The Sterling Industries boardroom looks exactly the same as it did in my nightmares.
Twenty-third floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows that show off Manhattan like we own it. Mahogany table worth more than a house. Oil paintings of dead relatives glaring down from gold frames. Crystal water glasses catching morning light, throwing little rainbows everywhere.
Three years ago, this room scared the hell out of me. Today? All I can think about is watching those windows explode.
"Isabella, sweetheart!" Mom jumps up from the head of the table, already reaching for me. Victoria Sterling looks exactly like she did before the "accident"—auburn hair twisted up perfect, green eyes that match mine, red lipstick that never smudges. The same red lipstick I held when they buried her.
Seeing her breathing again hits me like a punch to the gut.
"Happy birthday, baby girl." She smells like Chanel and coffee, exactly how I remember. For one stupid second, I almost forget she's supposed to be six feet under.
"Thanks, Mom." My voice sounds normal. Thank God.
Dad stands behind her chair like some kind of bodyguard. David Sterling, master of the universe, looking sharp in his expensive suit. His smile's warm, real, everything I miss about the father who died way too young.
The father who might not be dead at all. Not if that car crash was bullshit.
"Look at our girl, Victoria. Twenty-three and ready to kick ass." He waves me toward the empty chair next to Mom. "Right, Bella?"
I nod and sit down, cataloging every face in this room. Twelve board members. I know most of them from family dinners and boring charity crap.
But now I'm wondering which ones helped kill me.
Marcus's dad, Gregory Blackwood, sits a few seats down. Gray hair, fancy watch, fake smile that makes my skin crawl. He gives me this polite little nod.
"Happy birthday, Isabella. Marcus is sorry he couldn't make it—some law school thing."
My heart stops. This is wrong. Dead wrong. Marcus was here in my original timeline, sitting right across from me, making goofy faces to keep me calm.
Something already changed.
"Oh, that's okay." I paste on a smile. "School's important."
Dr. Elena Rosewood sits at the far end, silver hair shining under the lights. White blouse, navy blazer, glasses that make her look like somebody's sweet grandma. Perfect cover for whatever the hell she really is.
She catches me staring and lifts her coffee cup like she's toasting me. "To our birthday girl. Hope you get everything that's coming to you."
The way she says "coming to you" makes me want to shower.
"Thanks, Dr. Rosewood. Really means a lot."
Other faces blur together. Sarah's dad Thomas, messing with his tie. Margaret Kane typing on her tablet. Robert Chen from Hong Kong, looking like he needs about twelve cups of coffee.
All of them hiding shit. All of them part of something I was too stupid to see before.
"Let's get started." Dad taps his pen on the table. "Quarterly numbers to go over, and I know Bella's dying to learn the family business."
Dying. Right.
Everyone opens their folders. Papers rustle. Someone's phone buzzes.
Normal boardroom bullshit. But my ears—when did they get so sharp?—pick up other stuff. Heart rates spiking. Nervous sweat. Whispered conversations in languages that sound wrong.
They're all freaked out about something.
"First up," Dad says, "third quarter revenue. Margaret, want to walk us through it?"
Margaret stands up, hits the projector. Charts and graphs splash across the wall. Numbers, percentages, market share whatever.
But I'm not listening. I'm watching faces. Looking for tells.
Gregory keeps checking his watch. Dr. Rosewood hasn't touched her coffee. Thomas is sweating bullets even though it's freezing in here.
They're waiting for something.
Or someone.
The door opens.
"Shit, sorry I'm late." Marcus Blackwood walks in, and every nerve in my body screams danger.
He looks exactly the same. Six-one, messy gold hair, green eyes that used to make me stupid. Harvard Law sweatshirt and jeans, playing the part of college boy who slept through his alarm.
But I know what those hands can do. I know how those eyes look when they go dead inside.
I know what his voice sounds like when he tells you why you have to die.
"Marcus, honey!" Mom lights up like Christmas. "Perfect timing."
He walks around the table toward me, and I have to grip my chair to keep from running. Everything inside me is screaming. Run. Fight. Get the fuck away from this psycho.
But I can't. Not yet.
"Happy birthday, Bella." He stops right next to me, one hand on the back of my chair. "Got you something."
He pulls out white roses from behind his back. Twelve perfect ones, tied with silver ribbon.
The exact same flowers from my engagement party. The ones that got covered in my blood when he stabbed me.
The room spins. Everything goes fuzzy around the edges. I taste copper and champagne, feel cold silver sliding between my ribs.
"They're gorgeous," someone says. Might be me. Can't tell anymore.
"White roses for innocence." Marcus smiles like he's in a toothpaste commercial. "Just like you."
They smell like death. Like blood and lies and everything that went wrong when I trusted the wrong person.
"Marcus." My voice sounds weird, far away. "You really shouldn't have."
