Westridge Manor – Present Day
The dim glow of the evening sun filtered through the heavy velvet drapes, casting long shadows across the plush Persian rug. Sophia Carter lay on the chaise lounge, wrapped in a cashmere throw so soft it felt like a whisper against her skin.
The metronome ticked steadily—back and forth, back and forth—its rhythmic sway lulling her into a trance.
"Miss Carter," the hypnotist's voice was smooth, practiced. "I want to take you back to a place—not the moment you fear, but earlier. A happier time."
Sophia's fingers twitched beneath the blanket.
"You and your husband were at the helipad at the base of the mountains. You held his hand as you walked forward, gazing at the snow-capped peaks in the distance… Can you tell me, what color was the sky?"
A pause. Then, barely audible: "Blue."
"A very clear blue," she added, as if correcting herself.
It had been three years since Alexander Sterling's death. Three years of sleepless nights, of waking in cold sweats, of phantom touches she could still feel on her skin.
She had tried everything—retreats in the Maldives, penthouse parties with hired escorts, even a reckless stint in Monte Carlo. But no matter where she went, the nightmares followed.
Sometimes, she didn't sleep at all.
Other times, she'd swallow melatonin like candy, only to jolt awake hours later, Alexander's face burned into her vision—his sharp, aristocratic features, the way his dark eyes had always watched her with something between obsession and disdain.
"How did you feel in that moment, Miss Carter?"
"I was… nervous."
"I had planned to ask for a divorce that day."
Flashback: The Gilded Cage
Sophia had always been told she was born lucky.
When the Carters were still wealthy, she was the golden girl of Westridge Academy—spoiled, untouchable, the kind of girl who never had to lift a finger.
Then the family empire crumbled.
Her fiancé vanished overnight. The same society that had once adored her now circled like vultures, waiting for her downfall.
And then—Alexander Sterling appeared.
A self-made billionaire with a past as shadowed as his reputation. A man who had clawed his way from nothing to the top of the financial world.
They had been high school classmates once.
Back then, she had been the heiress in designer dresses; he, the scholarship student in thrift-store shoes. She hadn't even known his name until Forbes put him on the cover.
So why had he married her?
She wasn't gentle. She wasn't educated. Stripped of her family's money, all she had left was her face—and even that, the tabloids sneered, was "pretty in a shallow way."
At tech galas, Alexander's colleagues' wives were all Ivy League graduates—polished, poised, effortlessly intelligent. Sophia, in her sequined gowns and heavy perfume, stuck out like a peony in a field of orchids.
Alexander never seemed to like her looks anyway.
They never kissed outside of their wedding vows. Their rare nights together were clinical, detached—lights dimmed to near-darkness, his grip bruising on her wrists.
She had never seen his face in those moments.
But she had felt his gaze—cold, relentless, like algae tangling around her limbs, dragging her deeper.
He hated her.
This marriage had always been revenge.
The once-untouchable princess, now bound to him by money and fear.
The Crash
"We hit turbulence over the summit."
Sophia's voice was hollow.
Alarms blared. The helicopter lurched violently, the world outside spinning in a dizzying blur of white and blue.
The pilot's panicked breathing crackled through the headset—then cut off abruptly.
Then—silence.
The impact shattered the windshield. The pilot died instantly.
Sophia survived only because the safety systems held.
Alexander, seated on the right, took the full force of the crash.
"He was bleeding… so much blood."
For twenty-four hours, she waited in the wreckage. The radio was dead. The cold seeped into her bones.
Then—voices.
"Who spoke to you, Miss Carter?" the hypnotist pressed.
Sophia's hands clenched. "I don't know."
Had it been rescuers? A hallucination?
The memories were fractured now—soundless, scentless, just flashes of color.
"You're safe now," the hypnotist soothed. "You're on the rescue helicopter. The sun is shining. The snow below is golden. How do you feel?"
"Still cold… but safer."
Then—
The images she had buried surged forward.
Alexander had thrown himself over her, shielding her from the debris. His arms locked around her, his breath ragged against her ear.
The wind howled. Snow pelted her face.
Something warm dripped down her neck—oil, or blood, she couldn't tell.
"Am I going to die?" she had sobbed.
Alexander's right hand—always slightly misshapen, two fingers bent unnaturally—curled around hers.
"No."
They had waited for hours. Days.
When the rescue team finally came, Sophia was bundled in Alexander's coat, lifted onto a stretcher.
As they pulled her up, she looked down—
And saw it.
A massive "SOS" carved into the snow.
In blood.
Alexander had dragged himself—broken, bleeding—across the ice to write it.
His last word to her had been her name.
"Sophia."
Just once.
Westridge Academy – Ten Years Earlier
The bell rang, jolting Sophia awake.
Sunlight streamed through the classroom windows, painting stripes of gold across her desk.
"Sophia… wake up."
A girl with short brown hair—Mia Harper, her old friend—poked her shoulder. "You were crying in your sleep."
Sophia blinked.
This wasn't a dream.
The classroom. The chatter. The year on the wall—2013.
She was back in high school.
And across the room, the door opened.
A boy walked in.
Tall. Lean. Worn sneakers, a too-thin frame.
Alexander Sterling.
Seventeen years old.
And alive.