Cleo Carrington used to be Northvale's brightest spark—wild, fearless, impossible to pin down.

And then she married Damian Joubert.

The most controlled, rigid heir in their world.

Damian ran like a machine. Perfect standards. Zero slack. And he expected the same from his wife.

Cleo loved noise—clubs, music, bodies moving. He had every venue in the city blacklist her.

She loved freedom—the blazing Afriyan sun, the northern lights in Icelorn. She raced cars. She jumped out of planes.

He took her passport. Shut it all down.

She loved photography. Painting.

He called it all pointless. Locked her camera and brushes away like they meant nothing.

She was losing it. Still, she forced herself to learn his rules—trained herself into the perfect Mrs. Joubert.

Even after she dulled her claws, someone took a shot at her at a banquet.

She snapped. Lunged. Ended up fighting a whole group of women.

Damian walked in to whispers and hungry stares.

He didn't back her up. Not even close. He turned to the woman who started it, calm as ever.

"Sorry. I failed to discipline her. She... doesn't understand propriety."

It hit like a truck. Ice flooded her veins.

She'd spent almost her whole life proving one thing—Damian didn't love her.

Later, a car crash ended her short, suffocating life.

Then she opened her eyes.

Back to before her wedding to Damian.

***

Northvale, Arlencia.

Cleo stared at her reflection—still bright, still alive. Her heart pounded, hungry for freedom again. She took a slow breath.

This time, she didn't want Damian. Didn't want his suffocating version of love.

She just wanted herself back—wild, blazing, reckless.

She bolted downstairs and found her father, Harold Carrington, at breakfast.

"I'm calling off my engagement to Damian."

Harold froze, spoon midair. He looked up, eyes sharp with anger.

"What kind of nonsense is that? I've put up with your attitude before, but this alliance with the Jouberts? People would kill for it. Do you even know how exceptional Damian is? His family, his connections, his ability, his character—he's one in a million."

Cleo met his gaze, saw it clear—he'd box her up and ship her off if it meant sealing the deal. She let out a cold laugh.

"If he's so amazing, let your precious illegitimate daughter have him. I'll hand her the damn engagement myself."

Harold went rigid, then his anger flipped—straight into shock, then something close to excitement.

"Wh-What did you say? You're really willing to give it to your sister?"

"Yeah. You've always favored that homewrecker and her kid. Nora's sweet, obedient. You dumped a fortune into turning her into the perfect socialite. She's exactly what a family like the Jouberts wants."

Harold's face darkened. "Watch your mouth. That's your sister. This marriage was set years ago—it's not something you just change. But if you're so set on giving it up... fine. I'll talk to the Jouberts about switching the bride."

He shot to his feet, grabbed his coat, and rushed out—didn't even finish breakfast.

Cleo watched him go—acting reluctant, but barely hiding how thrilled he was. It was almost funny.

She didn't say another word. Just went upstairs, grabbed her ID and bag, and walked out.

First stop—an expedited visa out of Arlencia.

Then she called her best friend, Stella, and headed straight for the hottest club in downtown Northvale.

Bass thumping. Lights hazy. Bodies packed tight on the dance floor.

Cleo felt it hit—freedom, raw and electric.

She dragged Stella into the crowd. Dancing. Drinking. No brakes.

Then she went further—called in a few ridiculously hot club guys.

Stella just stared. Cleo looked like she'd snapped every leash—glowing, reckless, alive.

"Cleo, aren't you about to marry into the Jouberts? Damian's strict as hell. Old-school. Their house rules are insane. If he finds out you're here—and you called in these hot guys—we're dead. Seriously, if you wanna ruin your life, don't drag me with you."

Cleo tipped her head back and took a long drink. The burn slid down, sharp and clean.

She smiled, slow and lazy. "Relax. I already handed the engagement to Nora."

"You what?!" Stella's eyes went wide. "Weren't you obsessed with Damian? Every rich guy was chasing you, and you blew them all off. Then one gala—you see him, boom, love at first sight. You literally said only a guy like him was good enough for you."

