Aria shot up in bed, a strangled gasp tearing from her lungs. She clawed at the sheets, her chest heaving as she dragged in deep, greedy gulps of air. The air was warm. Clean. It didn't smell of rain and rust and blood.
She froze. The biting wind of the rooftop was gone. Instead, a gentle, conditioned breeze whispered across her skin. She looked down at her hands. They were pale, slender, and completely unmarked. No rope burns. No blood under her nails.
This wasn't right.
She threw back the heavy silk duvet and scrambled out of the bed. Her legs were weak, unsteady, like a newborn foal's. They buckled, and she fell to her knees on a thick, plush Persian rug. The landing was soft, jarringly so.
Ignoring the dull ache in her knees, she crawled, then stumbled, toward the bathroom. It was a vast space of marble and chrome. She gripped the edge of the cool stone vanity, her knuckles white, and forced herself to look up.
The girl in the mirror was her, but not. Her face was younger, softer, the lines of exhaustion and pain not yet etched into her features. There was no angry red slice on her cheek from the edge of a document. Her eyes, though, were ancient. They held the horror of a death she had just experienced. She touched her face, her fingers trembling. It was her skin. Her face.
Her gaze drifted to the edge of the smart mirror. In sleek digital script, it displayed the date and time. Her breath hitched. Her eyes locked on the year.
Five years ago.
It was a hallucination. A final, cruel trick her dying brain was playing on her. It had to be.
She fumbled with the faucet, turning the cold water on full blast. She scooped it up in her hands and splashed it violently onto her face. The shock of the cold was real. It made her gasp, a shiver racking her body.
Water dripped from her chin onto the pristine floor. She closed her eyes, focusing on the steady, powerful beat of her own heart. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A rhythm she thought she'd never feel again.
A sob, thick with a mixture of terror and overwhelming relief, escaped her. She was alive.
She spun around and ran back into the bedroom, her eyes darting everywhere, taking in the familiar, hated details. The minimalist decor in shades of black, white, and gray. The floor-to-ceiling windows showing a panoramic view of the Upper East Side.
Julian's penthouse. Her gilded cage.
Her phone was on the bedside table. She snatched it up. The screen lit up with several unread messages. The sender's name made her blood run cold.
Blair.
With a shaking thumb, she opened the thread.
"Aria, are you okay? Please answer me. I'm so worried."
"I told you Julian was a monster. Locking you up like this. Don't worry, I'll get you out."
A harsh, ugly laugh bubbled up from Aria's chest. The memories came rushing back, not as a distant recollection, but with the sharp clarity of an event that had just happened. This was the day. The day Blair had convinced her to fake a suicide attempt. She'd given Aria a bottle of powerful sleeping pills, telling her to take just enough to scare Julian, to force the Carlisle family to intervene and break the engagement.
She, in her desperate bid to escape Julian's suffocating control, had swallowed the bait. She'd taken the pills. And Julian, upon finding her, had not been scared. He had been incandescent with a terrifying, possessive rage. He had locked her in this penthouse, with doctors on call, and refused to let anyone see her.
The phone felt slick and dirty in her hand. She threw it onto the bed as if it were a venomous snake. How could she have been so stupid? So blind? She had played right into Blair's hands, a willing pawn in a game she didn't even know she was playing.
A faint sound from the hallway-the soft tread of footsteps on carpet-made her spin around. Her body instinctively fell into a defensive crouch, a posture she didn't remember learning.
The doorknob turned slowly. Aria held her breath. Her eyes scanned the room for a weapon. Her gaze landed on a heavy, ornate brass letter opener on the vanity. She grabbed it, the cool metal a comforting weight in her palm, and hid it behind her back.
The door opened to reveal a housekeeper in a crisp uniform, carrying a tray. The woman's eyes widened in surprise, then relief, when she saw Aria standing there.
"Miss Carlisle," she said, her voice soft. "You're awake. Shall I call the doctor?" She bowed her head slightly. "Mr. Sterling has been very concerned."
The mention of his name was a physical blow. A sharp, sweet ache bloomed in Aria's chest. The tension drained from her shoulders, and she lowered the hand holding the letter opener.
"Where is he?" she asked, her voice raspy, desperate. "Where's Julian?"
The housekeeper looked taken aback by the question, by the raw urgency in Aria's tone. Usually, Aria would scream his name like a curse.
"Mr. Sterling is at the head office, miss," she replied, her voice hesitant. "He's dealing with an urgent matter. He said he would be back as soon as he could."
He was alive. The confirmation sent a wave of dizziness through her. He was alive, and he was at work, and he was coming back. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and sudden. She dropped onto the edge of the bed, the letter opener clattering to the floor.
The housekeeper set the tray down on a nearby table. As she turned to leave, Aria's voice stopped her.
"Could you bring me a black coffee? As strong as you can make it."
She needed to be sharp. She needed to think.
Once the door clicked shut, Aria walked to the massive windows. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, looking down at the city below. The yellow cabs looked like tiny insects. The sunlight was bright, real, and it didn't hurt her eyes.
She saw her reflection, a faint ghost against the backdrop of the city. She took a deep breath, pushing the weak, foolish girl from her past life deep, deep down. That Aria was dead. She died on a rooftop in the first snow.
She turned and walked into the enormous walk-in closet. Racks of designer clothes she'd never worn hung in silent judgment. She ignored them all, pulling a simple, oversized black shirt from a drawer. Julian's. She slipped it on. The soft cotton smelled of him-a clean, sharp scent of cedar and something uniquely his. The familiar smell grounded her, a strange comfort in the swirling chaos of her mind.
Back in the bedroom, she picked up her phone. She found Blair's contact and set a specific, jarring ringtone for it. The hunt was about to begin.
A sharp cramp seized her stomach, a lingering protest from the sleeping pills. She barely flinched, her mind already miles away, weaving the first threads of her new life.
The intercom on the wall buzzed, startling her. It was the head of security.
"Miss Carlisle, a Miss Blair Carlisle is in the lobby. She is demanding to see you."
A smile touched Aria's lips. It was a cold, sharp, terrifying thing. She pressed the talk button, her voice perfectly calm, without a hint of the storm raging inside her.
"Let her come up."
---
