Isla POV

The meeting was finally over.

I gathered my things quickly, keeping my head down, hoping that Mr. Vale had already moved on to something more important than me.

Before I could escape the room, he appeared behind me, startling me so much that I almost dropped my things.

He seemed unfazed by my shock, giving me a raised brow that seemed to hold a trace of amusement. "To my office, Mrs. Montclair."

I sighed under my breath as I followed behind him quietly.

I finally reached his office. This was the first time I had ever been in it. It was impressive and clean.

His office was large, white, immaculate. Tall windows behind his desk overlooked the city roads, pedestrians, and buildings. Shelves of different books and small statues were decorated by the side wall, surrounded by a long, relaxing couch and carpets.

I stood in front of his desk with my hands rested at my sides. He opened my file and read through it with a blank expression that gave nothing away.

Then his black gaze came up and met mine, cold and calculating, assessing my form.

"M-my apologies, Sir," I said shyly. The words came out smaller than I intended.

"I didn't ask for an apology." His voice was flat and final. "An apology won't fix this."

I knew that. I knew that, and I still said it because six years of making myself small had apparently become muscle memory.

He finally set the file down, tapping his finger on the desk, the sound filling the room.

"You have one week to rewrite this completely," he said. "I expect no excuses about missed errors. I expect it done correctly."

He slid the document across the desk toward me, and I reached for it immediately. "Th-thank you, Sir—"

"Ms. Montclair," he cut in gently, his voice oddly soft.

I stopped, my eyes meeting his.

He was looking at me with that careful, controlled expression. The one that had been sitting on his face all day as he glanced at me during the meeting.

"You are a smart and capable woman," he said. "Your work history makes that clear. But your timidness—" he paused, choosing the word deliberately, "—needs addressing. In this industry, being too trusting is not a virtue. You need to watch your back."

I stared at him, shocked, my hand still frozen on his desk.

My work history. He had looked at my work history. He had read it carefully enough to have an opinion about it.

And this man, this cold, exacting, perpetually dissatisfied man who had never once in three years said anything to me that wasn't a criticism, had just called me smart and capable and then warned me to watch my back.

I didn't understand him. I had never understood him. But the flash of the hotel room came—the blood on my hand, Vivienne's satisfied smile, and Ronan's cold stare. He was right.

I do need to watch my back.

"Yes, Sir," I said.

And I left before he could say anything else that I didn't know how to process.

---

It was nearing 6 p.m., and I was still at my desk.

Most of the office had emptied out, but a few of us remained, heads down and working. I hadn't taken a lunch break. There was no one to take it with. Vivienne had disappeared hours ago with her usual crowd, and I had eaten at my desk the way I always did and told myself it was fine.

I glanced across the floor.

Vivienne was in the far room, perched on someone's desk, laughing at something, completely at ease. A small group of people gathered around her, drawn in without deciding to be, the way people always were with her.

I watched her for a moment.

She had always been like this, ever since we were little: at home, at school, and now at work. Every room she entered, she owned within minutes, and she accepted it like it was simply the natural order of things.

And then there was me.

No friends, no cliques, not even acquaintances. Just my desk and my work and a quiet I had gotten so used to I had stopped noticing it.

Was this her doing? Did she ensure I was so isolated that I only rely on her? The thought arrived quietly. Or am I just like this?

I turned back to my screen and caught my reflection in the dark border of the monitor.

I touched my ponytail without thinking and felt something loosen quietly in my chest. My long golden hair was back.

I had missed it more than I realized. Ronan had made me cut it. But here it was: long, blonde, and mine.

I almost smiled. I would never let anyone make me cut it off again.

I snapped out of it when a stack of papers dropped onto my desk so hard that it made me flinch.

A old short man stood over me with a cold scowl on his face. Gerald Marsh, my department second in command.

He was the kind of man who had been in an office long enough to believe the office belonged to him—grey-haired, heavy-shouldered, with the specific contempt of someone who had never once been told no by anyone beneath him.

He had made my professional life a misery for as long as I had worked here. Extra work dumped on my desk without explanation, credit taken without acknowledgment, and opportunities that dissolved before they ever reached me.

