I was the orphan Alistair Blackwood rescued from St. Jude's Home. For eight years, I was his daughter in name. In my last life, I drowned in his gentle care, mistaking inappropriate kindness for love. So when he brought Isabelle Thorne home and announced their engagement, I shattered. My hysterical accusations scandalized New York society. All I got was a cold dismissal—I was childish. He had me committed to a psychiatric hospital, where electroshock treatments killed me. The day after I died, he gave Isabelle the wedding of the decade. And I was remembered as the ungrateful wretch who tried to seduce her guardian. I’ve been reborn, sent back to the day I first asked him: “Can we be more than father and daughter?” The man across from me, peeling a shrimp for my plate, paused. His fingers stilled. “What did you say?” Last time, I missed the disgust in his eyes—just cried and repeated those desperate words. Hearing the question now… I could almost smell my burning flesh, the acrid scent of electroshock pads. A violent shiver ran through me. I forced a smile. “Dad, you wanted me to grow up, right? I can peel my own shrimp. No need to trouble yourself.” 1 Alistair's hands froze mid-air. In eight years, this was the first time I had ever willingly put distance between us. The silence stretched for a few seconds before he looked down, resuming his task. His voice was a low rumble. "Let me. I don't want you to get your hands dirty." He said that in my last life, too. Back then, my heart had soared. I thought it was a sign of his special affection. Only now, in this second life, did I understand. It was nothing more than the gentle condescension of an elder caring for a child. I reached out and took the shrimp directly from his fingers. My voice was calm, placid. "There's no need. I'll have to get married someday. There are some things I need to learn to do for myself." "Get married?" Alistair’s voice turned sharp, edged with ice. "You're only twenty." "Twenty isn't a child." I kept my head down, focusing on the delicate task of peeling the shrimp, refusing to meet his eyes. "You said it yourself, you hoped I would marry soon so I wouldn't always be clinging to you." Those were his exact words, spoken on the day he brought Isabelle home. Then, they had shattered me. Now, repeating them felt strangely… hollow. Silence descended upon the dining table once more, broken only by the faint clink of porcelain. I ate my food quietly, then stood. "I'm finished. Take your time." As I turned, the harsh scrape of a chair being pushed back echoed behind me. But I didn't look back. Back in my room, I leaned against the door, feeling as though every ounce of strength had been siphoned from my body. Pretending not to care was more exhausting than I ever could have imagined. My eyes swept across the room. The shelves by my bed were lined with fairy tale collections, the ones he'd read to me night after night to lull me to sleep. The bay window was crowded with dolls and trinkets he'd brought back for me from business trips all over the world. And on my desk, last year's birthday present still sat in its velvet box—a diamond necklace. I remembered the day he'd fastened it around my neck himself, smiling. "Our Clara is all grown up. It's time she had jewelry of her own." In that moment, I believed it was a confession of love. In my last life, I wore this necklace when I confronted him. In front of everyone, he ripped it from my neck and threw it in the trash. "Clara, don't you know your place?" A sharp pain lanced through my chest. I pulled out a cardboard box and began to pack. Each item was a memory, and each memory was a dull blade twisting in my heart. The books, the dolls, the gifts, the photographs… I packed them all away, shoving the box into the deepest corner of my closet. Out of sight, out of mind. Just as I was finishing, a soft knock came at the door. "Clara? Are you asleep?" It was Alistair. "Not yet. Do you need something, Dad?" The door opened, and he walked in holding a glass of milk. "Drink this before you sleep. Goodnight." This, too, was a ritual unchanged for eight years. Every night, without fail, a glass of warm milk. I took the glass but didn't playfully demand he stay until I finished, like I always used to. "Thank you, Dad. You should get some rest, too." Alistair stood there for a moment, as if waiting for something more. After a few seconds, he turned to leave. Just as the door was closing, I saw his shoulders tense, as if he wanted to say something, but then he was gone. I looked at the milk in my hand, walked into the bathroom, and poured it down the drain. 