Cora pressed her spine against the freezing tiles of the hallway. Her chest heaved with every ragged breath.

The window at the end of the hall was cracked open. A cold night breeze blew in, chilling the sweat on her skin.

She couldn't stay in that cramped hallway. She needed to get outside. She needed to clear the suffocating nightmare from her brain.

Cora grabbed an oversized, black knit cardigan from the hook by her door. She wrapped it tightly around herself and walked down the stairs to the building's ground-floor courtyard.

The courtyard was empty. Only a few dim floor lamps illuminated the wet cobblestones. The air smelled strongly of rain and wet earth.

She sat down on a damp wooden bench. She buried her face in her hands, pressing her palms against her eyes to block out the lingering image of Isolde.

Then, she heard it.

The slow, heavy, rhythmic sound of expensive leather shoes stepping onto the wet stone.

Cora's head snapped up. She stared toward the dark archway at the edge of the courtyard.

A tall man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing a perfectly tailored black trench coat.

He had his head bowed. In his right hand, he was rolling a heavy, tarnished silver coin-an ancient Roman denarius-across his knuckles. The dull, rhythmic clink of the dense metal hitting his rings was sharp in the quiet night. He suddenly paused, shifting his weight to pull a slim flashlight from his coat pocket. He clicked it on, angling the beam down toward a map in his other hand. The harsh backscatter of the light perfectly illuminated his sharp, ruthless jawline and his cold, striking profile.

Cora's pupils dilated. It felt like a sledgehammer slammed directly into her sternum.

That face. It was the exact same face that haunted the edges of her nightmares. It was the face of the man her soul remembered. Alistair.

She gasped out loud. Her entire body went completely rigid on the bench.

The man heard the sound. His head snapped toward her. His eyes, sharp and predatory, pierced through the darkness straight at the bench.

His gaze locked onto her silhouette. His dark eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown.

Panic exploded in Cora's veins. She realized the courtyard light was hitting the right side of her face.

She violently yanked the collar of her cardigan up over her cheek.

Like a terrified rabbit, she bolted up from the bench. She scrambled away, keeping her head ducked, desperate to escape his line of sight.

The man didn't speak. He just stood there, watching her with a heavy, oppressive intensity that made her skin prickle.

Cora ran past him, giving him a wide berth.

As she brushed past his space, the wind shifted. A sharp, icy scent of cedarwood mixed with rich tobacco hit her nose.

The smell was a physical blow. It wasn't just a fragrance; it was the exact scent of Alistair's private study. A phantom memory crashed over her-the warmth of a crackling hearth, the scratch of his fountain pen on parchment, and the feeling of falling asleep against his shoulder while he worked late into the night. That buried, stolen warmth now felt like a knife twisting in her chest. Her eyes instantly burned with tears. A century of unspoken grief threatened to rip out of her throat.

Cora ran. She sprinted back into the building, flew up the three flights of stairs, and slammed her apartment door shut. She threw the deadbolt.

She slid down the wooden door until she hit the floor. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, her body shaking uncontrollably.

She didn't sleep a wink. She sat on the floor until the sun came up.

At 7:00 AM, loud, rapid knocking rattled her door.

"Cora!" Lena yelled from the hallway. "The bus leaves in thirty minutes! Hurry up!"

Cora took a deep, shaky breath. She stood up. She walked to the bathroom and splashed freezing water on her swollen eyes.

She meticulously brushed her hair over her scar. She hoisted her heavy canvas duffel bag onto her shoulder.

Cora opened the door and followed Lena out to the charter bus waiting on the street.

Cora and Lena boarded the charter bus and walked straight to the back row. The engine rumbled, and the bus pulled out of the city.

Four hours later, the bus turned off the highway. It drove deep into a heavily guarded, private woodland area in Upstate New York.

The bus lurched to a stop in a massive clearing of thick mud. The doors hissed open. Freezing air, heavy with the scent of pine needles, rushed inside.

Cora adjusted the heavy straps of her backpack. She stepped off the bus, her boots sinking an inch into the wet dirt. She looked around at the cluster of white expedition tents.

The site manager, Frank Peterson, was yelling into a walkie-talkie, directing a crew carrying heavy generators.

Nearby, Dr. Leo Hayes was loudly telling a terrible joke about soil composition to anyone who would listen.

Cora ignored the noise. She walked away from the crowd toward a freshly dug trench. She crouched down.

She pulled off her glove. She scooped up a handful of the dark, damp earth. She rubbed the dirt between her thumb and forefinger, her brow furrowing as her brain automatically analyzed the soil density and age.

Suddenly, the screech of heavy tires cut through the camp. A massive, black Range Rover slammed to a halt right in front of the main command tent.

Frank Peterson dropped his walkie-talkie. He practically sprinted toward the vehicle, his posture instantly submissive.

The passenger door opened. A bodyguard in a windbreaker stepped out and popped open a large black umbrella.

Then, the rear door swung open. A long leg clad in dark tactical pants stepped out into the mud.

The man from the courtyard stepped into the gray daylight.

He was wearing a high-end, dark outdoor expedition jacket. Under the overcast sky, his sharp, cold features looked even more intimidating than they had in the firelight.