I had never understood why. Why so many people hated me, especially this old man who I had helped gain status in the eyes of Mr. Vale.

"How stupid can you be?" he snarled loudly. A few people still at their desks went very still, listening. "You think you can embarrass me like that? Presenting that nonsense in front of the CEO?"

My jaw tightened. "I—"

"The CEO and company directors were in that room." He leaned forward. "And you made me a laughingstock. What exactly is the point of vouching for you if you can't even catch your own mistakes?"

I dropped my gaze, face hot. Nobody intervened. They just stared, watching, entertained, as Gerald spat nonsense at my face.

Was I really that invisible? Or were they just that used to this?

His hand came down hard on the stack of papers. "This needs to be done by tomorrow morning. All of it."

I looked at the pile, face tight with irritation.

This wasn't my work. It was never my work. Gerald had been handing me assignments above my grade for years, taking the credit at galas and presentations while I sat at my desk and produced the things he would smile over.

In my first life, I had taken it every single time. But I wouldn't anymore.

"I can't, Mr. Marsh," I said. "Mr. Vale has already assigned me a full rewrite of my report within the week. I don't have the capacity for additional work on top of that."

The floor went completely still. Everyone's eyes widened in fascination at my retort. Even Gerald stared at me, caught off guard.

I had never pushed back. Not once. I watched the realization move across his face, and then something uglier settle behind it.

He opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by a sweet voice.

"Gerald!"

Vivienne's voice, warm and bright, cutting across the floor like she owned it.

I noticed it now. She was the only person in this office who called him by his first name. Looking back at it, it wasn't professional at all. Something was definitely going on between these two.

Her hand landed briefly on his arm, and she glanced between the pile of work and me. For just a fraction of a second, I saw it. She was genuinely surprised at my defiance.

"Oh, Isla, you're going to help him with his work!" she announced brightly, gesturing toward me with a little laugh, her short dark hair bouncing. "How nice of you! I'm sure he'll appreciate it!"

"I am not," I said simply.

Vivienne blinked, shocked. Mr. Marsh's face reddened, anger flashing before his eyes, but Vivienne gave him a look to relax before turning back to me.

"Come on, Isla, it's not even that hard." Her voice stayed light, almost amused. "Just sorting through files. You could do it in your sleep."

"If it's that easy," I said, turning back to my screen, "then you do it."

The air filled with awkward tense silence, and I was very pleased about it.

I heard Gerald mutter something under his breath. I didn't catch the words, but I caught the tone. I didn't care anymore. He wasn't worth my time.

But it was Vivienne that made me nervous.

She was still standing there, and her expression rearranged into something soft and wounded, her voice dropping into the register she used when she wanted a room on her side.

"I'm sorry, Isla," she said sweetly. "I know Mr. Vale was really hard on you today. You don't have to take it out on everyone else, though." She paused, letting it land. "I was only trying to help."

The room immediately shifted at her attention. Eyes turned to me in barely disguised disdain.

Vivienne stood there looking gracious and understanding while I sat with my jaw tight, my spine straight, and my very existence apparently reading as hostile.

"She's so mature," someone murmured.

"Honestly, I can't believe she's the younger sister."

And then, quieter, from somewhere I couldn't pinpoint: "Isla's adopted anyway, remember."

I flinched at that word, averting my gaze to my desk.

Vivienne heard it too. She didn't correct it. She just smiled softly and gestured for Gerald to follow her. He went, smoothed and redirected, the confrontation dissolved before it could finish.

Finally, I took a deep breath, going back to work, glad it was over. But before I could enter my workflow, she came back alone and sat on the edge of my desk like nothing had happened.

"Hey," Vivienne said softly. "I know today was a lot."

I didn't answer her. I kept working, ignoring her. A flicker of something crossed her face at my silence, but she pushed through it, not respecting my silence.

"I called Ronan," she said, brightening. "I thought it might help—getting out, a nice dinner, the three of us. He's meeting us at Marcello's at eight." She smiled. "What do you think?"

She had called my fiancé behind my back and made plans for my evening. And she was sitting on my desk waiting for me to be grateful.

