Isla POV
My head snapped up from my desk so fast my glasses flew sideways. My hand knocked my water bottle and it hit the floor with a bang that made half the office flinch.
Every head turned in my direction before going straight back to their screens. Not one person asked if I was okay.
I sat there, chest heaving. My long blonde hair half escaped from its ponytail, one side of my face almost certainly imprinted with keyboard marks.
What just happened?
I looked around slowly, confused. Was all that just a dream? Because it was way too detailed.
I took a deep inhale as I looked around. Calmly, I was in the Vale Groups office.
Except something was wrong with it. People were moving between desks with purpose, the printer ran without stopping, and someone stood at the window on the phone.
I looked around for another moment before it registered. This energy only happened for one reason.
I turned to my computer and looked at the date in the corner of the screen.
July 2nd.
I leaned forward in panic before reading it again.
July 2nd.
This was two months before my wedding. Two months before I died while Ronan and Vivienne watched without a care.
Haven't I lived this day before? With the exact same situation, too.
Today was the quarterly partnership review. The one where every department head presented directly to Lucian Vale in front of the entire senior floor. The one where I had to stand up and present my report.
In my dream—in what I had been desperately insisting was just a dream—I had printed my report that morning and the numbers had been wrong. Three months of careful analysis turned into something that looked like I had never once opened a spreadsheet in my life.
I had walked into that meeting anyway because I hadn't caught it in time.
And Lucian Vale had told me—in front of everyone, in that flat tone of his—that this was not the standard he expected. That carelessness was not something he tolerated. That I had wasted the room's time.
I had stood there and taken every word of it.
And then Vivienne had found me afterwards, her arm warm around my shoulders. He's like that with everyone. Your work is brilliant, Isla. He just can't see it.
And I had felt grateful back then. Now I wondered: was all that a fake? Was she planning my death even back then?
My hands were already moving, opening files and apps. I navigated to the report folder, begging to whatever supernatural thing that brought me back that the report was perfectly fine.
I finally opened the report and the numbers stared back at me.
The numbers were all wrong and jumbled up, column four bleeding into column five. Three months of careful work broken so thoroughly it looked like I hadn't checked it once.
I knew every number in this report. I had built it from scratch. I knew what it was supposed to say and I knew what it said now, and I had not done this.
I checked the timestamp.
Last modified: yesterday, 11:47pm.
I had left the office at six, from what I remembered.
I stared at those numbers for a long moment. Trying to figure out how and why this happened last time, and why I was back at this moment.
Was it Vivienne who ruined this report? She did have access to some of my work things.
The thought arrived quietly. And with it came a hundred horrible memories of my life that Vivienne was apparently always there for.
I pushed it down. Not now. Right now I needed to fix this before the meeting to avoid the reprimand and that embarrassing moment. I looked at the clock.
I had one hour and forty minutes.
I could try, though I didn't keep my hopes high. The corruption was too thorough.
---
I couldn't fix it.
I printed what I had and gathered my materials. I fixed my outfit and pushed my glasses up. There was nothing I could do.
I had already survived this once. I could do it again.
The executive conference room was everything I remembered and had been hoping to misremember. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows and a long table that seated twenty. Every senior staff member already seated.
Vivienne was third from the front with perfect posture, her short dark hair tucked behind one ear, completely at ease. She caught my eye and gave me a small, warm smile.
I smiled back reluctantly before I found my seat at the back—alone, the way I always ended up.
Then the door finally opened. Lucian Vale walked in.
He was the heir to the Vale fortune, and the whole country knew his face—rich, famous, and the kind of handsome that felt almost unfair. He was also the most demanding, exacting, cold person I had ever had the misfortune of reporting to.
It had always felt personal. The extra work he piled on me. The detailed criticism of everything I submitted. Even when I eventually quit—pushed out by Ronan's expectations—I had been quietly relieved to leave him behind.
He set his folder on the table, sat, and looked around the room once.
My back stiffened as I felt his gaze pause on me for a second too long before moving on. That didn't happen last time, and it didn't help my worry.
"Begin," he said.
The meeting began, and I heard none of it. I sat with my broken report in my lap and mentally recited his words from my first life.
This is not the standard I expect.
Carelessness has consequences.
I suggest you take the weekend to reconsider your approach to detail.
I knew every word, every pause, and the painful way he would look at the report without looking at me—like my presence in the room was secondary to the offense of the work itself.
"Isla Montclair."
I stood up too quickly at the sound of my name from his lips. My legs were steady, and I was genuinely impressed by them.
"The Q3 partnership analysis," I started.
And then I looked at my report and my mind went completely blank. I had sat at my desk for an hour telling myself I knew this work, that I knew every number. But the report was too wrong. How could I present this?
"The figures in section three," I said, my voice a shy whisper, "there was a file issue. Some of the numbers—"
"Present the report, please," he said, cutting me off.
I took a deep breath and just started presenting it. My panic was getting to me so that I was stumbling over my words, the jumbled numbers getting to me. I couldn't even play it off like the report was perfectly fine.
When I finished, I took a sigh of dread and turned to Mr. Vale as he stared back at me for what felt like four seconds.
"The Q3 figures," he said. "Column four."
"There was a file corruption—"
"I'm looking at column four." He didn't raise his voice, but I hated hearing that condescending tone. "Walk me through the figures."
I gave him the correct numbers from memory. My voice was a bit steadier now. And I was actually glad he had given me this opportunity to explain myself.
He listened and made a note on his notepad. I bit my lip nervously, awaiting his response.
"The presentation of this report," he said, "is not the standard I expect."
There it was. The exact same words from before.
"I understand," I said, not having enough courage to explain why.
"Carelessness—"
"It wasn't carelessness, sir." I cut him off and internally scolded myself.
The room went very still. I heard small gasps from around me, but I ignored them.
Lucian looked at me, his brows knitted together in thought.
"The file was modified at 11:47pm yesterday," I said, explaining myself.
My voice wasn't entirely steady, but it was present and it was mine. "I left the office at six. I noticed the corruption this morning and did not have sufficient time to correct it before this meeting."
"Who has access to your files?" he asked, his voice quiet.
My brows lifted at the question.
In my first life, he had said take the weekend to reconsider your approach. He had not asked who had access to my files. He had simply concluded and moved on, leaving me standing in shame and embarrassment.
He wasn't saying those things now.
"The shared drive," I said carefully. "Standard department access."
He held my gaze for a moment that lasted longer than was strictly professional. Making me a bit uneasy… he was such an uncomfortable man.
"Sit down, Montclair. We'll discuss the full report separately." He lifted his finger and rubbed his temples.
I sat down slowly, relief washing over me.
My hands were shaking under the table. I pressed them flat against my thighs, stared at my folder, and breathed.
He had not said carelessness has consequences.
He had asked who has access to my files.
And sitting there in that room, with my broken report in my lap and Vivienne's warm smile still fresh in my memory—I was starting to understand exactly what that meant.
I have been reborn.
