The C-17 Globemaster was a beast. It sat on the tarmac like a dormant dragon, its rear ramp lowered to swallow the wounded.

The engines were already spooling up, a high-pitched whine that vibrated in the chest.

Julian refused the stretcher. He sat in a wheelchair, his face pale, his side heavily bandaged, but his back straight. Imogen pushed him up the ramp.

Inside, the cargo hold was cavernous and dim. It smelled of hydraulic fluid, sweat, and aviation fuel. Rows of seats lined the sides, and stretchers were secured in the center.

General Stone was already strapped in near the front. He nodded at them as they passed. He looked older today. The weight of the command, the near-death experience, it sat heavy on his shoulders.

Imogen secured Julian's wheelchair into the locking mechanism on the floor. She sat in the jump seat next to him, buckling her four-point harness.

"Comfortable?" she shouted over the noise.

"Never better," Julian lied. The vibration of the plane was sending spikes of pain through his wound, but he wouldn't show it.

The ramp closed, sealing out the blinding desert sun. The hold plunged into a red-lit gloom.

The takeoff was rough. The plane shuddered as it fought for altitude. Imogen reached out and gripped Julian's hand. Her palm was sweaty.

Julian looked at her. In the red light, she looked fierce. Beautiful.

Once they leveled off, the roar of the engines settled into a steady drone. The soldiers around them began to doze off, exhaustion taking over.

Julian unbuckled his harness.

"What are you doing?" Imogen hissed.

"Come here," he said. He tugged on her hand.

Imogen looked around. No one was watching. She unbuckled and leaned in close, kneeling on the metal floor between his knees.

"You need to rest," she whispered.

"I need you," he said.

He reached into his pocket. His movements were slow, deliberate. He pulled out a small object.

It wasn't a diamond. It was a brass shell casing. A 9mm casing. He had polished it against his uniform until it shone like gold.

"I didn't have time to go to Tiffany's," he murmured. "I found this on the floor of the tent after the attack."

Imogen stared at the piece of brass. It was a piece of garbage. Debris of war.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

"Julian..."

"Imogen Sterling," he said, his voice barely audible over the engines. "We survived hell. I don't want to do heaven without you either."

He took her left hand. The brass casing was too big for her finger, but he slid it onto her thumb. It fit perfectly.

"Will you marry me?"

Imogen didn't answer with words. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

It wasn't a movie kiss. It was awkward. Their noses bumped. She tasted of stale coffee and he tasted of painkillers. But it was desperate and real.

She pulled back, breathless. "Yes."

She looked at the brass ring on her thumb. "It's perfect."

"It's temporary," Julian promised. "The real one is in the Powers family vault. Isolde promised me I could raid it."

Imogen laughed. She rested her head on his knee, holding his hand against her cheek.

"We're going home," she whispered.

Julian looked out the small porthole window. The desert was gone. Below them, the ocean stretched out, vast and blue.

"Home," he repeated. But his eyes narrowed slightly. He knew the capital. He knew the politics. The desert had bullets, but the capital had whispers and knives in the dark.

"Are you ready?" he asked. "The sharks will be waiting."

Imogen kissed his knuckles. "Let them come. We're shark hunters now."

Isolde sat behind the massive mahogany desk in the library of Powers Manor. The room was silent, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock.

She held a newspaper in her hands. The Capital Financial Times.

The headline screamed in bold black ink: VANCE SHIPPING EMPIRE COLLAPSES AMID SAFETY SCANDAL.

Isolde traced the headline with a manicured fingernail. A cold, satisfied smile played on her lips.

In her past life, the Vance family had been untouchable. Their ships had leaked oil into the pristine bays of the southern coast, killing the wildlife and ruining the local economy. They had covered it up, paid off the inspectors, and used their profits to fund the opposition party-the party that eventually executed her family.

Not this time.

This time, Isolde had leaked the safety reports three months early. She had shorted their stock through a shell company.

The door opened. Duke Elliot walked in, carrying two cups of coffee. He placed one on the desk.

"You look like the cat that just ate the canary," he said, leaning against the edge of the desk.

"The canary was poisonous," Isolde said, folding the paper. "I just made sure it choked the right predator."

Elliot took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "The Vance heir had a hunting accident this morning. Shot in the leg. They say he'll never walk without a cane."

Isolde didn't blink. "Karma is efficient."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Elliot asked. "Karma?"

"We call it necessary housekeeping," Isolde said. She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Is the car ready? Julian and Stone are landing in an hour."

"The motorcade is waiting," Elliot said. He set his cup down. "Isolde."

She stopped. "Yes?"

"You're shaking."

Isolde looked at her hands. They were trembling slightly.

It wasn't fear of the Vance family. It was the date.

October 14th.

In her previous life, this was the day her sister, Seraphina, died in childbirth. Stone hadn't been there. He had been delayed at the front. Seraphina had given up. She had bled out calling his name.

"I'm fine," Isolde lied. "Just excited to see them."

