Chapter 3

The next morning, Cecilia woke up in her own apartment—her real apartment, the one she'd given up when she moved into Rowan's penthouse after the wedding.

She lay there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, letting the reality sink in.

She was free.

Her phone was already flooded with notifications. The gala had been a massive success. Fashion blogs were calling ASHFORD "the brand to watch." Her inbox was packed with collaboration requests.

But one name caught her eye: Ivy Delacroix.

A cold feeling settled in her stomach.

In her past life, Ivy had entered Cecilia's world through Rowan. She'd been his assistant, his confidante, and eventually—as Cecilia now knew—his lover.

But what most people didn't know was that before Ivy worked for Rowan, she had applied for a position at ASHFORD.

Cecilia remembered now. In her past life, she had actually hired Ivy as a junior designer. Ivy had been talented, eager, and disarmingly sweet.

It was only later—after Cecilia married Rowan and dissolved her company—that Ivy had "coincidentally" ended up working for him.

Now, staring at Ivy's application email, Cecilia saw the game for what it was.

Ivy hadn't stumbled into Rowan's life by accident. She had been positioning herself from the very beginning.

Cecilia deleted the application.

Then she got dressed and headed to her studio.

ASHFORD's headquarters occupied a converted warehouse in the arts district. It was small but buzzing with creative energy—a far cry from the hollow mansion she'd spent six years trapped in.

Her team greeted her with excitement. Orders were pouring in. Investors were calling. The brand was on the verge of exploding.

But Cecilia knew what was coming. In her past life, this momentum had been destroyed when she abandoned the company to become Rowan's wife.

This time, she would build ASHFORD into an empire.

She was in the middle of reviewing production schedules when Nora knocked on her office door.

"Cecilia? There's someone here to see you. She says she's an old friend."

Before Cecilia could respond, the door swung open.

Ivy Delacroix walked in.

She looked exactly as Cecilia remembered—porcelain skin, doe eyes, a delicate frame that made her look like she might break if you spoke too loudly.

"Cecilia!" Ivy's face lit up with a warm smile. "I heard about your show last night. Congratulations! I'm so proud of you."

Cecilia leaned back in her chair. "Ivy. What a surprise."

"I know this is sudden." Ivy clasped her hands together, the picture of humility. "I actually applied for a position here a few weeks ago, but I never heard back. I thought maybe my email got lost, so I came in person."

Her eyes were wide and earnest. Anyone else would have been charmed.

Cecilia wasn't anyone else.

"It didn't get lost," she said. "I rejected it."

Ivy's smile faltered. "Oh. Was there something wrong with my portfolio?"

"Your portfolio was fine." Cecilia held her gaze. "I just don't think you'd be a good fit."

For a split second—so brief that most people would have missed it—something cold flickered behind Ivy's eyes.

Then the mask slid back into place. "I understand. Maybe I can try again when you're expanding?"

"Don't hold your breath."

Ivy's smile thinned. She nodded, turned, and left.

Nora stared after her. "That was kind of harsh, Cecilia. She seemed nice."

"She's not."

Nora frowned. "How do you know?"

Cecilia didn't answer. She turned back to her work.

She knew because in another life, that "nice" woman had stolen her husband, taken her inheritance, and watched from the sidelines as Cecilia drowned in debt and died in a mob attack.

And she had smiled through all of it.

That evening, Cecilia was locking up the studio when a black Bentley pulled up to the curb.

The window rolled down. Rowan sat in the back seat, his tie loosened, his expression dark.

"Get in. We need to talk."

"No, we don't."

"Cecilia." His voice dropped. "I've known you for fifteen years. You don't just wake up one morning and decide to cut someone out of your life. Something happened. Tell me what it is."

She looked at him—really looked at him. The sharp jawline. The cold intelligence in his eyes. The way he sat like the world owed him something.

In her past life, she had found all of it magnetic. Now, it just made her tired.

"Nothing happened," she said. "I just finally realized that loving you was the worst decision I ever made."

She walked away.

This time, he didn't call after her.

But when she glanced back, she saw him sitting motionless in the car, jaw clenched, staring at the space where she had stood.

And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, she thought she saw something in his eyes that looked almost like pain.

No. She killed the thought before it could take root. He doesn't get to be in pain. Not after what he did.

She kept walking.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

"Ms. Ashford, this is Damien Cross. We met briefly at your gala. I'd like to discuss a significant investment in ASHFORD. Dinner tomorrow?"

Damien Cross. The CEO of Cross Industries—one of the largest luxury conglomerates in the world.

In her past life, this meeting never happened because she'd already abandoned her career by this point.

Cecilia typed her reply.

"Name the place."