It's been a few days since I woke up from my coma. I'm still in the hospital, marooned in a sterile five-star suite that smells like lemon sanitizer and quiet judgment. They're keeping me for further observation—probably to make sure I don't drop dead before they can write up the paperwork.
Dr. Arno Theryn Solace comes often to check on me. Not that she says much. Her visits are quiet, clinical, and swift. She asks about my physical health, listens to my heartbeat, checks my vitals, and scribbles things onto her tablet with an expression carved out of glacier. There's something tight behind her eyes, like she's holding onto something too big to speak aloud. I can't explain it, but I feel it when her fingers graze my wrist for the pulse. Her hands are cool. Steady. Professional. But there's weight there, something she carries like a second stethoscope slung around her spine.
Shan, my assistant—or rather, the assistant of the man whose body I've hijacked—comes by daily. He's the only one who treats me like I didn't just wake up from a coma with a personality transplant. He updates me on company matters with the same tone someone might use to read weather reports. "The board is unsettled," he told me yesterday, as if discussing humidity. "We've managed to contain the media leaks, but speculation continues." No dramatic inflection. No emotion. Just facts, dates, damage control.
Since I don't exactly have a full calendar right now, I've been replaying things in my head like an overworked detective trying to solve a case without clues. I keep trying to recover anything—anything at all—from this body's previous owner. And, oddly enough, I've been piecing things together. Like the fragments were there all along, just waiting for the right angle of light.
It happened like this: I was lying in this absurdly luxurious hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if the ornate moldings were made of actual gold—because honestly, they might be—when *boom*, a memory exploded behind my eyes like a firecracker.
I wasn't even thinking about the past. Just spacing out. But then it hit. Like a cold wave of déjà vu laced with grief.
I was seven.
No. *He* was seven.
The memory wasn't mine, but it curled inside my chest like it belonged to me. It clung to my ribs, stubborn and wet and old.
The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes only after mourning. Funeral flowers still lined the hallway—mostly roses, mostly red. Red like grief trying to dress itself up as love. Red like lipstick on an open wound.
Then the front doors swung open.
The sound of heels echoed on the marble floor. Click. Click. Click. She walked in like she'd always belonged, hips swaying like she'd been rehearsing for this entrance her whole life. She had the gait of someone who knew the crown was already hers. And behind her, a boy. Five, maybe. Holding a toy plane, gawking at the high ceilings like he'd never seen wealth in person. Which meant only one thing: my father—*his* father—had been cheating on my mother for years. Possibly since before that kid could talk. Maybe even celebrated my seventh birthday by screwing his mistress on the side. Real class act.
Then came the voice—smooth, cold, clipped.
A raised glass of brandy. A toast.
"From this day forward," my father said, "she is the lady of this house."
That house. That mausoleum lined with roses. My mother had been dead for barely a week, her perfume still haunting the staircases, her favorite scarf still draped over the chair by the fireplace. And now her replacement waltzed in, perfectly lipsticked and freshly performed, like the ink on the death certificate had been her signal.
Lucien—the real Lucien—stood in that grand foyer, watching his world split at the seams. No screams. No tantrums. Just a terrifying, sterile quiet. Like a vase cracking from the inside.
And now, years later, that memory clawed its way into my skull, demanding to be felt. As if trauma aged like wine and decided now was the right vintage to pour.
That's why his—*my*—eyes always look like they're searching for something that isn't there. Mirrors don't lie. They reflect the hollows too.
God. This boy's childhood had been a warzone. And no one had even noticed he'd been shot.
I blinked hard. "Great," I muttered to myself. "Just what I needed. Trauma flashbacks from a life that technically isn't even mine."
*Knock knock.*
The door opened with the soft finality of a punctuation mark. And in walked Dr. Arno Theryn Solace. Clipboard in hand. Elegant, composed, terrifyingly efficient. She didn't bother with greetings. Her attention flicked from the heart monitor to the IV to me, each glance as precise as a scalpel.
She moved with the kind of grace that made everything else seem too loud. There was no wasted movement. No unnecessary words. Her presence was like a cool wind—cleansing, but a little biting.
Cool fingers wrapped around my wrist as she checked my pulse. A glance at the screen. A quick note on her tablet.
"How are you feeling today?" she asked, voice smooth and unreadable.
"Fine," I replied. Then added, "Stable. Conscious. Not seeing ghosts."
A flicker passed through her eyes. Maybe amusement. Maybe not.
She nodded once. Tapped her stylus against the screen and stepped back.
Then, still without looking at me, she called toward the door, "Shan."
The man materialized like a ghost who'd been waiting in the hallway. Punctual as always, tie perfect, hair unmoved by wind or war.
"Mr. Moreaux is stable," Dr. Solace said, brushing her fingers down the edge of her clipboard. "He can be discharged."
