Seraphine Vale's POV
The beer bottle hit my shoulder mid-song.
I didn't stop singing. Couldn't stop. The seventeen drunk people in this garbage LA bar were the only audience I'd have tonight, tomorrow, or probably ever again. At thirty-eight years old, I was a has-been who never actually "was" anything.
"Get off the stage!" someone yelled.
I gripped the microphone tighter and kept going. My voice cracked on the high note—it always did now. Sixteen years of smoking, drinking, and crying myself to sleep had destroyed the one thing I used to be good at. The one gift God gave me, and I'd thrown it away.
Just like I threw away everything else.
"You suck!" Another voice. More laughter.
The spotlight above me flickered. The bar smelled like old cigarettes and broken dreams. My dreams, specifically. I knew every stain on this stage, every crack in the walls. I'd been performing here every Friday night for three years because nowhere else would take me.
I used to sing at real venues. I used to have fans—okay, maybe just a few hundred, but they were real. I used to believe I'd make it big someday.
That was before Morgana Hax.
My chest tightened. Not now. Not the panic attacks again. I pushed through the chorus, but my voice came out shaky. Weak. Just like me.
"Boring!" someone shouted, and a napkin flew past my face.
They were right. I was boring. Safe. I'd spent my whole career singing other people's songs because I was too scared to sing my own. Every time I tried to be brave, someone told me to stay quiet. Be pretty. Be grateful. Don't make waves.
So I didn't. And look where it got me.
The pain in my chest got worse. Sharp. Like someone stabbing me from the inside. I pressed my hand against my ribs and kept singing because that's what I always did—kept going even when everything hurt.
My best friend Echo used to say I had magic in my voice. She said I could make people cry if I just let myself be real. But Echo was dead now, and it was partly my fault. She needed me, and I chose a stupid car show gig instead of being there for her.
I found her body three days later.
The microphone slipped in my sweaty palm. The room started spinning. Not good. Not good at all.
I thought about my mother. She died thinking I'd wasted my life. "You had so much potential, Seraphine," she'd said in the hospital. Those were her last words to me. Not "I love you" or "I'm proud." Just disappointment.
She was right, though.
I thought about the baby I gave up at nineteen. A boy. I held him for five minutes before they took him away. I never even learned his name. I was too young, too poor, too messed up. I told myself he'd have a better life without me.
Maybe he did. I hoped he did.
The pain in my chest exploded. Oh no. This wasn't a panic attack.
My knees buckled. The microphone squealed as it hit the floor. Someone laughed—they thought it was part of the show. I tried to breathe but couldn't. My lungs felt like they were full of glass.
I fell forward, catching myself on the edge of the stage. The wood was sticky under my fingers. Spilled drinks and years of failure.
"Is she drunk?" someone asked.
No. I wished I was drunk. Drunk would hurt less than this.
My vision went blurry. I saw faces—memories crashing through my head like a hurricane. The audition where I choked. The contract I signed without reading because I was desperate. The producer who touched me and said it was "just how the industry works." The songs I wrote that Morgana stole and gave to other singers. My name in tiny letters on album credits while someone else got famous.
All the times I could have said no. Could have fought back. Could have been brave.
I didn't. I was a coward until the very end.
The ceiling spun above me. The flickering light looked like a dying star. How fitting.
"Someone call 911!" a voice yelled, finally sounding worried.
Too late. I could feel it—death crawling up my spine like ice. This was it. Thirty-eight years old, dying on a stage where drunk people threw napkins at me. This was my legacy.
If I could do it over... if I had just one more chance...
I'd burn it all down. Every fake smile, every predator, every person who made artists like me feel small. I'd be loud. Fearless. I'd save Echo. I'd sing my own songs. I'd be the star I was too afraid to become.
But second chances don't exist.
My heart stopped beating. The world went black. Silent. Empty.
So this is death, I thought. Nothing. Just like my life.
