Chapter Fifteen
THE LIMO IS TAKING me somewhere.
I don’t ask where. I can’t even find the energy.
The guards deposited me here after Devyn’s final words. Opened the door, guided me in with hands that were almost gentle, closed the door behind me. No explanation. No destination. Just the smooth hum of the engine and the blur of trees outside the tinted windows.
The leather seat is cold against my back. The AC hums at a frequency just below hearing, raising goosebumps on my arms. Amber light filters through the tinted glass, turning everything sepia-toned, like an old photograph. Like a memory already fading.
I should care where I’m being taken.
I don’t.
My eyes are swollen. My throat is raw. I’ve cried so much that my face feels like it belongs to someone else, puffy and hot and wrong.
You are unfit to be my queen.
You are hereby banished from my presence.
The words keep echoing. Over and over. A loop I can’t escape.
Something catches my eye. A glint of light from the built-in cabinet beside me. Absently, more out of reflex than curiosity, I reach over and open it.
A book.
Small. Leather-bound. Sparkling faintly in a way that seems almost deliberate, like it wants to be noticed.
I pick it up. It’s warm. Body temperature. The same impossible warmth I remember from another book, in another place, a lifetime ago.
I flip to the back.
There’s a bookplate. Elegant. Gold-edged.
Library of Hewhay.
My breath catches.
I open the book.
The pages are blank at first. Creamy white. Empty.
Then words begin to appear. Not printed. Not typed. They bloom onto the page like ink spreading through water, written by an invisible hand.
A choice, Bailey Sutton.
More words appear.
A) Turn to the next page to return to your old world and begin again.
B) Close the book and remain in this world.
My hands tremble.
Go back. I could go back. To my old life, my old world. Before Devyn. Before the wedding. Before I learned what it felt like to be seen, really seen, by someone who looked at me like I mattered.
Before I learned what it felt like to have that taken away.
My heart is raw from all the aching. My eyes are swollen and aching just as bad from all the tears I’ve cried.
But.
But I love him.
Even now. Even after everything. I love him.
Surely this is all a misunderstanding? Surely there’s an explanation. Surely the man who called three kings to protect me, who flew my mother across the country, who kissed me like I was the only thing in the world worth having—
Surely there’s still hope.
I start to close the book.
A cat darts across the road.
The chauffeur slams the brakes.
The book flies out of my hands.
It lands on the floor of the limo, splayed open.
To the next page.
Oh dear, I think.
New words appear on the open page.
Oh dear, the book writes back. The decision has been taken out of your hands. Literally and figuratively.
The text has me scrambling for the book, but my fingers pass through the pages like they’re made of mist.
In the count of three, the words continue, you will find yourself—
Three, I think desperately.
—back in your old world—
Two.
—where a new beginning awaits.
One—
WHOA.
The limo is gone.
I’m standing in Lauve Studio.
And I’m wearing a wedding dress.
The familiar space surrounds me: exposed brick walls, high ceilings, natural light streaming through the massive windows. Cool and clean, maybe 5600K—daylight balanced, the way Heart always insisted. The smell of fresh flowers and expensive perfume. The soft click of a camera shutter.
I know this place. I worked here. I stood behind that camera for years, invisible, capturing other women’s happiest moments while I disappeared into the background.
But now I’m the one in white. The one in front of the lens.
White.
I’m wearing white to my own wedding.
In Devyn’s world, I wore black. Stood in that chapel like a ghost, a death omen, while everyone stared. But here—here I look like a bride. A real bride. The way I always imagined it.
The thought should make me happy.
It doesn’t.
And the one behind the camera—
“Beautiful, Bailey. Just gorgeous.”
I know that voice.
Marilyn Yuson lowers the camera and beams at me.
Marilyn. My high school bully. The woman who walked into this very studio with a designer engagement ring and a smile that said I remember exactly who you are, and isn’t this fun?
That Marilyn is now the photographer.
And I’m the bride.
What is happening?
I reach for my phone. It’s in my hand somehow, tucked against my palm like I was holding it before I arrived. The screen lights up and I see a photo.
A man.
My lock screen is a photo of a man with his arm around me, and we’re both smiling, and he’s—
He’s beautiful.
But not like Devyn.
Devyn is sharp edges and golden predator eyes. This man is...softer. Warmer. Thick blond hair that catches the light like wheat in summer. Hazel eyes with laugh lines at the corners. Features that are elegant but approachable—the kind of face that makes you feel safe, not seen through.
He looks like the hero of a different kind of story. The steady one. The kind one. The one who stays.
He looks familiar.
Very familiar.
My breath catches. My hand trembles so badly the phone nearly slips from my grip.
I swipe through my messages with shaking fingers. Texts between me and this man. This man who calls me “my love” and “sweetheart” and signs his messages with a simple “P.”
P.
His contact name.
Paul Theodore.
I nearly drop the phone.
