It's been a few days since I woke up from my coma. I'm still in the hospital, marooned in a sterile five-star suite that smells like lemon sanitizer. They're keeping me for further observation, probably to make sure I don't drop dead before they can write up the paperwork.
Dr. Kristi Theryn Solace comes often to check on me. Not that she says much. Her visits are quiet most of the time. She asks about my physical health, listens to my heartbeat, checks my vitals, and scribbles things onto her tablet with an expression carved out of glacier.
There's something tight behind her eyes, like she's holding onto something too big to speak aloud. I can't explain it, but I feel it when her fingers graze my wrist for the pulse. Her hands are cool. Steady. Professional. But there's weight there, something she carries like a second stethoscope slung around her spine.
Shan, my assistant or rather, the assistant of the man whose body I've hijacked, comes by daily to check on me. He's the only one who treats me like I didn't just wake up from a coma with a personality transplant.
He updates me on company matters with the same tone someone might use to read weather reports.
"The board is unsettled," he told me yesterday, as if discussing humidity. We've managed to contain the media leaks, but speculation continues. He shows no dramatic inflection or emotion. Just facts, dates, damage control.
Since I don't exactly have a full calendar right now, I've been replaying things in my head like an overworked detective trying to solve a case without clues. I keep trying to recover anything...anything at all, from this body's previous owner.
And, oddly enough, I've been piecing things together. Like the fragments were there all along, just waiting for the right angle of light.
So three days ago, I was lying in this absurdly luxurious hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if the ornate moldings were made of actual gold, because honestly, they might be...when boom, a memory exploded behind my eyes like a firecracker.
I wasn't even thinking about the past. Just spacing out. But then like a cold wave of déjà vu laced with grief.
[Memory of the original body owner]
I was seven.
No. He was seven.
The memory wasn't mine, but it curled inside my chest like it belonged to me. It clung to my ribs, stubborn and wet and old.
The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes only after mourning. Funeral flowers still lined the hallway, mostly roses, Red like grief trying to dress itself up as love. Red like lipstick on an open wound.
Then the front doors swung open.
The sound of heels echoed on the marble floor. Click. Click. Click. She walked in like she'd always belonged in this million dollars mansion, hips swaying like rehearsing for this entrance her whole life. She had the gait of someone who knew the crown was already hers.
And behind her, a boy. Five, maybe. Holding a toy plane, gawking at the high ceilings like he'd never seen wealth in person. Which meant only one thing: my father, his father had been cheating on my mother for years. Possibly since before that kid could talk. Maybe even celebrated my seventh birthday by screwing his mistress on the side. Real class act.
Then the cold voice cleared his throat...
A raised glass of brandy for a toast.
From this day forward, my father declared, she is the lady of this house.
That house. That mausoleum lined with roses. My mother had been dead for barely a week, her perfume was still lingering on the staircases, her favorite scarf still draped over the chair by the fireplace. And now her replacement waltzed in, perfectly dressed up and freshly performed, like the ink on the death certificate had been her signal.
Ciliano, the real ciliano stood in that grand foyer, watching his world split at the seams. No screams. No tantrums. Just a terrifying, sterile quiet. Like a vase cracking from the inside.
And now, years later, that memory clawed its way into my skull, demanding to be felt. As if trauma aged like wine and decided now was the right vintage to pour.
That's why his... no, my eyes always look like they're searching for something that isn't there. Mirrors don't lie. They reflect the hollows too.
God. This boy's childhood had been a warzone. And his dad hadn't even known he'd been shot.
I blinked hard. "Great," I muttered to myself. Just what I needed. Trauma flashbacks from a life that technically isn't even mine.
Knock knock.
The door opened with the soft finality of a punctuation mark. And walked in Dr. Kristi Theryn Solace. Clipboard in hand. She didn't bother with greetings. Her attention flicked from the heart monitor to the IV to me.
She moved with the kind of grace that made everything else seem too loud. Her presence was like a cool wind cleansing, but a little biting.
Cool fingers wrapped around my wrist as she checked my pulse. A glance at the screen. A quick note on her tablet.
How are you feeling today? She asked, voice smooth and unreadable.
Fine, I replied. Then added, Stable. Not seeing Grim Reaper, I smiled.
A flicker passed through her eyes. Maybe amusement. Maybe not.
She nodded once. Tapped her stylus against the screen and stepped back.
Then, without looking at me, she called toward the door, "Shan."
The man materialized like a ghost who'd been waiting in the hallway. Punctual as always, tie perfect, hair unmoved by wind or war.
Mr. Moreaux is stable, Dr. Solace said, brushing her fingers down the edge of her clipboard. He can be discharged.
"Understood," Shan responded, already pulling out his phone.
No drama. Just business. Two professionals performing a transaction.
Dr. Solace gave me one last glance. Then she turned, heels against the floor, and slipped out, door clicking shut behind her.
For a moment, I stared at the spot she'd just vacated, as if expecting her shadow to remain. There was a strange ache behind my ribs. Like the echo of a song that stopped too soon.
"She really doesn't waste time," I muttered.
Shan didn't reply. He was already multitasking, typing instructions, coordinating the car, ensuring the house was ready for my grand return.
I let out a slow breath.
Shan looked up, phone still in hand. You're the boss.
Right. I am the boss now. Ciliano Malric Moreaux. A billionaire ice-cold CEO. Shot in the back, revived with a new soul. The man with enemies I hadn't even met yet, and a personal trauma portfolio thick enough to break a therapist's chair.
Fantastic.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold. I rubbed my temples. Good. At least something felt real.
Time to go home.
Whoever's version of home this was.
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