The first thing Celine felt was weight.
Not on her body — but on her soul.
It sat heavy against her ribs as she struggled upward, her breath catching in her throat.
Her head throbbed with a strange, distant ache — not pain exactly, but a deep, gnawing pressure, like something inside her had been broken and badly stitched together.
Light leaked into the room through thin, silken curtains, soft but blinding.
Everything smelled rich — roses, old wood, polished marble — but it made her stomach turn.
Slowly, she forced her eyes open.
The grand master bedroom of the Wylder estate unfurled around her, dizzyingly familiar:
The soaring ceiling with its painted angels.
The vast, empty bed draped in ivory and gold.
The crystal chandelier that scattered the morning light into a thousand fragments.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
"No," she whispered.
She had seen this place before.
Lived in it.
Hated it.
Died far away from it.
Yet here she was.
Alive.
Breathing.
Trembling.
Celine stumbled out of bed, the silk sheets pooling at her feet.
Her bare toes met the coldness of the marble floor, grounding her — harsh, undeniable.
This wasn't a dream.
Or if it was, it was a cruel one.
Her hand caught the edge of the nightstand to steady herself.
Something crinkled beneath her fingers.
A note.
In clean, spare handwriting — the handwriting she had mocked so many times before — it read:
There is a charity event this evening.
You are welcome to attend if you wish.
If not... I understand.
— D.
No anger.
No demands.
Just weary acceptance.
The note fluttered from her numb fingers and fell to the floor like a dying leaf.
And it all came flooding back.
She saw herself —
Laughing too loud at society dinners, ignoring him.
Yanking her hand away when he tried to steady her at parties.
Leaving him standing alone at gatherings, humiliated while she disappeared with wilder, richer men.
Throwing away the gifts he left her, unopened, while servants whispered behind closed doors.
She had married Damian Wylder — crippled heir, wealthy beyond measure, gentle beyond understanding —
and she had torn him apart piece by piece, like a cat playing with a wounded bird.
Because she hated being caged.
Because she hated feeling owned.
Because she was angry at the world and he was the nearest, easiest target.
And he had never once raised his voice at her.
Not once.
Instead, he had protected her, covered her scandals, shielded her name even as she dragged his through the mud.
And in the end, when her recklessness had killed her, he was the only one who had stayed.
A dry sob scraped at her throat.
Celine clutched her own arms, nails digging into her skin.
Tears spilled down her cheeks — hot, messy, blinding.
"I'm a monster," she gasped into the empty room. "I'm a monster..."
But not this time.
If the heavens — or hell — had truly given her another chance,
she wouldn't waste it.
She would not run.
She would not destroy.
She would stand.
And she would love him.
Even if it took the rest of her life.
She straightened slowly, wiping her face with trembling fingers.
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the passing hour — a low, melancholy sound.
Celine looked at the clock on the wall.
7:45 AM.
Damian would be awake.
Preparing for his day.
Moving slowly, silently, as he always did — careful not to disturb her.
As if his very existence was an inconvenience.
Her throat tightened painfully.
"No more," she whispered to the empty room.
She grabbed a pale lavender robe from the chair, slipped it around her shoulders, and stepped into soft slippers.
Today... today she would start.
Small.
Careful.
Real.