The first thing Clara felt was warmth—the kind that prickled her skin, not from pain or poison, but from morning sunlight streaming through soft linen curtains. Her heart raced. Her eyes snapped open.
No sterile hospital room. No deathly cold. No blood in her throat.
Just… her old room?
She jerked upright. Her body felt different—lighter, younger. Her hands flew to her face, her stomach, her hair. No faint lines near her eyes. No scar on her wrist from the shattered wine glass that fateful anniversary night.
Her gaze flew to the mirror on her vanity table. She stumbled toward it and gasped.
She wasn't thirty.
She wasn't even twenty-five.
She looked… nineteen?
Clara gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. "What the hell…?"
Everything rushed back—Damien's cold eyes, Olivia's smug smirk, the taste of poison on her tongue. Her knees buckled, and she slid to the floor, trembling.
She had died.
And yet, here she was.
Alive.
And back in the past.
It wasn't a dream. This was her family's old townhouse, the one she lived in during college. The pink wallpaper. The stack of business textbooks on the desk. Even the plush white teddy bear her mother gave her before she died sat on the bed, its bow slightly crooked like always.
Clara felt dizzy. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away.
This time, there would be no weakness.
This time, she wouldn't blindly marry Damien Blake.
This time… she'd rewrite everything.
By mid-morning, she'd showered, dressed in soft pastel loungewear, and sat at her desk with trembling hands.
A stack of unopened letters caught her attention.
She flipped through them quickly. Bank offers. College notices. And there—a wedding venue confirmation letter, dated for one month from now.
"Still on track to marry him," she muttered bitterly.
The foolish her, still in love with a man who never loved her back.
But now… she knew everything. And she had time.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Miss Clara?" The voice was familiar—Margaret, their family's long-time housekeeper.
"Yes?" Clara composed her voice.
"You have a guest. Mr. Blake. He's downstairs."
Her body froze.
Damien. Here. Now?
Clara closed her eyes for a second and drew a deep breath. She couldn't panic. She couldn't blow it.
She had to see him.
She had to pretend.
Clara stood tall and walked downstairs with the grace of someone who hadn't just come back from the dead.
Damien looked exactly as she remembered—tall, sharp-suited, devastatingly handsome. His black hair was perfectly styled, and his piercing grey eyes scanned the room with mild impatience.
The man who would destroy her.
The man who'd cheat on her with her best friend.
The man who let her die.
"Clara." He gave her that same cold, unreadable smile she'd once found charming.
"Damien," she replied smoothly, stepping into the sitting room like a queen, not a broken woman.
"You look…" He paused, taking her in. "Fresh. Rested."
"I've had a lot on my mind."
He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't call me yesterday."
Clara smiled faintly. "Didn't know I needed permission to have space."
He blinked, surprised. That wasn't how Clara used to speak to him. The old Clara tiptoed around him like he was glass. But now… she wasn't afraid.
"I wanted to discuss the engagement party," he said, voice clipped.
Of course. Because everything was about appearances with him.
"Let's postpone it," she said casually, picking up a cup of tea.
Damien frowned. "Postpone? Why?"
Clara met his gaze. "I'm rethinking some things."
He stared at her. "What do you mean?"
"I'm nineteen. We rushed this engagement, don't you think?" She tilted her head. "We barely spend time together outside of public events. Are we marrying out of love, Damien?"
He stiffened. "You're the one who wanted the early wedding date."
"I changed my mind," she said, sipping tea.
It was dangerous. Risky. But Clara was testing him.
He laughed humorlessly. "You're being dramatic."
"And you're being evasive," she replied coolly.
Damien stared at her as if he couldn't recognize the woman in front of him.
"I'll call you later," he muttered, grabbing his coat and walking out.
Clara's hands trembled slightly, but she didn't let it show until he was gone.
It had begun.
Later that afternoon, Clara sat at her laptop, digging through everything she could remember about her past. Her memory was her most powerful weapon.
She remembered how Damien manipulated her into cutting ties with the Lancaster family.
How he forged her name on contracts.
How he gaslit her, dismissed her talents, and stole her mother's inheritance.
She wouldn't let it happen again.
This time, she would reconnect with her grandfather — the patriarch of the Lancaster empire. In her past life, she'd ignored his calls, following Damien's advice to "focus on her own path."
That was a mistake.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
She answered, heart racing.
"Clara?" a deep voice said. "This is Grandfather."
Her throat tightened. "Grandpa?"
"I heard you weren't feeling well yesterday. Are you alright?"
Clara closed her eyes. Just hearing his voice again made her want to cry.
"I'm fine," she whispered.
"I'd like to see you. We haven't spoken in months."
"I'd love that," she said quickly. "Can I come by tomorrow?"
A pause. "You're always welcome, Clara. You're my granddaughter."
She nodded, tears slipping down her cheek silently.
This time, she would stand by the people who truly loved her.
That night, Clara sat at her vanity again, staring at her reflection.
The scars hadn't formed yet. The betrayals hadn't happened. But she remembered them.
She would play the long game.
She would marry no one.
She would reclaim her name.
She would rise.
Suddenly, a knock on her window.
Clara stood, startled. Who would—
She drew back the curtains and froze.
Outside, standing in the moonlight, was a tall man in black slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding a familiar white scarf she hadn't seen in years.
Leonard Hayes.
Her childhood friend.
The man she once loved — before Damien.
Before everything.