The first thing Rashi Leonita noticed when she opened her eyes…
was the smell.
Wood smoke.
Wet soil.
And something bitter, dark, roasted—
coffee.
Her lungs pulled it in like instinct, and her mind snapped awake so hard it almost hurt.
This wasn't a hospital.
This wasn't her old life.
She was on a hard wooden floor inside a small house lit by a weak oil lamp. The walls were stained from years of cooking smoke. A black dress hung in the corner like a warning.
Rashi pushed herself up, dizzy.
On the table sat a calendar.
1984.
Her breath stopped.
"No…"
The word came out cracked, like her throat had already been used for crying.
Outside, she heard murmurs—footsteps, a cough, and a woman forcing herself to sob like it was part of a performance.
Then she heard it.
"…and now she's alone."
Another voice followed, sharper, crueler.
"Widow."
Rashi's fingers tightened.
She stared at her hands.
They were younger. Cleaner. No scars. No years of pain carved into her skin.
She stumbled to the cracked mirror beside the door.
A young woman stared back—early twenties, warm skin, eyes too sharp to be helpless, hair messy like she'd been dragged through grief.
She didn't look like someone who had learned to survive.
She looked like someone who had just lost everything.
A knock slammed into the door.
Not gentle.
Not asking permission.
"Rashi."
Her name, spoken like it didn't belong to her.
Before she could answer, the door opened.
A woman stepped in, dressed in black, hair pinned neatly, face arranged into polite sorrow.
But her eyes were calculating.
Behind her, two women stood like guards.
"You're awake," the woman said softly.
Rashi held her stare. "Who are you?"
The woman blinked, offended—then smiled.
"I'm Vera Ashbourne."
The name sounded expensive.
And dangerous.
Vera walked closer, voice lowering like she was doing Rashi a favor.
"The funeral is starting. People are waiting."
People.
The village.
A crowd that didn't come to mourn.
They came to judge.
Rashi's throat tightened. "How did he die?"
Vera's sympathy flickered too quickly.
"An accident," she said. "A tragic accident."
Too fast.
Too rehearsed.
Rashi felt the crack in it.
Vera turned slightly. One of the women behind her stepped forward, holding a folded paper and an ink pen.
"A formality," Vera said. "Since you're… alone now."
Rashi took the paper.
The words at the top made her vision blur.
TRANSFER OF PROPERTY OWNERSHIP.
Coffee farm.
Hillside land.
House rights.
All of it returned to the Ashbourne estate.
Rashi looked up slowly. "You want me to sign my husband's land away."
Vera's smile didn't change.
"It's not yours," she said softly. "It was never meant to be."
Then she leaned in, voice almost kind.
"A widow doesn't run a farm."
"A widow doesn't keep land."
"A widow keeps her head down… and accepts what she's given."
Rashi stared at her.
In her first life, she would've argued.
Begged.
Explained.
But she remembered how that ended.
Tired.
Kind.
Invisible.
She folded the paper once.
Twice.
Then set it down.
"No."
Silence.
Vera blinked. "…Excuse me?"
"I'm not signing anything," Rashi repeated, calm as stone.
Vera's face cooled. "Don't embarrass yourself."
"At my husband's funeral?" Rashi's voice sharpened slightly.
Vera sighed like she was dealing with a stubborn child.
"People are already talking," she said. "They're saying you're a curse. That you brought misfortune. That the farm will rot if you stay."
So that was it.
Not grief.
A purge.
"If you sign," Vera continued, "you can stay here a while. You'll be fed. You won't be thrown out."
Thrown out.
The mercy that was really a threat.
Rashi stood.
Her clothes were cheap. Her hair was messy. Her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion—
but her posture was straight as a blade.
"I don't need your permission to exist," she said quietly.
Vera's lips tightened. "You're emotional."
Rashi smiled.
Not warm.
Dangerous.
"I'm thinking clearer than I ever have."
She walked past Vera toward the door.
The women tried to block her.
Rashi didn't stop.
"Move."
They hesitated—then stepped aside.
Because something in her voice wasn't widow-soft.
It was survivor-hard.
Rashi stepped outside.
The yard was packed.
Men in dark coats.
Women in black dresses.
Faces arranged into sympathy masks.
A wooden coffin sat beneath a canopy.
Flowers looked forced.
The air smelled like rain, incense, and gossip.
As Rashi walked forward, the whispers rose like insects.
"There she is…"
"She doesn't look sad enough…"
"I told you… she's cold…"
"She brought bad luck…"
Rashi scanned them.
Every face looked like a verdict.
Then a woman stepped forward with dramatic tears and a voice too loud to be real.
Mara Whitlock.
Someone whispered her name like a warning.
"Oh, Rashi…" Mara cried. "We're all heartbroken. Truly."
Her eyes gleamed.
Not with grief.
With hunger.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice—still loud enough for everyone to hear.
"But people are saying… this happened because you're not meant to be here."
The crowd leaned in.
Mara smiled wider.
"A woman like you," she said sweetly, "an outsider… a widow… it brings bad luck. The farm is sacred. The hill is sacred. We can't let it be contaminated."
Rashi's jaw clenched.
So this was the script.
They weren't burying her husband.
They were burying her.
"And it would be best," Mara continued, "if you did the right thing and gave the land back. For peace. For respect. For the village."
For control.
Rashi looked at the coffin.
She didn't know the full truth yet.
But she knew one thing—
someone wanted that land badly enough to destroy her for it.
She stepped forward.
Her voice was calm.
"Are you done?"
Mara blinked.
Rashi faced the crowd.
"I'm not leaving," she said.
The whispers turned sharper.
"I'm not signing anything."
"I'm not handing over anything."
"And I'm not asking permission."
Someone scoffed. "Who does she think she is?"
Rashi turned her head slowly.
"A widow," she said.
Then lifted her chin.
"And the owner of that farm."
The crowd erupted.
Vera's expression tightened with fury.
Mara's smile cracked.
And then—
Rashi saw him.
A man at the edge of the crowd.
Not dressed like the villagers.
Clean coat. Polished shoes.
A cigarette between his fingers he wasn't even smoking.
His gaze wasn't curious.
It was measuring.
Sharp.
Like he was reading the entire scene as a transaction.
He stepped forward.
The crowd parted without realizing they were doing it.
He stopped a few feet from Rashi.
Close enough for her to see his eyes—dark, controlled, unreadable.
He spoke her name like he was testing it.
"Rashi Leonita."
Rashi didn't answer.
The man glanced at the coffin, then back at her.
"I heard your husband died," he said.
Silence spread.
"And I heard," he continued, "the village thinks you're a curse."
Rashi's fingers twitched.
Then he took one more step closer.
Not invading.
Claiming space.
"I'm here for the coffee farm."
The village held its breath.
Rashi stared at him. "…Who are you?"
His lips curved, not quite a smile.
"Greg Veralta."
Then his voice dropped low—so only she could hear the threat hidden inside it.
"And if you don't sign their papers…"
He looked at her like he already knew the ending.
"I'll make them regret bringing them to you."
Rashi's heartbeat slammed against her ribs.
Because she understood.
This wasn't a village fight anymore.
This was the beginning of an empire war.
And it started…
at her husband's funeral.
END OF CHAPTER 1
CLIFFHANGER: GREG'S CLAIM