Cleo's lips curved, but her eyes stayed cool. Distant.

"Liking someone and being right for them? Not the same. We don't fit. And I'm done liking him. Love's great, sure—but freedom's better. I've got looks, I've got money. I'm not settling. I'll find someone who actually matches me. Like..."

Her gaze slid to the shy hunk beside her. She reached up, hooked a finger under his chin, tilting it playfully.

"These pretty boys? Not bad at all."

A cold voice cut in from behind her—low, sharp, completely out of place.

"Who are you calling not bad?"

Cleo went still, then slowly turned.

Damian stood by their booth.

Black suit, perfectly tailored. Tall, straight-backed. Cold, controlled. He didn't belong in this chaos—like something untouchable dropped into the middle of it. Everything else faded next to him.

Stella sucked in a breath, instantly sober. She shot Cleo a panicked look, grabbed her bag, and bolted.

Now it was just Cleo and Damian, staring each other down.

And her hand—still hooked under that guy's chin.

Damian's gaze dropped to it. His eyes went dark.

He stepped in, grabbed her wrist, then flicked a freezing look at the guy.

"Get out."

The guy went pale. Him and the rest scattered in seconds.

Cleo yanked her hand free, rubbing her wrist, already red. She shot him a glare.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I should be asking you that." His voice cut cold. "Why are you in a place like this?"

"I felt like it." She shrugged, careless, defiant. "What's it to you?"

He studied her—stubborn, unapologetic, bold. His gaze darkened.

Before she could react, he bent and threw her over his shoulder.

"What are you doing? Put me down! You jerk!"

Furious, she pounded his back, kicking hard.

He didn't even slow down.

He carried her straight through the staring crowd, out of the club, and shoved her into the black Rolls-Royce at the curb.

"Drive."

"Yes, sir."

The car glided off. Cleo lunged for the handle, ready to jump.

"Cleo."

Damian grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the seat.

He stared at her, voice flat and cold. "How long are you gonna keep this up?

"You're about to marry into my family. I gave you the house rules. One clause—home before ten. No bars. No clubs. Nothing like this. Didn't you read it?

"You're not coming to places like this again. As for tonight, when we get back, you'll write a ten-thousand-word reflection. I want a full breakdown of what you did and why it won't happen again."

'Ten thousand words? House rules?' Cleo almost laughed, anger rising sharp in her chest.

In her last life, those thousands of rules had boxed her in for years. She'd lived like a puppet.

Not this time.

"Who the hell's writing your stupid reflection?" she snapped. "What do your rules have to do with me? I'm not marrying you."

The car went dead quiet.

Damian turned, sharp. His eyes locked on hers—disbelief, something darker underneath.

He held her gaze for a long beat, jaw tight.

"What do you mean?"

Cleo looked at him. The urge to tell him everything cooled just as fast.

He already hated how wild she was. If she told him now his perfect bride had been swapped in—wouldn't that be letting him off easy?

Her last life pressed in on her. Suffocating.

She drew a slow breath. 'Let him suffer a little.

'Let him sit with the idea of marrying me for a few more days.'

She shoved it all down and turned to the window.

"Nothing. I was just mad."

Damian watched her for a beat. The darkness in his eyes eased a little, but his tone stayed firm.

"Sit properly."

Even pissed, he sat ramrod straight, not a hair out of place. The memory of those suffocating rules hit her all over again.

She didn't move.

Instead, she slouched across the seat, kicked off her heels, and pressed her bare feet into the cashmere carpet. Then she rolled the window down and let the night wind tear through her styled hair.

Bold. Bright. Unrestrained. That was her.

Damian watched her—completely out of place in his perfectly ordered world. His brows pulled tight, but he didn't say a word.

The car stopped in front of the Carrington house.

Cleo pushed the door open and stepped out.

"Cleo."

Damian's voice came from behind her, cool as ever. "Ten thousand words. On my desk tomorrow."

Then he told the driver to go.

Cleo stared at the fading taillights, then kicked a stone hard across the pavement.

She pushed the door open and walked inside.

Harold, Rosalind, and Nora sat on the couch like they'd been waiting.

