The blinding white light shattered into a million pieces.

Alana's eyes snapped open. She gasped, sucking in a massive, desperate breath of air. Her lungs burned.

She wasn't floating in a freezing tomb. Her back was pressed against a soft, silk mattress.

Heavy blackout curtains blocked the windows, but a thin sliver of Sterling City's morning light bled through the gap.

Alana turned her head. Her vision was blurry, but she could make out the massive expanse of a man's bare back lying next to her.

The scent of cedarwood mixed with a faint trace of tobacco hit her nose.

Her brain misfired. A second ago, she was watching Corbin swallow a lethal dose of pills. She had watched him die.

Her hand shook as she reached out. She needed to know if this was a hallucination. She needed to feel him.

Her fingertips brushed the warm, solid skin of his shoulder.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Corbin's body jerked as if he had been struck by lightning. His muscles locked, turning to stone.

He spun around with terrifying speed. His large body lunged over hers, pinning her flat against the mattress.

His large hand clamped down around her throat.

His eyes were wide, empty, and entirely black. There was no recognition in them. Only the pure, violent defense mechanism of a man suffering from severe Complex PTSD.

His grip tightened. The air supply to Alana's lungs was cut off.

In her past life, she would have screamed. She would have clawed at his face and called him a monster.

This time, she didn't fight. She didn't move her hands.

She just looked up at him. Her eyes filled with hot tears. They weren't tears of fear. They were tears of absolute, crushing pity.

Corbin's chest heaved. His pupils slowly contracted. The fog of his trauma began to clear, and his vision focused on the face beneath him.

He saw Alana. He saw his hand wrapped around her delicate neck.

The emptiness in his eyes shattered, instantly replaced by raw panic and deep, sickening self-loathing.

He snatched his hand back as if her skin had burned him to the bone. He threw himself backward, scrambling to the edge of the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his back to her, gasping for air.

Alana rubbed her throat. She coughed twice, a quiet, raspy sound. A single tear slipped down her cheek and soaked into the pillow.

Corbin heard the cough. He squeezed his eyes shut. He grabbed fistfuls of his own hair, pulling hard. He cursed himself in a harsh, broken whisper.

He waited for it. He waited for the inevitable. The disgust in her eyes, the flinching withdrawal, the silence that screamed louder than any accusation.

Alana sat up slowly. She didn't speak. She just stared at the violent trembling taking over his broad shoulders.

She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. The date flashed in red numbers. It was exactly two years ago.

A wave of intense, overwhelming relief crashed into her ribs. She was alive. She was back.

Alana threw the heavy duvet off her legs. She didn't hesitate. She crawled across the mattress toward the edge where he sat.

Corbin felt the mattress dip behind him. His spine went rigid.

"Don't come near me," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous growl meant to keep her safe from him.

Alana ignored the warning. She closed the distance. She wrapped her slender arms around his thick torso from behind, pressing her chest flat against his tense back.

Corbin flinched violently. He froze, completely paralyzed.

Alana rested her cheek between his shoulder blades.

"Corbin," she whispered.

Her voice was soft. It wasn't laced with venom or hatred. It was a potent, immediate sedative injected straight into his frayed nerves.

Corbin slowly turned his head. He looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes wide with disbelief, staring at her as if she were a dream that was about to turn into a nightmare.

Corbin looked down at the pale, slender arms wrapped tightly around his waist. His breathing grew heavy, the sound ragged in the quiet room.

His eyes locked onto her left wrist. A faint red bruise was forming there-a mark from how hard she had struggled against him last night when he forced her to stay in this room.

The sight of the bruise triggered a sick twist in his gut. His paranoia flared, hot and suffocating. She hated him. She had always hated him. This sudden affection was a lie. It was a tactic to get him to lower his guard so she could run.

Corbin grabbed her wrists. His grip was entirely too tight, his fingers digging into her skin. Alana winced, her brows pulling together.

He ripped her arms away from his body. He stood up abruptly, putting three feet of physical distance between them.

Alana looked up at him, confused. She opened her mouth to explain, to tell him she wasn't going anywhere, but the words wouldn't form.

Her silence was all the proof he needed. To him, it was the silence of a liar caught in the act. It was disgust.

Corbin let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. He bent down, snatched his discarded dress shirt off the floor, and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

He turned his back to her. His posture shifted, the vulnerable man vanishing, replaced instantly by the ruthless, cold CEO of the Mendez Empire.

"Don't play these pathetic games with me, Alana," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "It won't work."

He didn't wait for her to respond. He walked out of the bedroom with long, angry strides.

The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him. The impact shook the walls and rattled the glass in the windows.

Alana sat alone in the center of the massive, messy bed. She let out a long, slow breath.

She couldn't blame him. Healing a man with a mind as fractured and paranoid as Corbin's wasn't going to happen with one hug. It would take time.

And now, she had all the time in the world.

Alana slid off the bed. Her bare feet sank into the expensive Persian rug. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the corner of the room.