"You're a terrible liar," Elliot said. He walked over and took her hands in his. His grip was firm, grounding. "Whatever happens, we handle it. Together."

Isolde nodded. She couldn't tell him. She couldn't say, My sister is scheduled to die today.

They got into the armored limousine. The drive to the airfield was tense. Isolde kept checking her watch. Every minute felt like an hour.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her chest. A phantom pain. Her intuition-the strange, somatic link she had to her timeline-was screaming.

"Turn around," Isolde said.

The driver looked in the rearview mirror, confused. "My Lady?"

"Turn around!" Isolde shouted. Her voice cracked. "Go to the Stone residence! Now!"

"Isolde, the plane..." Elliot started.

"Seraphina," Isolde gasped, clutching her chest. "She's early. Something is wrong. I can feel it."

Elliot didn't argue. He pressed the intercom button. "Change of plans. Stone Residence. Code Red speed."

The heavy car swerved, tires screeching as it pulled a U-turn across the highway.

Isolde pulled out her phone and dialed the Stone house.

Busy signal.

She dialed again. Busy.

"Pick up," she hissed. "Pick up, damn it."

She looked at Elliot, her eyes wide with panic. "If we're late... if Stone isn't there..."

"He's landing now," Elliot said, typing furiously on his own phone. "I'm sending a helicopter to the tarmac to pick him up. He'll meet us there."

Isolde stared out the window as the city blurred past. She prayed to a God she wasn't sure believed in her anymore.

Change the fate, she begged. I gave you Vance. Give me Seraphina.

The Stone mansion was in chaos.

Maids were running back and forth with basins of hot water and towels that were already stained red. The air smelled of metallic copper and lavender panic.

Isolde burst through the front doors, Elliot right behind her.

"Where is she?" Isolde screamed at the butler.

"The master bedroom, My Lady," the butler stammered, his face pale. "The doctor says... he says the bleeding won't stop."

Isolde didn't wait. She hiked up her skirt and sprinted up the grand staircase.

At the top of the stairs, she collided with a wall of noise. Screams. Her sister's screams.

Isolde threw the bedroom doors open.

The room was hot and stifling. Seraphina was on the bed, her skin the color of ash. Her eyes were rolled back, unfocused.

"Seraphina!" Isolde rushed to the bedside. She grabbed her sister's limp hand. It was cold.

"Isolde?" Seraphina whispered. Her voice was a ghost. "I'm tired. I want to sleep."

"No!" Isolde shook her. "You do not sleep! You hear me? You fight!"

"I can't..." Seraphina's eyes fluttered shut. "Tell Marcus... tell him I tried."

"Tell him yourself!" Isolde yelled.

Suddenly, a roar came from the hallway.

"Move! Get out of my way!"

General Stone charged into the room. He was still wearing his desert fatigues, covered in dust. He looked like a madman.

He fell to his knees beside the bed. "Seraphina!"

Seraphina's eyes snapped open. The sound of his voice was like a jolt of electricity.

"Marcus?"

"I'm here," Stone choked out, gripping her face with his rough hands. "I'm here, baby. I'm home."

Behind him, a pale and sweating Julian was wheeled into the room by Imogen. He took one look at the situation, his professional instincts overriding the agony in his side.

"Get those fluids running wide open!" Julian barked at the terrified attending physician, his voice strained. "She's in hypovolemic shock! Elevate her legs! Now!" He gripped the armrest of his chair, his knuckles white, fighting a wave of dizziness.

The room exploded into action. Stone held Seraphina's hand, whispering promises, begging her to stay. Julian shouted orders from his chair, his medical authority overriding the panic.

Isolde stood back, her heart pounding against her ribs. She watched the monitor. The heart rate was dropping.

Beep... beep... beep...

"Push!" the midwife shouted. "One more time, My Lady! For the General!"

Seraphina looked at Stone. She saw the fear in the eyes of the man who never feared anything. She took a deep, ragged breath. She screamed, a primal sound of defiance against death.

And then... a cry.

A thin, high-pitched wail that cut through the tension like a knife.

The midwife held up a small, wriggling bundle.

"It's a boy," she wept. "It's a boy."

Stone buried his face in the mattress and sobbed. Great, heaving sobs that shook his massive frame.

Seraphina smiled weakly. "Marcus..."

Stone looked up. He took the baby, wrapping it in his dirty fatigue jacket. He held it down for Seraphina to see.

"Look," he whispered. "Look at him. He's a fighter. Just like you."

Isolde leaned against the doorframe. Her legs gave out. She slid down to the floor, burying her face in her hands.

Elliot was there instantly. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.

"You did it," he whispered into her hair. "She's safe."

Isolde nodded, tears soaking Elliot's expensive suit. The timeline had bent. Death had come for the Stone family, and they had sent it away empty-handed.

Julian sat in his wheelchair, wiping sweat from his forehead. Imogen stood behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders. They shared a look. A look that said: We survived.