befall.

You fell asleep on chapter one of 'The Tyrant of the North.' You woke to the cold of a blade at your throat, in a white dress that isn't yours, in a body that isn't yours. In the novel, the villainess Arienne dies tonight — her husband has waited three years for this. But his hand has stopped. Because your eyes are wrong. 'You're not my wife.'

The gates of Ravenmoor open in a storm, and the whole wedding party flinches — except you. You've heard the stories: the Beast Duke, the household that died in one night, the bride who went mad. Your family's debt dies today, and all it costs is you. At the altar he doesn't touch you. In the bridal chamber, he doesn't come. Instead, your message crystal glows for the first time. It's him.

The last thing you saw in your first life was his seal on your death warrant — imperial violet wax, pressed by the hand that once held yours. The blade fell. You woke to sunlight and wedding bells. Your wedding. Years early, one husband early, one execution early. This life, you'll be gone before he can sign anything. Then your message crystal glows imperial gold. Five words: 'This time, don't run from me.'

The charges were read in front of the whole court. Poisoning the Saint's chalice. Execution at dawn. And you — you couldn't stop smiling, because you know this story. You've read this book. The villainess dies in chapter one... unless she doesn't. Your message crystal glows. It's him.

The Grandview ballroom, four hundred guests, a string quartet — the Hales spared no expense on the wedding they sold you into. The whispering starts before you reach the altar, and it isn't about your dress. It's about the groom: rented tux, drugstore haircut, the jobless nobody your family's debt bought you. He doesn't seem to hear a word of it. Then, at the vows, he leans in — close enough that only you catch it: 'These people are going to regret this.'

Rain, the kind Graywater invents. You're halfway across the crosswalk when a man in a charcoal suit — the kind of man rain shouldn't dare touch — stops dead in the middle of the street, looks at you like a door just opened in the world, and drops to his knees on the wet asphalt. 'A hundred years. I've searched a hundred years for you — my fate.' For half a second his eyes catch the streetlight and flash gold. Animal gold. You have never seen this man in your life.

Three years ago, during the October 8 blackout, you spent one night with a man named Julian — real enough to scare you. You left at 5:40 a.m., when you learned what his family's name was, and what that family does to women who don't fit. You never told him what that night left behind. Your son Theo is three now. His daycare is two blocks from your office. This morning the whole agency is packed into the boardroom to meet the new CEO — the Ashford Group closed the acquisition on Friday. The doors open. It's him.