2 The next morning, I was woken by the sound of voices downstairs. When I came down, Isabelle Thorne was already at the dining table, greeting me with a radiant smile. "Clara, good morning! Come, have some breakfast." This woman. The woman who had me sent to a place of nightmares. The woman who, after my death, married Alistair and became the enviably perfect Mrs. Blackwood. I suppressed the viper of hatred coiling in my gut and gave a curt nod. "Thank you." I'd only taken a few bites when Isabelle spoke up. "Clara, a friend of mine has a son who's a wonderful young man. How would you feel about me setting up a meeting?" Here it comes. This was her first move last time, too. An offer to set me up on a date, a thinly veiled attempt to push me out of the house. Back then, I had screamed and cried, swearing I would rather die than leave Alistair. He had immediately scowled, calling me childish. This time, I agreed without hesitation. "Fine. I'd appreciate that, Isabelle." The words had barely left my mouth when Alistair set his coffee cup down with a sharp click. His brow was furrowed. "There's no rush for dates. You're still young. I can take care of you for a few more years." "There's no need." I dabbed my lips with a napkin. "I'll have to get married eventually. The sooner it happens, the sooner you can have some peace and quiet." The words "peace and quiet" made Alistair's expression darken completely. He opened his mouth to say more, but Isabelle was already leaning in, linking her arm with his and cooing, "Alistair, darling, don't you trust my judgment? I wouldn't introduce her to just anyone." Watching them, so intimate and close, my heart didn't feel the searing agony it had last time. Perhaps it was because the electric shocks had already burned that heart to a cinder. I stood up. "I'm finished. Just let me know when it's arranged." As I walked upstairs, I heard Alistair's low voice behind me. "Is she… angry with me?" Isabelle laughed lightly. "Darling, you're overthinking it. Clara is just finally growing up." Growing up. What an ironic choice of words. Last time, he said I was childish and sent me to a madhouse. This time, I was "grown up," and he couldn't seem to handle it. Three days later, the date was set. The moment I saw the man across the table, I froze. He was famous. Infamous, even. Julian Vance. The head of the Vance Corporation. Rumor had it he was cold, ruthless, and, at thirty, still unmarried, despite being the most sought-after bachelor in the city. I never imagined Isabelle could arrange a meeting with him. "Hello, I'm Clara," I said, extending my hand. He nodded, his voice cool and crisp. "Julian Vance." After the briefest of pleasantries, he cut straight to the point. "I am only here for one reason: marriage." "My grandmother is gravely ill. Her greatest wish is to see me settled." "I need a wedding within the week." "You may state your terms." So direct. It certainly saved time. I thought of the past eight years, of everything Alistair had spent on me. My clothes, my food, my education… a conservative estimate would be in the tens of millions. If I was going to make a clean break, I needed to settle the debt. "A hundred-million-dollar settlement." Julian didn't hesitate for a second. "Done." "City Hall is still open. Let's go now." An hour later, I was married to a man I had just met. Standing on the steps of City Hall, I stared at the red certificate in my hand, a profound sense of unreality washing over me. "I'll come for you in a week. The funds will be in your account by the end of the day," Julian said, then turned, got into his car, and drove away. My phone buzzed. [A deposit of $100,000,000 has been made to your account ending in 8888.] One hundred million dollars. It was there. I stared at the number, a sudden heat rising behind my eyes. The debt of my upbringing… I could finally pay it back. When I got home, Isabelle was pacing in the living room, her face a mask of fury. The second she saw me, she rushed over. "Clara! What is wrong with you? I set up a date for you, why did you stand him up?" I blinked. "I went." "You went? Then why did Mr. Davenport say you never showed?" Isabelle's voice grew shrill. So, the man she'd arranged for me to meet wasn't Julian Vance. Then who was he? Did I… meet the wrong person? A moment later, I shrugged it off. Wrong person or not, the hundred million was real. I hadn't lost anything. "I must have gone to the wrong place," I said, offering a weak excuse. Isabelle was about to argue when Alistair emerged from his study, his expression grim. "You made a promise to someone. You