"Understood," Shan responded, already pulling out his phone.
No drama. No lingering looks. No farewell speeches or declarations. Just business. Two professionals performing a transaction.
Dr. Solace gave me one last glance. Brief. Indecipherable. Then she turned, heels whispering against the floor, and slipped out, door clicking shut behind her.
For a moment, I stared at the spot she'd just vacated, as if expecting her shadow to remain. There was a strange ache behind my ribs. Like the echo of a song that stopped too soon.
"She really doesn't waste time," I muttered.
Shan didn't reply. He was already multitasking—typing instructions, coordinating the car, ensuring the house was ready for my grand return. Like I hadn't just been clinically dead a week ago.
I let out a slow breath, the kind that sounds like surrender. "So… we're really doing this?"
Shan looked up, phone still in hand. "You're the boss."
Right. I was the boss now. Lucien Malric Moreaux. Billionaire. Ice-cold CEO. Shot in the back, revived with a new soul. The man with enemies I hadn't even met yet, and a personal trauma portfolio thick enough to break a therapist's chair.
Fantastic.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold against my feet, grounding in a way nothing else had been. I rubbed my temples. Good. At least something felt real.
Time to go home.
Whoever's version of "home" this was.
---
The Maybach hummed down the road like it knew it was better than everyone else. I stared out the window, wondering if I should be feeling more… dramatic. After all, I had just risen from a coma like a soap opera lead who refused to die without delivering a plot twist.
Shan sat across from me, dressed like Wall Street had handpicked him, typing furiously on his phone. Then he paused. Looked at me. Squinted.
"What?" I asked.
"You're acting weird," he said bluntly.
"Weird how?"
"You smiled at the nurse earlier. Smiled. With teeth. Voluntarily. I almost called security."
"I was being polite."
"You've never been polite. Once you told a shareholder his tie made you want to revoke capitalism."
"To be fair, it *was* a hideous tie."
Shan gave me a look. "You also said 'thank you' to the driver. Twice."
I frowned. "Did I?"
"You did. And you said it like you meant it. You're freaking me out, Mr. Moreaux."
"Maybe the coma gave me a personality patch. Installed 'Basic Human Warmth 2.0.'"
He shook his head, but he was smiling now—just a little. "Honestly? I don't hate it. It's… unsettling. But nice."
"Careful," I said, grinning, "You sound dangerously close to having a feeling."
Shan actually laughed. Like, full-lunged. "Don't push it. I've seen things. Like you firing a man for using emojis in an investor email."
"I'd do it again," I said proudly. "He used the winking face. It was a hostile takeover, not a Tinder date."
He shook his head again, fond now. "You're more like yourself than I expected."
I gave him a sideways look. "Be honest. Did you think I wouldn't wake up?"
His expression shifted, sincerity creeping in under the sarcasm. "Honestly? I didn't know. But if it hadn't been for Dr. Solace, I don't think you would've."
That caught my attention. "What do you mean?"
"She came almost every day. Checked on you herself, even when she wasn't on duty. Talked to you. Encouraged you to keep going. Said you were too stubborn to give up, even unconscious."
I blinked. "She did that?"
"Yeah. She'd stand by your bed, tell you how you still owed her a coffee, how you better not die and leave her alone, how you owe her a promise. She even threatened to kick your ass once if you didn't wake up."
I felt something tighten in my chest, a weird warmth bubbling up where sarcasm usually lived.
The way she sounded when she talked with you, I'd thought you two know each other, Shan said.
That gave me pause.
"Doctor Solace mentioned it might happen," he said. "That some memories might be gone. Scrambled. Delayed. But somehow, you slipped back into being... you. Just a version with a few more emotions and less murder in your eyes."
I leaned back. "So I'm basically me, but on the 'slightly less terrifying' setting."
"Basically."
"Good. Maybe I'll finally stop being the office ghost story."
Shan smirked. "They'll have to retire the 'He once smiled and someone quit' legend."
"I feel robbed of my mythos."
"You've still got the cheekbones. That's 80% of your reputation."
I grinned. "And the other 20%?"
"Your ability to destroy egos with one eyebrow raise."
"Excellent. I was worried I'd lost that in the crash."
He chuckled again, more freely now. "Honestly, I like this. You're easier to talk to. Human, even."
"Let's not go crazy."
"No promises."
We fell into a comfortable silence. Then I said, "So, serious question."
"Shoot."
"Did I always hate strawberry Pop-Tarts?"
"You banned them from the office. Replaced them with quinoa granola bars from Norway."
"Wow. I really was a menace."
"Yes. And yet," Shan said, "I stayed."
I looked at him, a bit more seriously. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Someone had to make sure the CEO didn't become a mythological cautionary tale. Also, you remembered my mom's surgery date and sent flowers."
"…That does sound like me."
"Don't get cocky."
"Too late."
---