Then—a sound. Distant. Getting louder.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
What? The dead don't hear alarm clocks.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
My eyes flew open. But not to darkness. To light. Bright morning sunlight streaming through a window I recognized but shouldn't.
I gasped and sat up so fast my head spun. My hands—I looked at my hands. Young. Smooth. No wrinkles. No scars from the bottle I broke last year.
My heart hammered. I touched my face. Soft. Firm. Not thirty-eight.
I stumbled out of bed and crashed into the bathroom, flipping on the light. The girl in the mirror made me scream.
Silver-blonde hair. Clear skin. Violet eyes wide with shock.
Twenty-two-year-old me.
"No," I whispered. "No no no no—"
My phone buzzed on the sink. I grabbed it with shaking hands. The date made my blood freeze.
June 15th. Sixteen years ago.
The day before the audition that destroyed my entire life.
A calendar notification popped up: "STELLAR ENTERTAINMENT AUDITION TOMORROW - 9 AM - DON'T FORGET!!!"
I started laughing. Couldn't stop. Laughing so hard tears ran down my young face.
I died. I actually died. And somehow, impossibly, I was back.
Back to the moment where everything went wrong.
Which meant I could make different choices. Better choices. I could save Echo. I could avoid Morgana. I could actually be brave this time.
Or...
My laughter died. My reflection stared back at me with eyes too old for this young face.
Or I could make them all pay.
Every person who hurt me. Every monster who broke people like me. Every snake who smiled while destroying dreams.
I knew all their secrets now. All their crimes. All their weaknesses.
A slow smile spread across my face. Not the scared-little-girl smile from before.
Something sharper. Meaner. Deadlier.
"You want to know what a phoenix does?" I whispered to my reflection.
My phone buzzed again. A voicemail notification. I pressed play.
"Hi Seraphine! This is Morgana Hax from Apex Talent Management! I heard you're auditioning tomorrow and I'd love to chat about representation. You're going to be a star, darling. Call me back!"
That same sweet, poisonous voice. The voice that convinced me to sign my life away.
I deleted the message.
Then I opened my cloud storage—and my breath caught.
All my files from my first life. All thirty-eight years of memories, recordings, photos, evidence. Everything was there. Saved. Waiting.
I had proof of crimes that hadn't happened yet. Recordings of assaults. Screenshots of stolen songs. Everything.
My hands trembled as I scrolled through file after file. This wasn't just a second chance.
This was a loaded gun.
And I knew exactly who to aim it at.
Tomorrow at that audition, I wouldn't sing the safe ballad that got me noticed by Morgana. I wouldn't be the desperate, grateful little girl begging for scraps.
Tomorrow, I'd sing the song Morgana would steal from me—the one that made another singer a superstar while I got nothing.
Tomorrow, I'd start burning down the entire industry.
My phone rang. Unknown number.
I answered. "Hello?"
"Seraphine Vale?" A male voice. Deep. Professional. Unfamiliar. "My name is Kade Thorne. I own Obsidian Records. I'm calling about tomorrow's audition."
I froze. Kade Thorne. The brutal CEO. The ice king of the music industry. The man who, in my first life, I blamed for blocking my career.
The man who, I realized years too late, had actually tried to warn me about Morgana's contract.
"How did you get this number?" I asked carefully.
"I have my ways." A pause. "I want you to know—whatever happens tomorrow, whatever offers you get... be very careful who you trust. The industry eats girls like you alive."
"Girls like me?"
"Talented ones." His voice softened just slightly. "The real kind of talented. The dangerous kind. The kind that makes people want to own you."
My throat tightened. In my first life, I hung up on this call. Thought he was trying to manipulate me.
Now I understood. He was trying to save me.
"Mr. Thorne," I said slowly, "what if I told you I already know how dangerous it is? What if I told you I know exactly which people are monsters?"
Silence. Then: "I'd say that's impossible. You're twenty-two."
"Yeah." I looked at my reflection—young face, ancient eyes. "Impossible."
I hung up.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
Tomorrow, the phoenix would rise.
And God help anyone who stood in my way.