family arrangement?"
"That's how most noble marriages work." His tone is matter-of-fact, not argumentative. "Surely you understood that when the arrangement was proposed."
"I did." I meet his eyes steadily. "And I've reconsidered whether that's what I want."
"Why?"
The single word hangs between us, weighted with genuine curiosity. That's what unsettles me most—he actually seems interested in the answer. The Cassian I knew wouldn't have cared enough to ask.
"Because I deserve more than political convenience," I say carefully. "And so do you, for that matter. Neither of us should enter marriage as a mere obligation."
Something flickers in his expression—too quick to read. "You think you'd be an obligation to me?"
"Wouldn't I be?" I lean forward slightly. "Your Grace—Cassian—you've shown no personal interest in me whatsoever. Our previous conversations were so brief and formal they barely qualified as conversations. You've never visited, never written. The engagement negotiations happened entirely between our families while we remained virtual strangers."
"That's true," he acknowledges. "But I assumed you understood the nature of such arrangements. Personal interest develops over time, through partnership."
"Does it?" I can't keep the edge from my voice. "Or does indifference simply calcify into habit?"
His eyes narrow slightly. "You seem to have very fixed ideas about what our marriage would be like."
"Don't you?" I challenge. "You said yourself you have no wish to force an unwilling bride. So tell me—what did you envision? What kind of marriage were you expecting?"
For the first time, he hesitates. I watch him search for words, see the careful calculation behind his eyes. Everything about Cassian is calculated. Every word weighed, every expression controlled.
"A partnership," he finally says. "Mutual respect. Separate spheres of influence—you managing the household and social obligations, me handling political and military affairs. Perhaps friendship, eventually. Children, to secure the succession."
"How romantic," I murmur.
His jaw tightens infinitesimally. "I never claimed romance was part of the arrangement."
"No, you didn't." I stand abruptly, needing movement. Walking to the rose bushes, I trail my fingers over soft petals. "And that's exactly my point. You're offering a business contract dressed up as marriage. You want a competent household manager and a vessel for heirs, not a wife."
"What's the difference?"
I turn to stare at him. He's standing now too, his expression genuinely puzzled. He actually doesn't understand the difference.
Something cold settles in my chest. This is the man I'd loved in my first life. This man who can't distinguish between a partnership and a transaction.
"The difference," I say quietly, "is that one treats me like a person and the other treats me like a particularly valuable piece of furniture."
"That's unfair." His voice remains level, but there's an edge underneath. "I would treat you with respect—"
"Respect isn't the same as seeing me as human." I walk back toward the bench but don't sit. "Cassian, answer me honestly. What do you know about me? Not my family connections or dowry or bloodline. Me. What do I care about? What makes me happy? What are my interests beyond the appropriate accomplishments of a noble lady?"
He's silent. The silence stretches long enough to prove my point.
"Exactly," I say. "You don't know. And you've never cared to ask."
"That would change after marriage—"
"Would it?" I face him fully. "Or would you continue being the cold, dutiful duke while I manage your household and produce your heirs and remain a stranger you occasionally acknowledge at dinner?"
Something flashes in his eyes—actual emotion, breaking through the perfect control. Anger, maybe. Or frustration.
"You act as though you know me," he says, each word precise. "As though you've already determined exactly who I am and what our marriage would be. But Lady Adeline, you know as little about me as I know about you."
"Then tell me something." I cross my arms. "Tell me something real. Not about duty or partnership or political advantage. Tell me something true about yourself."
He stares at me like I've asked him to solve an impossible equation. The silence extends until it becomes uncomfortable.
"I can't," he finally admits.
"Can't? Or won't?"
"Does it matter?" There's something bleak in his voice that catches me off guard. "Either way, you've clearly decided I'm incapable of being the kind of husband you want."
"What kind do you think I want?"
"Someone warm. Affectionate. Someone who'll write you love letters and compose poetry about your eyes." His tone is almost bitter. "Someone I'm not."
The accuracy stuns me. That was exactly what I'd wanted in my first life. That was the fantasy I'd built, imagining I could somehow melt his ice.
But that's not what I want now.
"No," I say slowly. "That's not what I want."