"Sure," I said calmly and smiled.

She squealed softly, squeezed my shoulder, and left, giggling. I frowned, turning back to my screen.

In this life, I would escape my tragic death. And take back every single thing that I rightfully deserved.

Isla POV

I parked in the restaurant lot under the darkening sky. I had barely turned off the engine before Vivienne opened the car door and jumped out.

I watched through the windshield as she spotted Ronan by the entrance and hugged him with the kind of ease that didn't belong between a man and his fiancée's little sister.

The hug was too long, too comfortable. Her hands at his collar, his arms pulling her in by the waist without hesitation. They looked like two lovers who couldn't wait for the day to end to see each other.

I stepped out of the car slowly, walking toward them with ease and calmness.

An elderly couple passed them on the sidewalk, the woman leaning toward her husband in a whisper that carried: "What a cute couple."

Neither Ronan nor Vivienne corrected it, and I knew they definitely heard it. I sighed sadly. I was too stupid to realize this; but it was way too obvious that they were having an affair.

The hug ended eventually, and Ronan turned to me with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You actually came." He said it lightly, like a tease. "I thought you'd still be buried in that important job of yours."

"I won't stay long," I said flatly. "So you don't have to worry."

Something shifted in his expression, his eyes widening just a fraction at my words. He had been expecting the usual explanation, the apology, the careful management of his feelings about my working hours.

In my first life, I had always given him that. I always made sure he knew my job was secondary to him. But still, he had made my career a source of conflict despite the same job paying his bills.

But I suppose he needed someone more manageable. Someone who would shrink to fit right beside him.

Don't worry, dear fiancé. This time you and Vivienne can be together openly, and I will be right there cheering for your downfall.

Suddenly, Vivienne appeared at my side, taking my hand with a little squeeze, her voice warm and gentle.

"Relax, you're not at work." She laughed softly. "I know today was hard, being scolded by Lucian Vale in front of everyone like that—"

I removed my hand from hers immediately, disgusted that this wicked hand had touched me.

And of course she said it out loud, in front of Ronan and in front of strangers about how Mr. Vale had reprimanded me, not to comfort me, but to make sure I walked into that dinner smaller and more insecure.

"We should go in," I said. "I don't have all night."

I walked past both of them into the restaurant without looking back. I felt their eyes on me, tracking me. My behavior was probably odd to them both.

I should be less obvious about how much I know, I thought, straightening my back as I approached the host stand. I'm giving too much away.

This wasn't the endgame plan. This was just my first dinner of my second life.

I had enough time.

---

I sat across from them both, eating quietly while Vivienne led the conversation the way she always did. Ronan leaned toward her, attentive and practically hanging on every word.

I felt a pang of jealousy watching it. Not just at him, but at her. The way people gravitated toward Vivienne without being asked, the way an entire room reorganized itself around her presence.

She was confident, warm, and magnetic. Her short dark hair framed her face perfectly, her eyes was always expressive and alive when she laughed.

I knew I always felt insignificant next to her, but I need to get a hold of myself, I thought.

"Hey." Ronan's voice cut through my thoughts. "Did you hear what I said?"

I looked up. "Sorry, could you repeat that?"

He rolled his eyes, irritated. "Such an airhead," he muttered.

I pressed my lips together and said nothing, simply waiting for him to fill me in.

Vivienne filled the silence smoothly. "He said you're going wedding dress shopping this weekend. He already booked that expensive boutique on Thorne Street."

"Expensive?" I said quietly.

I remembered this.

Ronan had used my card, always my card. He couldn't stand the thought of a simple wedding but couldn't fund the one he wanted, so he had quietly, casually used my money and never mentioned it. I had found out three weeks later and said nothing because I was that person then.

I need to move my funds away and protect it.

"I'm so excited," I said, smiling. "Vivienne, you have to come. You have the best sense of style."

Vivienne beamed. "Of course! It's your big day."

"Just make sure you pick something decent, Isla." Ronan's tone shifted to that particular edge he used when he was performing authority. "Listen to Viv. Don't go picking something outrageous."