She stared at her reflection. Her face was young, pale, and breathtakingly beautiful. The hollow, sickly, dying woman from her past life was gone. But marring the flawless skin of her neck were stark, dark purple bruises forming in the shape of a man's large fingers. The physical evidence of Corbin's violent, traumatized mind was undeniable, a brutal reminder of how close she had just come to having her neck snapped.

Looking at her own face brought the memories rushing back. The fake, sympathetic smile of her stepmother, Euphemia. The cruel, mocking laughter of her stepsister, Jessica.

A cold, sharp hatred sliced through her chest. Her eyes darkened, turning into chips of ice.

Suddenly, a string of glowing blue numbers flashed across her retinas.

Alana gasped and closed her eyes. Deep within her consciousness, a vast, futuristic, digital storage space materialized.

It was The Cache. The surreal system she had accidentally awakened in the final, desperate moments of her past life, right before it was too late to use it.

She focused her mind. She visualized the medical shelf and reached out to a small vial labeled 'Basic Stamina Recovery'.

She opened her eyes.

A heavy glass vial filled with glowing blue liquid was sitting perfectly in the palm of her hand.

Alana popped the cork. She brought the vial to her lips and swallowed the liquid in one gulp.

Instantly, the chronic tightness in her chest vanished. The heavy, lethargic fatigue that had plagued her body for years evaporated. Her lungs expanded fully.

She stared at the empty vial, a dangerous smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

She wasn't the weak, sickly orphan anymore. She had the ultimate advantage.

Alana walked over to the nightstand and picked up her phone. She tapped the screen to check the calendar.

Tonight was the Knox family's annual charity gala.

In her past life, tonight was the night Jessica had set her up, ruining her reputation in front of Sterling City's elite.

Alana tossed the phone onto the bed. She turned and walked toward the massive walk-in closet. It was time to get dressed. She had a gift to deliver to her enemies.

Alana pushed open the door of the walk-in closet. She walked down the hallway and slowly descended the grand spiral staircase.

She wore a deep burgundy, velvet slip dress. The fabric clung to her curves, the hem swaying fluidly against her ankles with every step.

The crystal chandelier above cast a bright light over her bare shoulders and delicate collarbones, making her pale skin look almost luminescent.

In the center of the first-floor living room, Corbin sat on a dark leather sofa. His laptop was open on the coffee table, a video call with his top executives playing on the screen.

He held a crystal glass of whiskey over ice in his right hand. His tie was loosened. He radiated a dark, unapproachable energy.

The sharp click of Alana's heels against the hardwood floor cut through the room. Corbin stopped talking. He looked up.

The moment his eyes landed on her in that red dress, his pupils dilated. His breathing stopped entirely for a full second.

Then, a violent surge of possessiveness and jealousy ripped through his veins, completely destroying his rational mind.

He reached forward and slammed the laptop shut, instantly cutting off the meeting. The bodyguard standing near the doorway flinched and held his breath.

Corbin stared at the dress. His eyes were dark enough to burn a hole straight through the velvet.

His fingers tightened around the crystal whiskey glass. The muscles in his forearm flexed, the veins popping against his skin.

A sharp, loud crack echoed through the silent room.

The thick crystal shattered in his grip. He had crushed it with his bare hand.

Ice cubes, amber liquor, and bright red blood spilled from his palm, dripping onto the expensive rug below. He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just stared at his ruined hand with a disturbing, absolute numbness, the thick veins on the back of his hand bulging violently as he silently absorbed the excruciating pain. It was as if the physical agony was entirely eclipsed by the psychological torment ravaging his mind.

Alana stopped on the stairs. Her stomach dropped at the sight of his bleeding hand, but she kept her face perfectly neutral.

Corbin stood up. His massive frame dominated the room. He walked toward the base of the stairs, stopping right below her. He looked up, his jaw feathering with barely contained rage.

"Who are you dressing up to seduce?" he demanded, his voice a lethal, quiet threat.

Alana looked down into his furious eyes. "I am going to the Knox family gala."

The name Knox hit him like a physical blow. His face darkened into a terrifying scowl.

He knew exactly who was going to be at that gala. Jaison Boyd. Alana's ex-fiancé.

Corbin's mind immediately supplied the worst possible scenario. She had spent hours making herself look this beautiful just to go see the man who had betrayed her.

"Are you that desperate?" Corbin sneered, the words dripping with poison. "You're willing to risk your life just to crawl back to your old lover?"

The insult was designed to hurt her. In her past life, she would have screamed at him and thrown something.

This time, Alana just let out a soft sigh.

She reached over to the banister and picked up a thick, black cashmere shawl she had draped there earlier.

While maintaining eye contact with him, she wrapped the shawl tightly around her shoulders, completely covering her chest and arms.

The submissive gesture made the violent storm in Corbin's eyes pause.

Alana walked down the final two steps. She stood on the floor, less than two feet away from him.

She tilted her head up to look at his tense jawline. Her voice was calm and soft.

"I have something I need to do at the gala. It has nothing to do with anyone else."

Corbin looked down at her. His expression remained cold and unforgiving.

"I won't allow you to take a single step outside this estate," he stated flatly. "Unless you drop that ridiculous pride of yours and beg me properly."