Cora was still crouching by the trench. When she saw his face, her fingers went numb. The dirt dropped from her hand, hitting the mud with a soft splat.

Dr. Thorne rushed out of the main tent, a massive, welcoming smile on his face.

Thorne clapped his hands loudly. "Advance team! Gather around! Now!"

Cora's joints felt rusted. She forced herself to stand up. She shuffled into the crowd, keeping herself in the middle of the pack. Her eyes were glued to the man.

"Everyone," Dr. Thorne announced proudly. "This is the primary benefactor and Chief Director of this project. Mr. Julian Montgomery the Fourth."

Julian Montgomery.

The name hit Cora's brain like a physical shockwave. Her ears rang.

Beside her, Chloe and Jessica were whispering frantically, practically drooling over his billionaire status and his striking looks.

Julian's cold eyes swept over the crowd. His voice was deep, rough, and commanded absolute obedience as he outlined the safety protocols.

As his gaze tracked across the back row, it suddenly stopped. His eyes locked onto Cora with the precision of a sniper.

Cora's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She instantly ducked her head, letting her dark hair fall forward to completely hide her right cheek.

Julian's eyes narrowed slightly. He recognized the terrified posture from the courtyard last night.

He didn't call her out. He smoothly broke eye contact and ordered the team to grab their hard hats and headlamps. They were going down immediately.

The crowd scattered toward the supply crates. Cora stood frozen, her hands ice-cold.

The ghost from her nightmare was her boss. The sheer terror of the coincidence made her nauseous.

Lena ran over and shoved a yellow hard hat into Cora's chest. "Come on! Keep up!"

Cora jammed the hard hat onto her head. She took a deep breath, fighting down the panic, and marched toward the dark entrance of the crypt.

The advance team gathered at the massive stone staircase leading underground. A freezing, foul wind howled out of the black opening.

Julian pulled on a pair of black tactical gloves. He clicked on a high-lumen flashlight. The intense white beam pierced the absolute darkness below.

Dr. Thorne stood at the top of the stairs with a clipboard. He began calling out the names of the first group allowed inside.

Frank Peterson and Dr. Leo Hayes stepped forward, checking their radio earpieces.

Dr. Thorne looked at his list. "Cora Foster. You're with the first group."

Chloe crossed her arms and glared. "Dr. Thorne, it's dangerous down there. Foster has zero field experience. She's going to be a liability."

Julian slowly turned his head. His cold, dead eyes pinned Chloe in place. "I don't recall asking for your opinion," he said, his voice dropping the temperature in the air. "Do not question the roster again."

Chloe's mouth snapped shut. All the color drained from her face. She took a quick step backward into the crowd.

Cora gripped the straps of her backpack. She stepped out of the group and walked to the front, stopping two paces behind Julian.

Julian didn't look back. He turned and started down the moss-covered stone steps. Cora followed his broad shoulders.

As they descended, the natural light vanished completely. The only illumination came from the erratic sweeping of their flashlights.

The air grew thick. It smelled heavily of ancient mold and a sickeningly sweet, decaying perfume.

Cora's breathing hitched. The smell was identical to the dirt that had filled her lungs in her nightmare. The sensation of being buried alive crashed into her brain.

Her vision blurred. Her heavy boot caught the edge of a loose, broken stone step.

Cora pitched forward into the darkness. A short, terrified gasp ripped from her throat.

Julian reacted with terrifying speed. He spun around and shot his hand out. His large, gloved hand clamped down hard on Cora's elbow, stopping her fall instantly.

Even through the thick fabric of her jacket, Cora felt the intense, burning heat of his grip.

Julian's flashlight beam swept up and hit her face. "Watch your step," he ordered, his voice a low rumble in the tight space.

In the harsh glare of the flashlight, the hair fell away from Cora's face. Julian got a clear, unobstructed view of the jagged, angry burn scar covering her cheek.

His eyes stopped moving. For half a second, he just stared at the ruined flesh. His dark eyebrows drew together in a microscopic frown. It wasn't disgust or pity that crossed his features, but a jarring, inexplicable flash of recognition. He stared at the jagged lines as if they were an ominous echo of a forgotten nightmare, a phantom ache suddenly registering in his own chest.

Cora felt like she'd been burned again. She violently yanked her arm out of his grip. "Sorry," she whispered, looking at her boots.

Julian dropped his hand. He didn't say another word. He turned around and continued down the stairs, though his pace was noticeably slower.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and walked through a long, arched corridor. Suddenly, the space opened up into a massive main chamber.

All the flashlights converged on the center of the room, cutting through a century of darkness.

A massive, intricately carved stone pedestal sat in the middle of the floor.

Resting on top of the pedestal was a flawless, gleaming mahogany casket.

Dr. Leo Hayes let out a low whistle. "Good God. The wood hasn't rotted at all."

Frank Peterson immediately started barking orders, having the crew set up portable LED work lights around the perimeter.

The bright lights clicked on, illuminating the faded Victorian murals on the walls.

Cora stared at the mahogany casket. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs. A heavy, suffocating sense of destiny wrapped around her throat.