"Oh, don't worry." I smiled sweetly. "Vivienne will pick the most beautiful dress for me." I looked at Ronan directly. "I want to look my best for you, darling."

Something moved across his face. The sharpness softened, and he leaned forward slightly, tilting his head toward me.

"A little sassy tonight?" He reached across the table, his fingers brushing my hand. "Married life must have you excited."

I resisted the urge to pull away. But I kept smiling sweetly.

I glanced at Vivienne quietly. Her face was perfectly arranged, unbothered by Ronan's attention to me. But her lips had pressed into a thin line, and her hand around her glass had gone white at the knuckles.

Did she really want Ronan? Or could she not stand the thought of him focusing on me?

"Anyway!" Vivienne cut in brightly, her hand landing on Ronan's arm, subtly pulling his attention back across the table. "Don't you have news to share?"

Ronan blinked. Then straightened. "Right—yeah. I have the opportunity to present at a business gala in a few weeks. Some serious investors and industry names will be in the room."

He was already reaching for his phone, pulling up a document. "I've written out the full business plan. It's solid."

He paused and glanced at me, nervously but with a sweet charming smile. "I'll send it to you, Isla. You know—just to look over."

I tilted my head and nodded, remembering the exact business plan he was talking about.

In my first life, I had read that plan and known immediately it wasn't going to work.

The strategy was thin. The projections were built on assumptions that wouldn't survive ten minutes of serious questioning. I had said so carefully, diplomatically, choosing every word.

He had put his phone down and looked at me with the specific coldness of a man who had decided to be offended. You think because you went to a top school you're better than everyone. Know your place, Isla. You're not as special as you think you are.

I had apologized.

And then that night I had stayed up until two in the morning quietly rebuilding his entire pitch from the ground up. Fixing the projections, strengthening the strategy, and sending it to his inbox without saying a word.

He had walked into that gala with my work in his hands and walked out with investors—and never once said my name.

My family had praised his natural intelligence at Sunday dinner, and I had smiled and passed the bread rolls, genuinely happy for him.

I looked at him now across the table, he was confident, easy, and already imagining the gala success for himself.

He would send me the plan. I would read it. And this time, I would say absolutely nothing.

I wouldn't give him a single suggestion, any gentle concern, not a single word of the help he was already quietly counting on receiving.

I smiled at him across the table. "I'd love to take a look," I said.

Ronan tapped his phone, and a second later mine buzzed on the table. I picked it up and opened the document without expression.

I didn't need to read it to know what was inside. I had read every word of it once already. I felt Vivienne's eyes on me as I pretended to scroll through it.

"Shouldn't I see it too?" she asked lightly, leaning toward Ronan with a smile.

Ronan barely glanced at her. "It's a finance thing." He waved his hand dismissively. "You wouldn't need to worry about it."

Vivienne's smile stayed perfectly in place, but something behind her eyes went very still. Envy and jealousy flashed in her eyes as she glanced at Ronan.

Ronan had already looked away, completely unbothered, already watching me, and didn't notice her demeanor.

But I did. She recovered in seconds, turning to me with that warm, familiar tilt of her head.

"She is good at these things," Vivienne said warmly, almost fondly. "Isla's always been like that—very focused, very careful."

"That's not a bad thing at all. But big ideas and bold risks—that's a different kind of thinking. Some people are just happier keeping things simple and uncomplicated. Too much uncertainty makes them nervous." She added.

She said it like a compliment.

Only I heard what was underneath it. You are small and plain. You are not the kind of woman who understands vision.

"You're absolutely right," I said pleasantly.

I turned to Ronan. "This looks really strong. You're a big thinker. Always have been."

Ronan blinked and sat up slightly. But something behind his eyes stayed uncertain, waiting, wanting more than that.

"Did you—did you actually check it properly?" he asked. "You usually have more to say."

There it was. He needed me. He had always needed me. But he would never admit it or even be grateful for my help. What an egotistical man.

"It's great, Ronan," I said simply. And set my phone face down on the table.

He stared at me for a moment longer than he should have.