Paul Theodore. As in...the mysterious detective from Olympus Bewitched? The book I’ve listened to a hundred times? The hero I’ve swooned over since the first chapter, when Blair called him Mr. Handsome and I completely understood why?
That Paul Theodore?
I look at the photo again. The golden hair. The hazel eyes. The elegant, approachable frame.
It’s him. It’s definitely him.
And apparently...he’s my fiancé.
“You two are so perfect together.”
I look up. Marilyn has lowered her camera and is gazing at my phone screen with a wistful expression. Not mocking. Not cruel. Genuinely wistful.
“I’ve seen how he is with you,” she continues. “The way he looks at you. Like you hung the moon.”
My heart clenches. That’s exactly how Devyn used to look at me.
Before.
“Er.” I clear my throat. “How is he with me, exactly?”
Marilyn sighs. “He adores you. Can’t take his eyes off you.” Her expression flickers. “I wish I could say the same about my ex—”
They’ve broken up?!
In my world—my original world—Marilyn walked in here with a designer engagement ring. She was getting married. She was the bride.
“Amos,” Marilyn finishes.
And the fiancé’s name is Amos?!
That can’t be a coincidence. It can’t.
“I’m so sorry about your breakup,” I manage.
Marilyn shrugs, but there’s pain behind it. “Don’t be. I had a lucky escape, honestly. My college friend Abigail—”
I nearly fall out of my heels.
“—did some digging. That’s when she discovered what he really is.
” Marilyn’s voice hardens. “He’s made a living out of sweeping women off their feet.
Gets them to take out loans for wedding surprises, romantic gestures, whatever.
Only the surprise is that he runs away with the money and leaves them with a debt they can’t pay. ”
My blood runs cold.
Amos. Con artist. Preying on women.
Same name. Same pattern. Different world.
Heart’s voice cuts across the studio. “Marilyn! I need you over here!”
Marilyn winces. “Excuse me, please.”
“Yes, of course,” I say in a daze.
She hurries away, and I collapse onto a nearby couch, my wedding dress pooling around me like a white cloud.
Maybe I really was meant to come here. Maybe Hewhay brought me back for a reason.
But is Amos here like Amos there? Is he just a con artist in this world...or something worse?
An assistant appears at my elbow. Young, nervous, holding a delicate teacup.
“Tea, Miss Sutton? You look like you could use something warm.”
I stare at the cup. Steam curls from the surface. The liquid is amber-gold, catching the light.
Tea.
Some distant part of my brain fires a warning. Tea at Hewhay’s. Tea before everything changed. Tea that tasted like belonging and felt like being unmade.
But I’m exhausted. Hollowed out. My throat is raw and my heart is in pieces and someone is offering me something warm.
I take the cup.
I drink.
It tastes like—
Oh. I think. Oh no.
That familiar warmth spreads through me. Starting in my chest. Radiating outward.
I need air.
I set down the cup and walk toward the door. My legs feel strange. Heavy and light at the same time. The studio blurs at the edges.
I push through the door.
Step outside.
And the world is wrong.
THE LIGHT IS DIFFERENT.
That’s the first thing I notice. The cool, clean daylight of the studio is gone.
Out here, everything is bathed in amber.
Golden-warm, like late afternoon sun filtered through honey.
The color temperature has shifted by at least a thousand Kelvin, and my photographer brain latches onto that detail because if I think about what it means, I might scream.
Same streets. Same storefronts. Same Providence architecture.
But there are flags.
Banners hanging from lampposts, snapping in the breeze. Four colors. Four territories. The crest of the Southern Territory—Devyn’s territory—repeated on every corner.
A man in a black suit nods at me as I pass. Respectful. Almost deferential. He has an earpiece. A military posture.
Royal enforcer. Not hiding. Not lurking in shadows. Standing in plain sight like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Another one, across the street, touches his earpiece and speaks quietly into his sleeve.
A sleek black car glides past, tinted windows, the kind of car that costs more than my apartment. A small flag on the antenna. The Southern crest.
I know these signs.
I’ve seen them before.
This New England is under the territory of kings.
I’m not in my old world at all.
I’m back in Devyn’s world.
But when? How far back did Hewhay send me?
And then I see her.
Mrs. Lyme.
She’s walking toward me on the sidewalk, market basket over her arm, silver hair pinned in that familiar elegant twist. Same face. Same posture. Same everything. The amber light gilds her, makes her look like a figure from an old painting.
“Mrs. Lyme!”
She stops. Looks at me with polite confusion.
“I’m sorry, do I know you? How do you know my name?”
Of course. In this timeline, we haven’t met yet. I’m a stranger to her.
“I...” I trail off, my eyes catching on something in her basket. A newspaper. The date visible on the front page.
I read it.
Read it again.
The date is one day before I first appeared in Devyn’s chapel. One day before the wedding that started everything.
Which means Devyn isn’t married yet.
And Abigail is still alive.