Chapter 1 #2
The photo was both a reminder of everything I had lost and all the things I had gained.
I loved them all, which was why the thought of someone being ripped away from their own, as I had been, propelled me forward.
Pushed me into action. Drove me to track down the monster that had been responsible for the avalanche of suffering from my first life.
The first thing I needed was money. Not the couple thousand in my checking account for textbooks, dining out, and overpriced coffee, but the real sum locked away in my trust fund. The kind of ‘fuck you money’ that could buy information, silence, or muscle—all of which I assumed I would need.
But accessing that money meant going home, meant asking for my parents' signatures, and meant explaining why I suddenly needed six figures in liquid assets. I wrinkled my nose as I contemplated who to call. Mom or Daddy?
Mom would ask too many questions. She would dig into the why with her soft voice that never missed the tremor in mine. Daddy would cut straight to the point, but that also meant he’d press for details I wasn’t ready to spill.
Daddy and Uncle Charlie were the only two people who knew about my rebirth, having experienced the same thing themselves. And while I had not told them much about my first life, they were aware that it was—to put it mildly—decidedly unpleasant.
Of all people, I knew they would both understand my dilemma, but I wasn’t in the mood to deal with my Daddy’s insistent nagging. Overthinking really should burn extra calories. Daddy’s my best bet.
I exhaled, shut my eyes, and pressed his number before I changed my mind. The phone rang a few times before a familiar voice answered.
A familiar voice, but not my father’s.
“Violet?”
My eyes snapped open as I sat up. Shit! Rowan? My heart quickened at the deepened accent that curled in mockery even when he wasn’t trying. Why is he answering Dad’s phone?
The image of him flashed to my mind: an imposing figure, a stern brow with an aquiline nose framed by his pearly white hair curling around his ears down an angular jawline.
Rowan had been orbiting my life since we were kids, and we had butted heads every time our families came together.
He’d always been there, always in the periphery, a storm wrapped in human form.
I could vividly recall his younger years: rebellious, angry, feral.
The kind of boy who set fires just to watch them burn.
But that boy had grown up and transformed into something controlled and disciplined.
A different type of dangerous that allured women, myself included.
Despite my better judgement, his aggravating personality didn’t stop me from stealing the occasional glance at his gorgeously toned body or admiring what I considered his best feature.
. . the palest set of blue eyes I’d ever seen, like falling snowflakes.
We’d never gotten along. Oil and water. Fire and ice. Pick your cliché.
My thoughts were derailed as I thought of what to say. “Uh. . . Rowan?”
He must have caught the confusion in my tone, because a chuckle came through the line, warm and irritatingly self-satisfied. “Are you already drunk in the second week at school? It is barely past lunch on a Tuesday.”
The lilt of his accent did things to my insides that I absolutely refused to acknowledge. Growing up, I’d thought his accent was charming, the way he rolled his R’s in Russian like Mom and Aunt Dawn did when they spoke Spanish.
Now his voice irritated me. Everything about Rowan Monroe irritated me.
I gritted my teeth. Frustration rose sharply in my belly, hot and unrelenting as it battled with arousal. “I’m glad you know your days of the week. I was trying to get in touch with my father.”
“Obviously. I assumed that is why you called his cell,” he teased. I could imagine his smug smile and perfectly white teeth.
“Are you at the office?” I asked, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Is Daddy nearby?” He’d been working at Daddy’s business for years now, carving out his place with methodical patience.
“We are not at the office, and Levi is not nearby, no.” Another pause, perfectly timed to annoy the hell out of me. “We decided to take lunch at the house. I was in the kitchen, grabbing myself a beer, when I saw your call.”
“So, you took it upon yourself to answer his phone? And a beer, Rowan? You’re only twenty.” Exasperation laced my words, feeling oddly exposed at my plan gone awry.
“Do not compare me to the boys you hang out with, Violet. I can handle my own. . . unlike you, princess.” He tsked before he continued. “Besides, I thought it was the business phone ringing. Would you like me to get your daddy for you?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose hard enough to hurt, vexed by the mocking nickname he used for me before replying calmly. “No. Just tell him I need to come home this weekend. Ask if he can pick me up.”
“I will do this. Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am?” The sarcasm dripped like honey, and he even attempted a Southern accent that sounded absurd with his Russian lilt.
My patience snapped. “Yes. Go fuck yourself.”
I hung up before he could respond, tossing the phone onto my nightstand with enough force to send it sliding, then flopped back on the bed.
My pulse raced as if I’d just run a marathon instead of having a two-minute conversation with the most insufferable man I knew.
Rowan had that effect on me. Simply just talking with him poked at every nerve until I was raw and bristling from only a few words.
The door opened, and my roommate walked in, bringing with her the scent of vanilla and of the library.
It had taken me two weeks to remember her name was Alice, having been distracted by my multiple-life crisis.
She was everything I wasn’t: tall where I was average, soft-spoken where I was sharp, careful where I was reckless, with raven hair and deep chocolate eyes on a perfectly heart-face.
