I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, the same fragmented scene replayed: cold rain hitting my skin, a man collapsing into my arms, his breath fading as he whispered words that my rational mind insisted were imaginary.
"I'll find you again…"
I woke with my heart pounding and my sheets tangled around my legs. The digital clock glowed 4:21 a.m. I stared at the ceiling for a long time before finally pulling myself out of bed.
Maybe it was the stress of work.
Maybe I'd been consuming too many late-night case studies.
Maybe the pressure to prove myself was catching up.
But even as I tried to argue with myself, a quiet certainty lingered beneath every thought:
Ethan Hale had looked at me like he already knew my soul.
And I had felt something too—something terrifyingly familiar.
By the time morning arrived, exhaustion tugged at my bones, but my mind was alert, restless, pulsing with questions I wasn't ready to answer.
I showered, dressed, packed my recorder and notes, and headed to the Hale Global Tower where my interview had been scheduled.
The tower itself was a symbol of modern ambition—sleek lines, reflective glass, twenty-eight stories tall, each floor humming with activity. It was the type of building where you could feel the money and intellect in the air. The type of place where somebody like Ethan fit naturally.
I stood outside the entrance for a moment, breathing slowly, grounding myself.
Professional.
Objective.
Unaffected.
I repeated the words in my head like a mantra.
None of which helped when I stepped into the lobby.
Because Ethan Hale was already waiting.
He stood near the reception desk with his hands in his pockets, dressed in a charcoal suit without a tie, sleeves slightly pushed back, revealing forearms that made my brain malfunction more than I wanted to admit. He didn't look like the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar empire waiting for a scheduled media appointment.
He looked like a man waiting for me.
His eyes lifted the second I crossed the threshold.
The lobby was bustling—employees swiping badges, visitors checking in, heels clicking against polished floors—but the moment our eyes met, the noise faded into something unimportant.
He walked toward me with quiet steps, not hurried, not theatrical, but certain.
"Avery," he greeted, voice calm, steady, grounding. "Good morning."
My throat tightened. Why did he say my name like that—like he'd practiced it, like it anchored him?
"Morning," I managed. "You didn't have to come down for me."
"I wanted to."
Simple words. No arrogance. No flirting. Just honesty, delivered so gently it disarmed me completely.
He gestured toward the private elevators. "We reserved a room on the twenty-fourth floor. Somewhere comfortable. No interruptions."
"Thank you," I said, falling into step beside him.
I kept a reasonable distance. He didn't try to close it.
Inside the elevator, the mirrored walls reflected us standing side by side. My heart thudded uncomfortably loud. Ethan pressed the button for the twenty-fourth floor and leaned back slightly, giving me space.
But he watched me in the reflection—not intensely, not possessively—just quietly, as if studying something delicate.
"Did you sleep?" he asked gently.
The question caught me off guard. "A little."
"You didn't," he said—not as an accusation but as an observation. "Your eyes… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said something so heavy yesterday."
"It's not that," I said quickly—and too defensively.
He raised an eyebrow, waiting, patient.
I pressed my lips together. "It was just a long night."
He nodded once, accepting my answer but not entirely believing it.
A soft chime sounded as the elevator doors opened. He stepped out first, waiting for me to follow. The twenty-fourth floor was hushed, open, decorated in soothing tones with large windows letting the morning sunlight spill across polished wood floors.
He guided me to a glass-walled conference room with a stunning view of the city. The skyline stretched endlessly, sharp and elegant against the pale sky.
"If you'd like coffee or tea—" he began.
"No, thank you," I said quickly, needing something to anchor myself.
He nodded. "Then let's begin whenever you're ready."
He sat opposite me at the table, posture relaxed but attentive.
Professional.
Respectful.
Not even a hint of the strange confession from yesterday—at least not visibly.
I pulled out my recorder, clicked it on, and started with the introduction.
"This is Avery Lane, interviewing Mr. Ethan Hale, CEO of Hale Global and founder of HalePay…"
My voice steadied as I shifted into work mode.
For the next thirty minutes, the interview flowed with surprising ease. Ethan answered every question thoroughly but concisely—sometimes thoughtful, sometimes insightful, occasionally revealing a sharp wit I hadn't expected. He wasn't rehearsed like many executives I'd spoken to. He didn't circle back to PR-safe talking points. He didn't dodge difficult topics.