don't break it. Arrange another meeting." A glint appeared in Isabelle's eye. "Actually, the Vances are hosting a gala tonight. We could take Clara and introduce her to their younger son." The younger son—Leo Vance. Notorious across the city as a degenerate playboy who treated women like toys. Alistair frowned. "Leo Vance?" "Alistair, my hands are tied," Isabelle sighed dramatically. "With the reputation Clara has built up over the years… marrying into the Vance family at all is a stroke of luck." She said it as if I were damaged goods. But what had I done wrong? Alistair was silent for a moment before finally nodding. "Fine. We'll all go." I lowered my head, a cold smile touching my lips. So that's what he thought of me. So tarnished that I was only fit for a playboy. "I'm not going." I lifted my head, my voice even. "And don't bother calling me for dinner." With that, I turned and went upstairs. Behind me, I heard Isabelle's saccharine voice. "Alistair, see? She's throwing a tantrum again…" "Let her be." Alistair's voice was devoid of emotion. Bang. I shut my bedroom door, leaned against it, and closed my eyes. Alistair Blackwood, in this life, who you love, who you marry… it has nothing to do with me anymore. 3 In the twilight of a half-dream, I felt arms gently wrap around me. A hand patted my shoulder, a voice murmuring the garbled words of a half-remembered bedtime story. Suddenly, a warm pressure touched my lips. I jolted awake. Alistair. It had been so long since he’d come into my room. Before I could react, he whispered a name, his voice hoarse with sleep and drink. "Isabelle…" A tremor shot through my entire body. I struggled, trying to push him away, but he growled in frustration and pressed closer, his kiss turning rough, demanding. His hand slid down my body, an invasive touch that made my skin crawl. "Alistair, look at me. It's Clara." Hearing my name, his body went rigid. He stopped. He rubbed his temples, preparing to pull away. But just then, Isabelle burst into the room. "Alistair, how could you?" She rushed to his side, her voice a tearful whisper. "Tell me you didn't do this on purpose. Please." Her eyes darted to me, full of accusation. "It was her, wasn't it? She seduced you!" Alistair’s brow furrowed. "I was drunk. I thought she was you." He looked away, his voice strained. "I'll find another place for Clara to live. This won't happen again." Only then did Isabelle nod, clinging to his arm. "Let me help you." I watched their retreating backs, my gaze falling to the dark mark blooming on my neck. How utterly absurd. I didn't sleep a wink. Early the next morning, a sharp knock brought Isabelle to my door. "Clara, until we find a place for you, Alistair and I will be staying at my apartment." Her eyes caught the bruise on my neck. She leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper in my ear. "You'd be wise to kill whatever filthy thoughts you have about him. Or else…" "What are you two doing?" Alistair appeared in the doorway. Isabelle immediately straightened up, linking her arm through mine with a look of sisterly concern. "Alistair, I was just telling Clara about our plans. I'm a little worried about leaving her here all alone." "She's a grown woman. She'll be fine." When Alistair had first brought me home, I was terrified of being abandoned again. I used to cry myself to sleep at night. He would sit with me for hours, even cancelling billion-dollar meetings just to come home and comfort me. But ever since he discovered my feelings for him, he had grown more and more distant. A bitter, self-mocking smile touched my lips. "You don't have to go to so much trouble. This is Dad's home, after all." "I'll find a new place and move out as soon as I can. Thank you, Dad, for taking care of me all these years." The word "Dad" felt foreign, a title I hadn't used in years. "I can't be a burden on him forever." At the sound of that word, a shadow of pain crossed Alistair's eyes. Suddenly, his phone rang. He answered, and as he listened, his face darkened with fury. He turned on me, his eyes blazing. "What in the hell did you do?" 4 Someone had leaked pages of my diary online—pages filled with my adolescent confessions of love for Alistair. In an instant, I was at the center of a firestorm. The old rumors, the whispers about my inappropriate affection, were all dragged back into the light. On Alistair's phone screen, the headlines screamed. #BlackwoodHeiressDiaryExposed #GuardianAndWardForbiddenLove My heart seized. Before I could process it, Alistair shoved the phone in my face. It was my diary. The pink cover, the childish