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.

Isla POV

I sat in the passenger seat of Ronan's car, watching the streets slide past the window.

The wedding dress fitting was today, and I had been dreading it all week.

Being this close to Ronan made my skin crawl in a way it never used to. I kept my eyes on the window and my hands in my lap and tried to look like a woman who was simply quiet rather than a woman who had watched him press her sister against a car door three nights ago.

"What's with the attitude?"

I turned to him. He was glancing at me, dark hair falling across his forehead, jaw tight.

"It's nothing," I said.

He scoffed. "You've been ignoring my texts and calls all week."

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "What have I done that's so terrible you can't even pick up the phone?"

I almost laughed at the audacity. I didn't even know why he still insisted on being with me. He could simply go and date Vivienne.

I was tired of being the side piece in this relationship.

"I was busy," I said, averting my gaze.

Which wasn't a lie. Gerald had been making my week miserable for not completing his extra work, and the rewrite was still sitting on my desk. Somewhere between all of it, I had been quietly planning my escape from this miserable life.

"Work has been demanding," I added, adjusting my glasses.

His knuckles went white on the wheel, and I stiffened in my seat immediately.

I had forgotten this about him—or maybe I had chosen not to remember. The way his anger arrived suddenly, without any warning.

I remembered every moment he punched the wall, flipped the table, and the cruel way he threw rocks at ducks at the lake.

He may have never hit me during any of those moments, but the slap he had given me in my last life reminded me that he was capable of such things.

I focused on my breathing, holding my hands in my lap to not show my fear.

"I didn't beg for this marriage, Isla." His voice dropped low. "You did. Your parents gave me a mouthful about the proposal. The least you can do is answer my calls."

I nodded out of habit, before stopping myself. I need to stand up for myself and stop being a pushover.

"I can't be available twenty-four hours a day, Ronan," I said, keeping my eyes forward. "I have a job. A career. The same career that's funding this fitting today."

He almost sideswiped a car, making me hold on to my seat in fear. I glanced at him with wide eyes.

The driver honked at him as he almost crashed into him, cursing as he passed Ronan's car.

"What did you just say?" He turned to look at me, face darkening, a vein visible at his temple.

I opened my mouth, not knowing what to say. My face turned paler by the second, and I could feel my hands visibly shaking.

And then his phone buzzed.

The sound cut through the tension, and he glanced at the screen immediately.

Vivi ❤️

He picked up without another word to me. His whole face changed—the anger smoothing out almost instantly, his voice shifting into something warmer as he answered.

I turned back to the window, grateful for Vivienne's timing.

But I had definitely learned my lesson. Don't provoke Ronan when he's driving. Don't provoke Ronan at all when I'm alone.

I could feel my hands shaking in my lap. I pressed them flat against my thighs and stared at the passing streets and told myself firmly that I was not going to cry in this car.

I was scared of him.

That was the truth. I had spent six years dressing his anger issues as something else—calling it his passion, his intensity.

I was just scared of him. And I was sad that it took me dying in my last life to realize that.

---

We arrived at the boutique, and Ronan got out without opening my door. I was used to it, and I was glad he was ignoring me, at least.

I looked up and felt my stomach drop.

My parents were already there, standing by the entrance with Vivienne between them. All three of them laughing at something like a photograph someone had planned.

I exhaled slowly.

My parents. My adopted parents. The people who had loved me once—until Vivienne arrived and I became the before picture in a story about someone else.

I watched my mother touch Vivienne's arm, laughing, and felt something old and tired move through my chest.

I got out of the car and walked toward them, arms folded.

Vivienne spotted me first. She turned with a bright smile and pulled me into a hug before I could brace for it.

"What took you so long to get out of the car!" she said warmly against my shoulder.

"I got motion sickness," I said flatly.

Ronan raised a brow at my lie, but I ignored him.

My parents hadn't greeted me. I stood there for a moment waiting before accepting that it wasn't coming.

My mother looked me over. "What's that expression? You don't look happy to be here."

"Just tired from work," I said politely.

"Well." My father straightened. "You could try to look a little more excited. It's your wedding fitting."

"She thinks she's too good for all this," Ronan muttered, already moving toward the entrance without us.

I pressed my lips together.

My mother's eyes cut to me immediately. "What is that face? Is that how you treat the man you're about to marry? You should be grateful—"

"Mom." I kept my voice even.

She kept going, leaning closer, her voice dropping into disappointment. "Don't you dare let a good man like that slip away because of your attitude. You should be on your knees thankful—"

I zoned out at her rambling, staring at the wall behind her.

