Sera's eyes darted around the VIP suite.
Her tactical training kicked in instantly, overriding the lingering grogginess. In less than three seconds, her brain logged the single wooden door, the sealed reinforced window, the heavy metal IV pole, and the lack of visible security cameras.
She attempted to sit up, pushing her weight onto her elbows. She moved too quickly. The IV line taped to the back of her hand pulled taut, sending a sharp, stinging pain through her vein.
She hissed, freezing in place.
"Keep your arm still."
The deep, resonant baritone voice came from the shadows near the door.
Sera's head snapped toward the sound. Kian stepped out of the dim corner and into the clinical light. His movements were completely silent, devoid of the heavy, clumsy footsteps most men possessed.
Sera finally got a clear, unobstructed look at his face.
She instantly recognized him. The sharp jawline, the intense blue eyes, the dark hair. Kian Sinclair IV. The global A-list actor. The man whose face was plastered on billboards across the world.
A jolt of shock hit her stomach, but she ruthlessly suppressed it. Her facial muscles snapped into a cold, unreadable mask. She stared at him, rapidly assessing his threat level.
Kian walked forward slowly, deliberately keeping a wide, respectful physical distance between them. He picked up a sealed plastic bottle of spring water from the bedside table and held it out to her.
Sera reached out with her free hand. She snatched the bottle, unscrewed the plastic cap with her thumb, and took a small, cautious sip. She never let her eyes leave his face.
"Why is an Oscar winner playing Florence Nightingale for a stranger in a private clinic?" Sera asked. Her voice was blunt, raspy, and completely devoid of the fawning admiration he was undoubtedly used to.
Kian didn't blink. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets.
"I dislike messy hotel hallways," Kian replied smoothly. "I prefer to keep my living spaces quiet."
He paused, letting the silence stretch for a second.
"Your 'problem' in Room 402 has been sanitized," Kian continued, his tone entirely casual. "No police. No press. The hotel has no record of you being on that floor."
A massive, physical wave of relief washed over Sera's chest. The tight knot in her lungs finally loosened. She wouldn't have to fight a corrupt legal battle or deal with industry cover-ups while she was physically compromised.
"Thank you," Sera said. It was a curt, professional statement. Nothing more.
Kian nodded once. He didn't ask about the blood. He didn't ask about her knuckles. He turned around and quietly exited the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
The moment the latch engaged, Sera dropped her defensive posture. She slumped back against the stiff hospital pillows, her muscles aching.
The absolute silence of the room acted as a catalyst. Without the distraction of a physical threat, the horrific memories of her past life fully surfaced, crashing into her mind like a tidal wave.
She remembered the freezing dampness of the concrete warehouse. She remembered the metallic clinking of the chains around her wrists. She remembered the cruel, mocking laughter of the Eastern European traffickers.
She remembered the exact moment they shoved the transfer documents in her face. She saw Ethan Vance's messy, familiar signature on the bottom line. He had sold her to cover his massive underground gambling debts.
She remembered staring at a small, dirty television screen in her cell. It showed her adoptive mother, Patricia Beaumont, giving a tearful, highly produced press conference. Patricia had dabbed her dry eyes, falsely claiming Sera had stolen family funds and run away with a secret lover.
Sera's breathing accelerated. Phantom pains flared up across her ribs and legs, ghost injuries from a past life burning in her current, unblemished body.
She forcefully curled her fingers inward. She dug her manicured fingernails deep into the soft flesh of her palms. She pressed until the skin broke and a sharp, grounding pain shot up her arms. The physical sting anchored her to the present reality.
She turned her head and looked at the red digital clock mounted on the white wall.
The date flashed beneath the time. A cold dread washed over her, followed immediately by a sharp, electric jolt of realization. It was the spring of five years before her death. She hadn't just survived; she had been given five entire years to rewrite her destiny.
A profound, chilling realization settled over her. The universe had violently ripped her backward through time. It had given her a second chance to rewrite the entire board.
She replayed Lars Donovan's blurted confession in the hotel room. Ethan promised.
It mathematically confirmed Ethan's involvement. Ethan had deliberately sent her to Room 402 under the guise of an exclusive audition, knowing exactly what Lars did to young actresses.
The residual fear in Sera's chest completely evaporated. It was replaced by a terrifying, hyper-focused resolve.
She wasn't going to hide. She wasn't going to run.
She began mentally cataloging her current assets. Her bank balance was controlled by her toxic family. Her industry contacts were shallow. But her combat skills, honed in secret before her death, were fully intact in her muscle memory.
She realized her current public persona-a brainless, spoiled, useless Hollywood socialite-was the absolute perfect camouflage. No one would ever see her coming.
She wouldn't just kill them. Death was too quick. She was going to systematically dismantle their careers, drain their finances, and shatter their sanity.
Sera looked at her pale reflection in the dark glass of the windowpane. A cold, predatory smile slowly stretched across her lips.