handwriting, and the secrets that were never meant to see the light of day. [Today is my sixteenth birthday. Dad gave me a necklace. When he put it on me, my heart beat so fast. Am I falling in love with him?] [I'm seventeen now, and I'm sure of it. I love him. But he's my father. What do I do?] [He touched my hair today and smiled, saying I was all grown up. I wish we could be more than just father and daughter…] Page after page, line after line. The deepest, most hidden parts of my soul, laid bare for the world to see. "I didn't post this!" My voice trembled. "Then who did?" Alistair's voice was like ice. "You wrote it. It's your handwriting. Did someone force you to make it public?" My eyes shot to Isabelle. She was looking down, her shoulders trembling slightly, as if she were terrified. "Alistair," she began, her voice hesitant, "do you think maybe Clara did this as a way to… well, after all, she's always wanted to marry you." The accusation, slick and poisonous, landed squarely on me. "It wasn't me!" I practically screamed. "Enough!" Alistair's roar cut me off. He stared at me, his eyes a maelstrom of disappointment, anger, and something else I couldn't name. "Clara, I am deeply disappointed in you." He'd said those exact words in my last life. Right before he sent me away. The blood in my veins turned to ice. "You don't believe me?" My voice was a whisper, so faint I could barely hear it myself. Alistair was silent for a few seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy. "The media is having a field day. The company's stock is dropping. Our partners are getting nervous." "The PR team's recommendation is…" He paused, his gaze shifting away as if he couldn't bear to look at me. "To have you admitted to a psychiatric hospital. We'll release a statement saying you're unwell, that this is all a delusion brought on by your condition." A psychiatric hospital. Again. Was my nightmare destined to repeat itself? My breath came in ragged gasps. My hands and feet went cold. The memory of the electric shocks, of my body convulsing, of my mind fraying into nothing, washed over me like a tidal wave. "No… please, no…" I scrambled backward until my back hit the wall. "I'm not sick! I won't go!" Alistair's brow creased. "It would only be temporary. Once the scandal dies down, I'll bring you home." He took a deep breath, his voice firming with resolve. "It's settled. I'm calling the hospital now." Isabelle chose that moment to speak. "My cousin is a psychiatrist. He works at the best private facility in the state. I can call him right now, have him arrange for the finest room and the best doctors." The finest room? The best doctors? That's what she'd said last time. And what had I gotten? The darkest cell. The most sadistic "doctors." They said I was violent and needed to be restrained. They said I was delusional and needed electroshock therapy. They said I was uncooperative and needed higher doses of medication. Again, and again, and again. Until my spirit shattered, and during one final session, I simply never woke up. "No… I won't go…" I shook my head wildly, trying to bolt for the door. Alistair's hand shot out, his grip on my wrist like a steel trap. "Clara, stop making a scene." His voice was laced with exhaustion and impatience. "You're only making things worse. Going to the hospital is what's best. For you, for me, and for the company." Best for you. Best for me. Best for the company. Was this really what was best for me? A laugh, raw and broken, escaped my lips, tears streaming down my face. "Alistair, do you remember what you promised me?" He flinched. "You promised you would protect me, that you would never let anyone hurt me." "You promised that as long as I was good, you would always be there for me." "You promised I was the most important person in the world to you." Each word was an indictment, a final farewell. "And now, you're the one casting me into hell." Alistair's face went pale, his grip slackening for a fraction of a second. And in that instant— VROOOM— The roar of a powerful engine grew from a distant hum to a thundering presence. A Rolls-Royce Phantom, sleek and black, pulled up to the front of the house. The door opened, and a man in a bespoke black suit stepped out. His features were sharp, his presence commanding, radiating an aura of absolute power. He walked directly to me, his voice a low, resonant baritone. "Mr. Blackwood, you have no right to commit my wife to a mental institution." He looked from Alistair's stunned face to mine. "I am Clara's legal guardian now."
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