The first time James St Patrick died, no one noticed.
The boardroom lights flickered once.
The glass wall behind him shattered.
A single gunshot split the air.
Blood spread across his white shirt like a blooming rose.
His body hit the floor before anyone could scream.
Ceci Jales stood at the end of the conference table, fingers clasped behind her back, invisible as always.
Her heart did not race.
This had already happened.
She closed her eyes.
"Rewind."
Pain tore through her chest like something inside her had been ripped open, the air reversed, the glass reassembled, the bullet flew backward.
James stood again, alive, mid-sentence.
Eight years gone.
Just like that.
Ceci steadied herself and stepped forward,
"Sir," she said softly.
James paused, annoyed at the interruption. His cold gray eyes shifted toward her,
"Yes?"
"There is a security breach outside the east window."
Three seconds later, guards tackled a disguised sniper before he could fire,
James survived.
He never knew he had died.
Three days later, he asked her to marry him,
Not out of love,
out of strategy.
"You have no family ties," he said coolly in his office. "No scandals. No political baggage. You are… neutral."
She already knew this conversation.
She had lived it twice before.
In one timeline, she refused.
He died six weeks later.
In another, she accepted too late.
He died in a car explosion.
This was the third version.
"I accept," she said quietly.
James blinked, faintly surprised,
"You don't want to negotiate?"
She almost smiled.
If only he knew how much she had already negotiated with fate,
"No, sir."
That night, alone in her apartment, she opened a small black notebook,
She wrote carefully:
Marriage Timeline – Attempt 3
Remaining lifespan: 26 years, 4 months.
She closed the book.
Outside, thunder rolled.
And some
where in the city, someone adjusted their aim.