But Vivienne filled the silence immediately, laughing, touching his arm, redirecting. But I caught the look she threw me from the corner of her eye. A calculating, dismissive look.

I looked down at my glass.

I still didn't know how she had done it; the nose bleeds, the spreading warmth through my limbs and my blurry gaze that led to my death. But I knew it had nothing to do with the slap Ronan had landed on my cheek.

Something had already been in my system before any of that happened.

Vivienne had planned it carefully. I was certain of that.

I just didn't know when. Or how.

But I needed to find out.

Isla POV

The dinner had gone on long enough.

I had spent the last stretch of it barely present—nodding at the right moments, smiling when the conversation paused—but my mind was somewhere else entirely.

I asked myself the same question I needed to know urgently: How exactly did I die?

What should I avoid to prevent it? Did she poison me? Drug me? Put something in my product, lotion, or anything that may have been toxic to me?

It was mental exhaustion, trying to find the answer in front of the culprit. So I pushed my chair back and stood.

"I should get going," I said simply. "I need to prepare for work tomorrow."

"So soon?" Vivienne's voice was warm with fake disappointment.

"You two have each other," I said pleasantly. "Have fun."

Ronan reached for my hand before I could step away, lifting it and pressing his lips to my knuckles with a smile that was probably meant to be charming.

"Don't let work consume you," he said. "Once we're married, you won't have to worry about any of that."

I nodded, too tired to respond or care properly. I turned and left the restaurant, stepping into the cold night air.

I entered and sat in my car for a moment with the engine idling, my hands was on the wheel, staring at nothing.

I was curious what they would do now that I wasn't around. I wanted to see for my own eyes. So I decided to stick around.

I drove out of my space and moved to a quiet corner of the lot where the shadows swallowed the car whole. I turned the engine off and waited silently, holding the steering wheel tight.

It didn't take long. They finally came out together, bodies close and easy, the body language of two people who had stopped pretending when no audience remained.

I couldn't hear a word through the glass, but I didn't need to. I watched with steady, unflinching eyes.

Vivienne turned to him as they reached his car, her hand rising to his chest, her lips moving close to his ear. Ronan's hand found her waist immediately, pulling her in, and then he started kissing her slowly, not wasting time as his hand explored her body.

He pressed her back against the car door and kissed her like they had all the time in the world. My hands tightened on the steering wheel so much that my palms began to hurt.

I had known. I had seen it with my own eyes once already, in another life, through a door slightly ajar. I had died knowing this.

But it still hurt.

I felt it before I understood it—the wetness on my cheek, the tightening in my throat. I touched my face and stared at my fingers, ashamed of my own tears.

Why are you crying? I asked myself. You knew.

But knowing hadn't made it smaller. Six years wasted on this man, who I though loved.

Six years of making myself less so he could feel like more. Of handing him pieces of my life and watching him accept them without ever once asking what it cost me.

I had thought somewhere underneath everything, that it meant something to him.

That I meant something to him. But seeing how he and my little sister were about to make love in a parking lot, I knew I was nothing but a placeholder.

Ronan finally opened the car door, and they slipped inside together, still tangled. I sat in the dark and watched the windows fog slowly, felt my tears spill quietly down my face, and didn't bother wiping them.

I wasn't crying for him. I was crying for the version of me that had loved him anyway. That had given everything and called it love.

She deserved to grieve this relationship at least.

I couldn't watch anymore. So I pulled out of the corner and drove.

I didn't want to go home. The apartment would be too quiet, too small, and too full of the life I had built around people who were using me to build theirs.

So I drove to the one destination where I could cry loudly in front of no audience.

The abandoned dumpster beach.

---

I parked by the empty pavement and walked hurriedly down the steps toward the beach.

It wasn't much of a beach. It was neglected, forgotten—the kind of place the city had stopped maintaining years ago. Waste collected along the shoreline where the waves pushed it in, and nobody ever came to clear it.

It was void of any trace of human interaction, and all that was left was discarded waste.

That was exactly why I liked it.

I walked toward the water, watching the waves move under the moonlight, and finally, I dropped to my knees on the sand.

I removed my glasses and pulled the band from my hair, letting it fall loose around my shoulders.