The second Harold saw her—the smell of alcohol on her, clothes a mess—his face darkened.

"Where the hell have you been? Coming back this late, looking like that—what do you think you look like?"

Cleo didn't even answer. She headed straight for the stairs. "I'm not marrying Damian anymore. Where I go, what I wear—that's my business."

Nora stood and walked over, barely hiding the excitement in her eyes. "Cleo, Dad said... you're giving the engagement to me. Is that true?"

Cleo looked at her—fake sweet, all sugar—and felt nothing but disgust. "Yeah, it's yours. Isn't taking other people's scraps your thing?"

"Watch your mouth!" Harold snapped. "A man like Damian is a dream match people would kill for! This marriage is a once-in-a-lifetime win for our family!

"I already spoke to the Jouberts about switching the bride. Compared to you, they're clearly happier with Nora.

"Just don't come crying when you regret it!"

Cleo let out a quiet laugh, voice steady. "Relax. I don't do regrets."

Rosalind sighed from the side, voice dripping fake concern.

"Cleo, I don't mean to criticize, but your temper's out of control. Without marrying into the Joubert family, what respectable family would even take you?"

Cleo's gaze snapped sharp, her eyes going ice-cold. "And who do you think you are, lecturing me? Some washed-up side piece?

"Maybe focus on your own daughter. Just because you stole something doesn't mean you get to keep it. Don't end up losing everything after all that scheming."

Rosalind's face flushed, then went pale. She had nothing left to say. Harold looked ready to blow.

Cleo didn't bother with another word. She turned and headed upstairs, straight to her room.

***

Early next morning, before Cleo was even awake, Damian showed up.

Same as always—cool, composed, flawless. First thing out of his mouth: "The reflection essay."

Cleo leaned on the doorframe, sleep shirt hanging loose, collar slipping just enough.

She yawned. "Didn't write it. Never will."

His face went cold, his voice sharper. "When are you going to learn to behave?"

"I was born this way." She held his gaze, eyes steady and defiant. "Behave? Not happening. I don't do control."

"You—"

Before it could snap, Nora stepped in right on cue.

She wore a simple, elegant dress, posture straight, smile soft.

"Damian, don't blame Cleo." Her voice stayed gentle as she handed him a neatly written letter. "She might've just been in a bad mood last night. I already wrote the reflection essay for her. Is this okay?"

Damian took it and skimmed. When he looked back at Cleo, the disappointment hit harder.

"Look at your sister, then look at yourself. Same house, same upbringing. Why can't you learn some basic sense from her?" His tone cooled. "Forget last night. Don't let it happen again. Go change. You're coming with me to a business reception later."

"Nope." Cleo didn't hesitate. "Not going. Take Nora. She fits your standards better, right?"

Damian's brows pulled tight. "Cleo. You're my fiancée."

The words hit sharp.

There it was. He wasn't marrying her because he wanted her—just because the engagement was set. The Joubert family didn't back out of deals.

It had nothing to do with love.

If he had a choice, he would've picked Nora a long time ago.

'Fine,' she thought. 'This time, you get exactly what you want.'

Nora jumped in, soft as ever. "Damian, maybe Cleo's not used to formal events. I'll go with her. If she misses anything, I'll remind her."

She took Cleo's arm and steered her upstairs. "Cleo, I'll help you pick something."

The door shut. Cleo yanked her hand free, eyes gone cold.

"No one's here. Who are you putting on a show for?"

The softness dropped off Nora's face, even if her voice stayed steady. "You're mistaken. I really do want us to get along."

"Get along?" Cleo let out a short laugh. "Not in this lifetime. Unless you're dead. Actually—even then, I'd celebrate on your grave. Might even bring your mom."

Nora finally cracked. "Don't push me. You think I like flattering you? Once Damian knows the bride is me, he'll be even happier. Someone like you was never worthy of him."

"Oh?" Cleo lifted a brow, stepping closer, voice edged with mockery. "Then why didn't you say that just now? Not confident? Or scared he'd call it off the second he realized it's you?"