He spoke honestly.
He listened carefully.
He made eye contact without making it feel like pressure.
He was the kind of interview subject journalists dreamed of.
But every so often—just for a second—our gazes would lock, and the air between us would shift, warm, electric, loaded with something neither of us addressed.
At the forty-minute mark, I shifted to a softer question.
"Do you ever feel," I asked slowly, "that the life you're living now is… different from what you expected?"
He paused. Then leaned back slightly, fingers interlacing.
"Every day," he said quietly. "But not because of my work. Or success. Those came with effort, not fate."
He held my gaze.
"What I didn't expect," he continued softly, "was that some memories would follow me here."
My heartbeat slipped.
I lowered my recorder slightly. "Ethan…"
"You asked earlier if I felt that this life is different from what I expected." There was no apology in his tone now—only truth. "It is. Because I wasn't supposed to meet you again… and yet I did."
"Please," I whispered, "don't say things like that so casually."
"It isn't casual."
He leaned forward slowly, forearms resting on the table, eyes steady on mine.
"I'm not asking you to believe me," he said. "I know how irrational it sounds. I know how unbelievable it is. But I need you to understand something."
My breath caught.
"I'm not here to make you uncomfortable. And I'm not here to convince you of anything. I just…" He hesitated. The honesty in his expression softened. "I just want to protect what matters to me this time."
"What do you mean 'this time'?" My voice trembled more than I wanted.
His gaze dipped momentarily to my hands—slightly trembling—then back to my eyes.
"In my past life," he said quietly, "I died saving someone. A woman. And the moment I saw you yesterday… I realized it was you."
A cold shiver rippled down my spine.
I tried to speak but nothing came out.
He noticed—of course he did. He shifted slightly, softening his voice. "Avery, I swear to you—I'm not trying to drag you into anything strange. I just want you to know why I reacted the way I did."
I swallowed hard. "Your memories… what do they show? A name? A face? Anything that proves—"
"I don't have photographs," he said gently. "And I don't have names. But I have moments. Feelings. A promise. And…"
He exhaled.
"And the final memory is your voice."
My chest tightened painfully.
"That's impossible," I whispered.
"Maybe." His eyes didn't waver. "But impossible things happen."
I looked away, gripping my pen tightly until my knuckles ached. The room felt suddenly too quiet, too bright, too intimate.
"This is too much," I murmured.
"I know."
He leaned back, creating space between us—not physical distance, but emotional room for me to breathe.
"I won't bring it up again unless you ask," he said. "Just focus on your career. Your articles. Your work. Pretend this is nothing more than a professional relationship."
My head snapped up. "You're the one who—"
"I know." He ran a hand lightly across his forehead. "And it was unfair of me. You're right."
He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly as if resetting himself.
When he opened them again, the intensity was still there—but gentler, controlled, respectful.
"I want you to feel safe around me," he said quietly. "Nothing else matters right now."
My throat tightened.
Before I could answer, the door opened and his assistant stepped in, holding a folder.
"Mr. Hale, the board is ready—" She froze slightly upon noticing the tension in the room.
Ethan stood smoothly. "Thank you, Clara. I'll be right there."
The assistant nodded and stepped out.
He turned back to me.
"Avery," he said, voice lower than before, "whether or not you believe anything I've said… please don't be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid," I whispered.
I was lying.
I was afraid.
But not of him.
I was afraid of myself.
Of the way part of me wanted to believe him.
Of the way something in my chest responded to him instinctively.
Of the echo of a memory that shouldn't exist.
He seemed to read my silence, and for the first time, a faint sadness crossed his features.
"I'll see you soon," he said softly. "Only when you're ready."
He walked out.
The room seemed colder the second he left.
I sat there, staring at the empty doorway, trying to steady my shaking breath.
Because the truth I didn't want to admit pressed against my ribs like a secret begging to be acknowledged:
When he said my name…
When he touched my wrist…
When he looked at me like he'd already lost me once…
I felt something too.
Something that scared me more than the possibility of past lives.
The possibility that my heart already remembered him.