I finally let myself cry.

I cried the way you can only cry when you're completely certain nobody is watching—ugly and uncontrolled, my hands covering my face, my whole body shaking with it. For Ronan. For Vivienne. For six years of a life I had quietly dismantled piece by piece to make room for people who were never going to deserve it.

I didn't know how long I stayed like that.

Then I heard footsteps.

I opened my eyes and turned, startled.

Lucian Vale stood a short distance away. He was in a t-shirt and joggers, visibly mid-run, chest still rising and falling from the exertion. He was sweating at his temples, and there wasn't a trace of the immaculate CEO the entire country recognized from magazine covers.

Just a man who had apparently chosen the one beach in the city that nobody else used for his evening run.

Of course.

I wiped my face frantically, glasses still in my hand, painfully aware of exactly how I looked—red-eyed, hair everywhere, sitting in the sand of a dumping ground at night like a person making very questionable life decisions.

And worse, I couldn't read his expression in the darkness.

"Miss Montclair." His voice was carefully neutral. "Are you crying because of the report deadline?"

The question landed like a slap.

It wasn't even meant to be cruel or unkind. It was just him, the respected son of the Vale Group. Everything had to be reduced to work to him. He didn't even see me as human going through a life crisis, just another variable for his growing firm.

So of course he will be here asking questions about the report deadline when I looked like this.

It wasn't fair. And I wasn't weak. I was definitely not having a breakdown over spreadsheets. Frustration burned through the grief, and I spoke before I could stop myself.

"No, Sir," I said sharply. "It's not work-related, so I'd appreciate it if you kept jogging and left me alone."

I regretted it the moment the words left my mouth. I had just snapped at my boss on a beach while crying.

I braced myself for the cold authority and reprimand. I waited, prepared for him to dismantle my professionalism.

But nothing came. The silence stretched on, and he just stood there in the darkness for a moment.

Then he said, quietly:

"I suppose the ocean does a better job of offering comfort than I do."

I stared at him, blinking.

He was—was that a joke? Had he been joking the whole time? The report deadline question—had he said it deliberately just to give me something to push back against?

I blinked at his dark silhouette, completely lost for words.

I didn't understand this man.

I never had.

I hugged myself tightly and exhaled. "I'm sorry for snapping at you."

I felt someone settle beside me in the sand and stiffened—turning to find him right there, close enough that I could see his face clearly in the moonlight for the first time since he'd arrived.

And for goodness' sake.

This man was ridiculously handsome. Unfairly, frustratingly handsome. Even sweaty from a run on an abandoned beach at night.

It didn't help that I had spent three years actively disliking him.

"It's fine," he said, staring at the ocean. "I'm glad to know it has nothing to do with work."

I muttered under my breath, "Like I would cry over you."

He turned his head slightly, one brow raised.

I felt my face go hot. "I—sorry. I didn't mean—"

This was so awkward. This was genuinely the most awkward moment of my life, and I had already died once.

"So," I said quickly, "you jog here?"

"Yes." He looked back at the ocean. "It's quiet. I sometimes try to help clear some of the waste, but it's not easy alone."

I glanced at him.

This man—Vale Capital Group CEO, heir to one of the most powerful fortunes in the country—came to a neglected dumping ground beach in his free time to pick up rubbish.

"I will push the deadline a bit for you, for the rewrite. I can't have a distressed employee working under such circumstances," he added.

I turned to look at him.

That was awfully nice. He was extending my deadline because he had simply found me crying outside work hours.

"Th-thank you," I said carefully.

He finally stood, brushing sand from his joggers, and looked down at me with that expression I still couldn't fully read in the darkness.

"Don't stay too long," he said simply. "It's late."

He turned and jogged back the way he came without another word, his figure disappearing into the dark until I couldn't hear his footsteps anymore.

I sat there a moment longer, not knowing what to make of this moment. It was sweet, strange, and a bit awkward.

I simply turned back to the ocean, taking a deep inhale. Finally alone with my thoughts, and oddly enough, the interaction had helped a lot.

I smiled reluctantly.

What a strange man.