She moved through our shared space like an apology, always trying to take up less room.
“Hey,” she said, setting down her mahogany leather bookbag with care. She wore a beige oversized trench coat over her tank top, along with tailored navy wool trousers. Given it was August in Atlanta, I had no idea how she wasn’t dying from heat exhaustion.
“Hey.” I didn’t sit up. I couldn’t summon the energy for small talk.
“Did you go to the involvement fair?” She was already unlacing her shoes, placing them perfectly parallel by the door. She had a few OCD tendencies that I didn’t mind compared to my messy nature.
“No.” I hadn’t gone anywhere near campus activities. Eighteen-year-olds planning fundraisers and themed parties felt like watching children play house.
She nodded, peeling off her tank top to reveal a navy bra underneath. “I signed up for the business club. They meet on Thursdays.”
“Cool.” The word fell flat between us.
She let the silence hang before she asked, “Did you plan on checking out any sorority houses for next semester?”
“Uh, no. Perks of living nearby. Besides, I like the dorms.” The words came out strangled, my fatigue slowly winning the war within me.
She nodded as if understanding. “Ah, that’s right. I forgot, you’re a local.” She gifted me with a bright smile. I recalled our first meeting, when she mentioned she had lived abroad her whole life, and someone in her family chose this school for her business degree.
I’d pitied her then, for being in someone else’s control.
I shoved my dark hair back and said, “It’s fine. I didn’t expect you to remember.” Just like I didn’t remember your name when we first met.
Alice busied herself at her desk, and I caught sight of her name embroidered on her bookbag.
Classy and somehow alarming, she would proudly display it for others to see.
There was a small part of me that wanted to make the effort to befriend Alice, to suggest we grab coffee, to swap stories about professors, to care about whatever boy she inevitably had a crush on.
But a larger part of me was too tired, too apathetic, and overflowing with a lifetime of trauma that held me back. That same part had learned that caring about people just gave them leverage over you.
I rose from my bed and sat at my own desk, suddenly remembering the mess I’d left there like an idiot.
I hope she didn’t notice them. Pages and pages of my handwriting comparing my two lives, trying to make sense of the impossible.
Names, dates, and places, all circled and connected like some detective’s murder board.
Which, in a way, it kind of was.
One name dominated the chaos, circled in red so many times the paper had torn: Edward Fitzgerald—buyer, owner, murderer.
He didn’t know me in this life. He’d never seen my face, never heard my name. In this life, I’d grown up safe in my parents' home, riding horses and winning both archery competitions and Brazilian jiu jitsu tournaments.
But I knew where to find him. Men like Edward were creatures of habit, and his habits had been branded into my memory with the kind of clarity trauma provides. Every Saturday, he went to the posh and invitation-only nightclub named Oubliette.
I’d been there hundreds of times in my first life.
Dragged along as decoration, forced to wait in velvet-draped rooms while he conducted ‘business’ behind doors that muffled sound but not enough to hide the screaming.
Made to dance for his colleagues while he ventured below into the belly of Oubliette.
I stripped for their amusement, pretended to be grateful for the privilege of being owned by someone so powerful.
Even now, I remembered the perfumed air thick with sin, and the bright-eyed woman I had come to admire.
Vengeance would give me the justice and moral code I needed for it to feel right. With vengeance, I could weave a web of lies, focusing on retribution towards a corrupt society that sold and killed women, but deep down I knew. . . revenge would fuel me.
A pitch-black darkness began to devour me from beneath my ribs and wrap its red-hot thorns like a second heartbeat. I could not ignore the calling, nor withdraw myself from a life simmering with grief and hatred.
“Violet?” Alice’s voice pulled me back. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
I realized I’d been gripping the edge of my desk hard enough to leave crescents in the wood. “Just tired. Haven’t been sleeping well.”
“The health center has counselors,” she offered carefully, “if you need to talk to someone.”
What would I tell a counselor? That I remembered being murdered?
That I’d woken up in my younger body with all my trauma intact like some cosmic joke?
That the man who’d killed me was out there living his life and still buying other girls?
That I was going to hunt him down, string him up, and bleed him dry the same way he’d bled me?
“Thanks,” I said instead. “I appreciate your concern. I just need some more time to adjust, I think.”
“Of course.” And she went about busying herself on her side of the room, switching to her studies as I turned back to my notes. The red circles around Edward’s name looked like bloody targets.
I’d need my money first, so I could start buying supplies and information. Then I’d need to find a way to get invited into Oubliette, despite having no connections to that world or their clientele in this life. I prayed that the Oubliette I knew was the same one Edward had taken me to.
I glanced at my phone, wondering if Rowan listened to me for once as the new piercings throbbed against my shirt, little points of pain that reminded me I was here, this was real, and I was in control. Both versions of me agreed on that much.
I put my notes away and lay back on my bed, staring at that butterfly-shaped water stain as I contemplated my next steps. The gods might have given me this second chance by accident, but I’d take their mistake and forge it into something sharp enough to cut.
And then I’d carve Edward’s heart out.