"What exactly is your problem today?" my father said.

"She had a long week at work." Vivienne stepped in smoothly, her voice gentle and certain. "Let's not get involved in her and Ronan's little disagreement. Today is supposed to be about Isla."

What a two-faced bitch.

My father looked at her with the specific warmth he reserved for her and nodded. "You're so thoughtful."

My mother glanced at me, dissatisfied, before turning back to Vivienne with a smile.

"So much more gracious," she said lightly, almost to herself. "Unlike some people we picked up off the street."

I blinked, my chest tightening at her comment.

Her words landed the way they always did. She always made sure to remind me of that.

My mother was already smiling at Vivienne, unbothered by how her words hurt.

"Mom," Vivienne said softly, a little laugh in her voice. "Come on. Today is Isla's day."

"You're right," my father agreed.

They moved toward the entrance together, the three of them, and I stood on the pavement for a moment in the morning light.

Picked up off the street.

Said at my wedding dress fitting with a casual smile, like I had begged them to take me in.

I put my shoulders back and followed them inside. I could endure this for a few more hours.

Once I got in, Vivienne appeared at my side almost immediately, pressing a small gift into my hands. A ribbon-tied box, neat and pretty.

I hadn't even noticed she was holding it before.

"I saw it and thought of you," she said warmly.

I took the box from her, opening it in front of her. A tin of loose leaf tea sat inside—one of my favorite blends. The exact one I had loved since I was sixteen and never once mentioned to anyone.

I went very still. Before, I would have been grateful that Vivienne was the only one who knew me in and out.

She had always kept my tea quietly restocked for years. Every tin replaced before it emptied, every blend exactly the kind I liked.

But now I needed to question it.

My hands were perfectly steady as I looked up at her. Could this be what she used to poison me?

How many cups? How many years? How many times had I wrapped my hands around a warm mug and drunk whatever she put in front of me without a single thought?

"Thank you," I said.

"Of course," she said softly with a smile. "You're my sister. I'd do anything for you."

I thought so too. But I'm never trusting you again.

Isla POV

"Good morning, we're so glad to have you here."

The consultant beamed as she led us into the private fitting room—mirrors on every wall, dresses arranged along the rails.

I looked at them and felt nothing, as I mostly stayed behind.

Vivienne had already drifted to Ronan's side. My parents flanked them naturally, effortlessly, like a beautiful photograph of a family going shopping.

Nobody had thought to stand beside me, even though this wedding fitting was mine. I held onto the tin bag in my hand tightly before letting it down.

The consultant's eyes swept the room and landed on Vivienne.

"And you must be the bride." She reached for Vivienne's hand warmly, smiling between her and Ronan. "We have so many beautiful options for you today."

"Oh no." Vivienne laughed softly, touching her collarbone like the mistake genuinely surprised her. "I'm not the bride."

I stepped forward gently. "I am," I said with a flat, annoyed face.

"Oh, my sincerest apologies." The consultant turned to Ronan with her smile fully intact and directed her apology at him.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," my mother cut in briskly. "Ronan, what did you have in mind for the dress?"

"Ronan?" I said, bewildered.

She glanced at me briefly. "Well, it is his wedding."

"It's my dress," I said evenly, turning to touch the nearest gown along the rail. "And my card is paying for this fitting. So my money, my rules, Mother."

"Your money?" Vivienne said, her voice catching with what sounded like genuine surprise.

I turned toward them.

Vivienne's expression was open, almost innocent. My mother's face was unimpressed. My father stood beside her with his arms crossed, unbothered, like he was waiting for the conversation to move past me.

And Ronan had gone pale.

So Vivienne and my parents genuinely believed Ronan was successful, not knowing he was a very good actor with no vision or intelligence between his eyes.

Whatever. They could keep thinking that.

"Yes," I said pleasantly, correcting myself. "My future husband's money is my money."

I glanced at Ronan with a small smile. "Isn't that right, darling?"

Ronan looked at me for a moment. Something unreadable moved across his face before he turned to my mother.

"She can pick whatever dress she likes," he said smoothly. "I don't mind."

"Ooh." Vivienne had already moved to one of the rails, pulling a gown free and holding it toward me with a bright smile. "This one. It would be so beautiful on you, Isla."

I looked at the dress and recognized it immediately.

The dress from my first life. The exact one. I had never realized how much I had let her steer my choices in almost everything. My education was the only place I had ever truly held my ground.

