The gala was over, but Amara's heartbeat hadn't slowed.
The last champagne flute had been cleared. The last thank-you had been uttered. The final echo of string music still hung in the air like perfume, but the ballroom was empty now — emptied of people, not of presence. Something still lingered. She could feel it under her skin.
She stood near the main doors, arms crossed tight, the silence pressing in on her. Her team had packed up hours ago. Every candle extinguished, every centerpiece boxed and gone. All that remained was the ghost of the evening — and Lucien Blackwood.
She didn't know why she was still here. Not really. Professional duty, she'd told herself. Curiosity, maybe. But deep down, she knew the truth was stranger and more dangerous than either of those things.
Her phone buzzed again.
Back office. Now.
No greeting. No punctuation. Just his voice — she could hear it even through the text. That low, even tone. Command without force.
She didn't respond. She didn't have to. She was already walking.
The hallway lights flickered as she moved past them. A trick of old wiring, probably. But still, her steps slowed. There was a stillness in the air that hadn't been there before. Not quiet — quiet was normal. This was watching. Like something just outside her vision was waiting.
The door to the office was ajar again.
Same as earlier.
She hesitated. Then pushed it open.
Lucien was inside, seated now behind the desk, one arm draped over the back of the chair. His jacket was gone. His white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He didn't look at her right away. He stared out the window at the dark skyline like he was trying to remember something far away.
Only when she stepped inside did he speak.
"You stayed."
"You told me to."
Lucien's mouth twitched into something close to a smile. "You're not the type to follow orders."
"Maybe I wanted answers."
He nodded once, slow and thoughtful, as though he appreciated the honesty. Then he stood, moved to a small cabinet near the desk, and pulled out a locked box.
"I want to show you something," he said, setting it between them.
Amara watched him with narrowed eyes. "What is this?"
Lucien didn't answer. He opened the box with a small silver key that hung from a chain around his neck. Inside: a photograph, yellowed with age. And a small, antique pendant. A locket. Silver and tarnished. Ornate, Victorian. Familiar.
Too familiar.
He lifted the photo and handed it to her gently. "Look."
She did.
It was a black-and-white portrait. Two people — a man and a woman — standing in front of a garden gate. The man looked exactly like Lucien. The woman…
Her breath caught.
It was her. Not someone who resembled her. Not close. Her. Same face. Same eyes. Same quiet tilt of the head she saw in her own photos.
She looked up at him. "What the hell is this?"
Lucien's voice was low, steady. "The photo is from 1923. Taken in Vienna."
Amara stared at him. "Are you telling me you've been alive since then?"
"No," he said, stepping back slightly, giving her space. "I'm telling you I've lived before."
She blinked, stunned. "You think… reincarnation?"
"I don't think. I know."
He reached into the box again, pulled out the locket, and opened it. Inside were initials, etched in delicate script.
L.B. & A.H.
Amara felt dizzy.
"How do you explain this?" she whispered. "That can't be real. That can't be me."
Lucien's gaze softened. "You think I haven't asked myself the same thing? Over and over? I thought I was going insane. Until I saw you in my office that day. And I knew."
He paused, watching her closely. "You've felt it, haven't you? Since we met."
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
It had been there from the start — that impossible recognition, the way his voice felt like a memory, the way his eyes unraveled her. She thought it was attraction. Chemistry. Maybe it still was. But now there was something else.
Something far more terrifying.
Amara turned from him, trying to ground herself, to breathe. Her thoughts spun — logic scrambling to take hold. "This is insane. I don't believe in this. I don't even know what this is."
Lucien's voice was quieter now. "I don't expect you to believe me. I just need you to know the truth."
She turned back to him. "Why me? Why now?"
"Because something's happening. Something bigger than both of us. And I think… I think it's starting again."
"What's starting again?"
Lucien hesitated. Then he walked over to a shelf and pulled out a leather-bound journal, worn and brittle with age. He opened it, flipped through pages filled with strange symbols, diagrams, names written and scratched out. At the center of one page: the same initials from the locket. Surrounding them: a mark. A circular sigil with unfamiliar lines and shapes, like an ancient seal.
Amara stared at it, and suddenly, a flash burst behind her eyes — a vision, not her own.
A woman screaming. A fire. Running through rain-soaked streets. A hand reaching for hers — and being torn away.
She gasped and stumbled back, nearly knocking over the chair.
Lucien was beside her instantly. "What did you see?"
"I don't know," she whispered, gripping the edge of the desk. "I don't know what that was."
"You're remembering."
"No," she said, shaking her head, but even she didn't sound convinced.
He touched her arm, gently, grounding her. "You're not crazy. This is real. And you're not alone."
The sincerity in his voice broke something in her. For a long moment, they stood there — past and present layered in the silence between them.
Then, footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Lucien's head turned sharply. "Someone's here."
He moved fast, shutting the box and placing it back in the cabinet. The softness was gone. In its place: tension, control. The mask he wore in public.
Amara stepped back, her pulse still racing. "Who would be here this late?"
"I don't know," Lucien said, already moving toward the door. "But I don't believe in coincidences anymore."
The office lights flickered again.
Something was coming.
And neither of them was ready.