He leans down, lips right by my ear. To everyone else, probably looks sweet. Loving boyfriend whispering birthday wishes.
But I hear what he actually says: "Sleep good last night? Any interesting dreams?"
My blood turns to fucking ice.
He knows. Somehow, this bastard knows about the time travel. About my memories.
"Nope," I lie. "Slept like the dead."
His laugh is soft and scary as hell. "Too bad. Thought you might remember something important."
He's testing me. Seeing if I'll crack. If I'll show my hand.
Not happening.
I take the flowers even though they make my skin crawl. "They're perfect."
"Glad you think so." His eyes are cold, calculating. Nothing like the warm look I remember from when we first met. "Picked them out special just for you."
He straightens up, but his hand stays on my shoulder. His fingers press down just hard enough to send a message.
I know what you are. I know what you did. I'm watching you.
Message received, asshole.
But two can play this game.
I lift the roses to my nose, breathing them in like some lovesick teenager. "They smell like—"
The memory hits me like a brick to the face. Not just the smell, but everything. The penthouse office. Cold marble floor. My own heartbeat getting slower and slower as I bled out.
Marcus standing over me with blood on his hands, explaining why this was for the best. Why Omegas don't get to inherit power.
Why I had to die for the greater fucking good.
Rage explodes in my chest like a bomb going off.
The flowers in my hands catch fire.
Real fire. Actual flames jumping from petal to petal, eating the whole bouquet in seconds. The silver ribbon melts, dripping onto the table like liquid metal.
Everyone starts yelling.
"Holy shit!"
"What the hell—"
"Isabella, drop those!"
But I can't drop them. The fire doesn't hurt. It feels warm, friendly, like a cat rubbing against my legs.
And it's spreading.
From the dead flowers to the table. From the table to all the papers. From the papers to Margaret's fancy presentation screen.
The fire moves like it's alive. Like it knows exactly what it wants to burn.
"Everyone back up!" Dad shouts, but he sounds like he's underwater.
Because something else is happening. Something that has nothing to do with fire and everything to do with the fury eating me alive from the inside.
Power. Raw, electric, world-ending power pouring out of me like a broken dam.
The windows blow first.
Twenty-three floors up, half a million dollars of reinforced glass just... disappears. The sound is insane—like God decided to smash the world's biggest wind chime.
Margaret screams. Someone else swears in what might be Latin.
But the windows are just the warm-up.
Every light bulb in the room pops at the same time. The projection screen dies in a shower of sparks. The air conditioning makes this horrible grinding noise and goes quiet.
All the crystal glasses crack at once, spider webs racing across their surfaces before they explode into glittery dust.
And the power keeps coming. The rage keeps burning in my chest like a star about to go supernova.
I can feel every supernatural thing in this building. Their terror. Their shock. Their desperate need to get the hell away from the twenty-third floor.
But three people don't run.
Marcus is frozen next to my chair, green eyes wide with what might be fear or might be excitement. His face is white as paper, but he doesn't move.
Dr. Rosewood is standing now, staring at me like I'm the best Christmas present she ever got. No fear on her face. Just hunger.
And Mom—my supposedly dead mom—is gripping her chair so hard her knuckles are white. But she's not looking at me like she's shocked or scared.
She's looking at me like she's been waiting for this her whole life.
"Bella." Dad's voice cuts through the chaos. "Baby, you gotta stop this."
Stop? I don't even know how I started it.
But slowly, carefully, I try to pull the power back inside. It fights me, like a wild animal that doesn't want to go back in its cage. But eventually, grudgingly, it retreats.
The fire dies. The building stops shaking. Sirens wail outside, but they sound muffled now, like they're coming from another planet.
Silence settles over the destroyed conference room.
I look around at what I did. Glass everywhere. Scorch marks climbing the walls. The air smells like lightning and dead roses.
Three board members are bleeding from cuts. Gregory Blackwood is out cold, slumped in his chair with a piece of window stuck in his forehead.
I did this. Whatever the hell I am, whatever's happening to me, I hurt people.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I don't know what—"
"Don't apologize." Marcus's voice is soft, almost worshipful. "That was fucking amazing."
He's looking at me like I'm a goddess. Or a weapon he just figured out how to use.
Both options scare the shit out of me.
"We need to call the Council." Dr. Rosewood sounds calm, professional. Like supernatural explosions happen in board meetings every Tuesday. "This level of power in an Omega is... unprecedented."
Omega. She still thinks I'm an Omega.
But Omegas don't blow up conference rooms with their feelings. Omegas don't make windows disappear or set shit on fire with their minds.
Whatever I am, I'm definitely not an Omega anymore.
Question is: what the hell am I turning into?
And more importantly: who else knows about it?
I look at my mother across all the wreckage. She's still death-gripping her chair, still watching me with that weird recognition.
Like she's been waiting twenty-three years for me to finally wake up.
End of Chapter 2