I was glad even past me had that much.

Still, I had never even liked this dress. It wasn't bad. But it just wasn't mine.

"Simple and elegant," the consultant agreed, already turning to Ronan with a warm smile. "It would suit the bride beautifully."

Ronan glanced at it and nodded. "Alright. Let her try it on."

"Did I say I wanted that dress?" I spoke coldly.

Silence filled the room, everyone shocked by my ice-cold voice.

My father stepped toward me, his voice low and careful. "Come on, Isla. Vivienne knows your taste."

I looked at him, irritation in my gaze.

He had stood beside my mother for years and said nothing while she reminded me where I came from. His gentleness now cost him nothing and meant even less.

I ignored him, not even sparing him a glance like what he had done to me all those years.

"I'm not picking that dress." I said it clearly, without heat. "Wait here. I'll choose my own."

Vivienne's face shifted to a downcast expression. Her eyes widened, and her fingers tightened around the fabric of the dress still in her hands.

I knew that look. She was preparing to wind up.

"I—I didn't mean to upset you," she said softly, her voice carrying just enough to reach my parents.

They moved toward her immediately, their expressions softening without hesitation.

"Well, you did," I said. "And please put that dress back. I don't want it."

"What is wrong with you today?" My mother's voice rose sharply.

I turned to face her, ready to snap back at her—but then her hand came across my face before I saw it coming.

The sound rang through the fitting room. It was a sharp, clean slap.

I stood very still, not even shocked anymore.

The sting spread slowly across my cheek. The consultant had gone rigid, shocked by the scene. Nobody spoke as they waited for my reaction.

I caught Vivienne's smirk before it disappeared. Then she was at my mother's side, taking her arm gently.

"Mom," she said softly. "We're in public."

My mother exhaled, then straightened. She said nothing to me, shooting me a disgusted gaze.

I pressed my fingers briefly to my cheek and dropped my hand. I turned away from my mother's anger, my father's silence, and Vivienne's careful performance and went to find my dress.

I didn't have energy for any back and forth or another fake performance. As I walked away, I felt eyes on my back.

I glanced over my shoulder. Ronan was watching me—not with anger or embarrassment at what my mother had just done in public.

Just watching quietly, hands in his pockets.

I ignored it and kept walking.

I passed a mirror and stopped.

The red mark from my mother's hand sat bright against my pale cheek. I stared at it for a moment.

Then I looked at the rest of myself.

Blonde hair pulled back in its usual ponytail. Simple shirt and trousers with flat shoes, paired with the glasses I couldn't function without.

I had stopped caring about how I looked so gradually I hadn't noticed it happening. There was no single moment I could point to. Just years of making myself smaller and quieter and easier to overlook until I had become someone even I didn't particularly want to look at.

I glanced away.

And that was when the dress caught my eye.

I walked toward it slowly and reached out to touch the fabric.

A mermaid white silhouette dress stood in front of me.

The oversized bow at the shoulders was bold and dramatic, like a declaration. Smooth satin flowed from the tight bodice down to the flared hem, elegant yet unapologetic. It looked like it belonged on someone who knew her worth—someone who walked into a room and made the air shift around her.

My fingers lingered on the cool, luxurious fabric.

For the first time in years, I didn't feel like shrinking away.

I wanted to be the woman who wore this dress.

---

Ronan POV

She's acting strange. She's been acting strange for the past few days—not answering my calls, talking back, and keeping more to herself.

It felt like she was planning something behind my back.

I watched her walk away, ignoring her mother's voice, ignoring Vivienne, ignoring all of it entirely.

Her mother turned to me. "I'm so sorry about that."

"It's fine," I said.

"I only wanted to help her find a dress," Vivienne said softly, her eyes filling. "I didn't expect her to react like that. I didn't mean to—"

"Forget it." I cut her off. "It's not a big deal. Just let her choose her dress."

Vivienne's mouth closed, embarrassed that I had cut her off. Her face twisted in anger.

I looked back toward where Isla had disappeared among the rails.

I didn't entirely understand Vivienne. She wasn't as innocent as she tried to appear—I had always known that. But she was easier. Uncomplicated. And she was far gentler on the eyes than Isla.

Isla was too sharp, too quiet in ways that made you feel watched. But something about her today was different, and I couldn't place it.

Vivienne touched my arm lightly, and I glanced down at her. She smiled up at me, warm and soft—everything about her carefully arranged and performed.

I knew what she was.

But it didn't matter.

Demons also taste sweet.