He looks genuinely surprised. "Then what?"
"I want someone who sees me." The words come from somewhere deep, somewhere honest. "Not as a role to be filled or a problem to be managed. As a person. With thoughts and feelings and value beyond what I can provide."
"And you don't believe I could do that."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. I don't."
The words land between us with terrible finality. Cassian's expression shutters completely, returning to that perfect blank mask.
"I see." He inclines his head slightly. "Then I suppose this conversation has served its purpose. You've made your position clear."
"I have." My chest feels tight. "I'm sorry if this causes political complications, but I can't marry you, Cassian. We'd make each other miserable."
"You seem very certain of that."
"I am."
He studies me for another long moment. Then, unexpectedly: "What changed?"
"Excuse me?"
"Two months ago, you seemed perfectly amenable to this arrangement. Eager, even." His eyes search my face. "Now you're refusing outright. What changed?"
Everything. I died. I came back. I learned exactly where loving you leads.
"I grew up," I say instead. "I stopped accepting what I was told I should want and started thinking about what I actually want."
"And what do you want?"
"A life that's mine." The truth of it resonates through me. "A future I choose. Not one chosen for me by family obligations and political necessity."
Something indefinable crosses his face. "That's... surprisingly ambitious. For a woman."
The casual condescension ignites something hot in my chest. "And there it is. That's exactly why this would never work. You can't even imagine a woman having ambitions beyond marriage."
"I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did." I'm angry now, properly angry. "You meant exactly that. Because to you, I'm a decorative accessory to your life, not a person with my own goals and dreams."
"That's not fair—"
"Isn't it?" I step closer, lifting my chin to meet his eyes. "Tell me, Cassian. If we married, would you support me pursuing business ventures? Studying subjects beyond appropriate female accomplishments? Having opinions on your political decisions?"
He hesitates just a fraction too long.
"That's what I thought." I turn away. "This meeting is over. I've said what I needed to say."
"Wait." His hand catches my wrist—gentle but firm. "Please."
The touch sends shock through my system. In three years of engagement, Cassian had never initiated physical contact. Never reached for me, never took my hand, nothing.
I stare down at his fingers wrapped around my wrist. His hands are larger than I remembered, scarred from swordwork.
"Let me go."
He does, immediately, like my skin burned him. "I apologize. That was inappropriate."
We stand frozen for a moment, both unsettled by the brief contact.
"I don't understand you," Cassian says quietly. "Two months ago, you looked at me like I hung the moon. Now you look at me like I'm your enemy. What happened?"
If he only knew. If I could somehow make him understand that I've already lived our future and it ends with my death—
But I can't. He'd think me insane.
"I woke up," I say instead. "That's all. I woke up and realized the fantasy I'd built was just that—fantasy. The real you, the real marriage we'd have, would destroy me slowly. And I won't do that to myself."
"Destroy you." He says it like he's testing the words. "That seems dramatic."
"Does it?" I meet his eyes one last time. "Tell me honestly, Cassian. If we married, would you love me?"
The question hangs in the air. I watch him struggle with it, see the calculations running behind his eyes. He could lie. Probably should lie, politically speaking.
"No," he finally says. "I don't think I could love anyone."
The honesty is almost worse than the answer.
"Thank you," I say softly. "For telling the truth."
I turn toward where Papa is pretending to read, calling out: "Father, I believe we're finished here."
Papa stands quickly, relief and concern warring on his face. "Already?"
"Yes." I don't look back at Cassian. "His Grace was just leaving."
I can feel Cassian's eyes on me as I walk away. Feel the weight of his confusion, his frustration. Maybe even his anger.
But I don't turn around. Don't give him another chance to find words that might shake my resolve.
Because the truth is, part of me—some small, stupid part—had hoped he might be different this time. That regression had changed something fundamental, made him capable of the warmth and connection I'd craved.
But he's exactly the same. The same cold duke who values duty over feeling, who sees marriage as a contract rather than a partnership.
The same man who'll let me die.
I make it to my room before the shaking starts. Sink onto my bed, pressing my hands to my face.
It's done. I faced him, refused him, and survived.
So why does it feel like I've lost something?