Alexia’s POV
Stupid. Stupid. I am so fucking stupid.
Why the hell did I listen to that lying, cheating, inconsiderate, stupid Aiden?
He said he’d be ho early. He said he had sothing important to tell . He made it sound like it was urgent, like I should drop everything and rush ho because my dear husband needed to talk.
Well, guess what? It was past 9 PM, and the bastard was nowhere to be seen.
I glared at the clock like it had personally wronged , tapping my fingers aggressively against the table. My anger was simring—no, it was at a full rolling boil. And to make it worse? I wasn’t just mad. I was disappointed. And that pissed off even more.
Because why was I even disappointed? It wasn’t like Aiden and I had that kind of relationship. He could stay out all night for all I cared. He could go have a candlelit dinner with Liz at the fucking hospital cafeteria.
Whatever.
I just needed to stop thinking about him.
And what better way to do that than a little harmless rebellion?
I eyed his office door across the hallway. The very sa office that Aiden had specifically declared off-limits to .
Well, fuck that.
I stomped over, expecting it to be locked, because obviously, Mr. Secretive and Mysterious wouldn’t just leave his private sanctuary unprotected.
Except... the door swung open.
I blinked.
Was this a trap?
Did he leave it unlocked on purpose?
I peeked inside cautiously, my curiosity and pettiness warring against my self-preservation instincts. And then—screw it—I stepped in, making sure to close the door behind because the last thing I needed was William catching snooping.
The room was exactly what I expected.
Dark. Sleek. Broody.
Everything scread Aiden. The dark mahogany desk, the charcoal walls, the dim lighting. Even the air slled like expensive cologne and unapproachable billionaire asshole. Honestly, this man was obsessed with depressing aesthetics. Was color his mortal enemy? Did he think light shades would kill him?
I flopped into his ridiculously luxurious office chair and imdiately spun around, because of course I did.
After a few satisfying twirls, I leaned back, pretending to be Aiden. I deepened my voice and gave my best brooding, emotionless glare.
"What do you want?" I muttered, scowling at an imaginary assistant.
I even picked up a random paper and stared at it like I was reading sothing important—just like I’d seen Aiden do a hundred tis when he was trying to act all busy and mysterious.
A snort escaped .
God, I need help.
But then my eyes landed on sothing unexpected.
A stack of parchnt papers, neatly placed in one of the drawers. I frowned. Who even uses parchnt these days? What, was Aiden secretly writing dieval love letters?
Curious, I pulled them out and flipped through them. My brows furrowed.
They weren’t letters.
They were drawings.
Wait. Aiden draws?
That alone was shocking. I never imagined the cold, calculated businessman having an artistic side. But the real shock ca when I saw what he had drawn.
My breath hitched.
The first few sketches were landscapes—places that looked strangely familiar. Castles. Courtyards. A grand ballroom. A throne.
Then... people.
And that’s when I saw it.
.
Not just -, but the past-life .
Princess .
Regal gown. Crown atop my head. A smirk on my lips, eyes gleaming with arrogance.
My stomach dropped.
Fucking hell.
I flipped through more pages, each one making my panic rise. There was another sketch—of him. Not Aiden in his tailored suits and billionaire confidence, but him as he used to be. The servant. The boy who had once kneeled before in defiance, the sa fire in his eyes that refused to be extinguished even as I had him whipped.
My hands trembled as I clutched the drawings.
Oh. Shit.
He rembers.
................
Damn. Damn. Damn!
My hands shook as I stared at the parchnt, my breath coming out in short, panicked gasps. He rembers.
There was no other explanation. This wasn’t just so random drawing. It was —not the of now, but the of before. The princess. The ruler. The bitch who had once had him whipped and locked away in the dungeons.
And the worst part? The expression in the drawing—the smug smirk, the gleam of power in my eyes—was exactly as I had been back then. Cold. Arrogant. Untouchable.
I felt a chill crawl up my spine.
No. No way. Aiden couldn’t possibly rember his past life. It had to be a coincidence. Had to be.
But then why did this drawing exist?
My fingers trembled as I flipped through the other sketches. There were more. So were vague—landscapes that looked eerily familiar, symbols I couldn’t quite place—but then... there was him.
Aiden.
Not in a suit. Not in his brooding, modern-day, millionaire glory. But in simple, tattered servant’s clothes. Kneeling. Beaten. Looking up at with the sa defiant fire in his eyes that he had back then.
I slamd the parchnts back into the drawer, heart pounding.
Okay. Breathe. Think.
Maybe he didn’t fully rember. Maybe these were just weird dreams he had and he unconsciously put them to paper. Maybe—
My stomach twisted.
Or maybe he knew everything.
And if he did... what did that an for ? For us?
Suddenly, the office felt suffocating. The air too thick, the walls too close. I needed to get out before Aiden ca ho and found snooping through his mories.
I scrambled up from the chair, hastily shutting the drawer as quietly as I could. Then I bolted for the door, cracking it open just enough to peek out. Coast clear.
Good.
I slipped out, shutting it behind , my heart still hamring in my chest.
I needed a distraction.
I needed answers.
And most of all?
I needed to figure out if Aiden really rembered—before he decided to make pay for what I did to him in another life.
Was this what he wanted to talk to about?
To ask if I rembered?
Panic surged through as my mind raced for a solution. Deny, deny, deny. I had to pretend I had no idea what he was talking about. If he brought it up, I’d look at him like he was crazy, maybe even throw in a dramatic gasp for good asure.
"What? Past lives? Aiden, have you been watching too many reincarnation dramas?"
Yes. That was the plan. Gaslight him. Manipulate reality. Beco the queen of I don’t know what you’re talking about, you absolute lunatic.
But then—fuck.
Fucking fuck.
I just rembered sothing that made my stomach drop.
The first ti I t the Black brothers... I had told them. I had fucking told them.
Like an idiot. Like an absolute dumbass.
I had confidently introduced myself as Princess Alexia, their long-lost sister.
My soul nearly left my body.
Oh, I was screwed.
So. Screwed.
What the hell was I supposed to do now? March into Aiden’s room and demand he forget everything? Hunt down the Black brothers and erase their mories with sheer willpower?
I slapped my forehead. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid."
I needed a plan. A real plan. Sothing more solid than just denying reality.
But my mind was blank.
The only thing running through my head was the sound of impending doom, like a drumroll leading up to my inevitable downfall.
What the fuck do I do now?
Was it too late for to scum disappear?
Nah, who was I kidding? Aiden would find in seconds with his ridiculous connections. Hell, knowing him, he’d probably have flagged at every airport, train station, and convenience store. The man was like a bloodhound when he wanted sothing, and if his wife suddenly went poof? Yeah, I’d be trending on the news before I even made it past the city limits.
Worse? He could literally call the police and file a missing person’s report. Imagine that—getting arrested for trying to run away from your fake husband because he suddenly rembers a past life where you might have tortured him.
Jesus.
I started pacing. Think, Alexia. THINK.
I could fake amnesia. No—too dramatic. Plus, I was way too expressive to pull that off. One suspicious look from Aiden, and I’d break down like a cheap chair.
I could gaslight him into thinking he was imagining things. Also risky. The guy was annoyingly observant.
Maybe I should just... act natural? Play it cool?
Yeah. Yeah, that could work. I’d pretend I never saw the drawings, pretend I wasn’t internally screaming, and just go about my night like a normal, not secretly reincarnated wife.
Easy.
Except—what if he was planning to ask about it? What if he ca ho, sat down, and hit with a dramatic "Alexia... do you believe in fate?"
I shuddered. No. Nope. Not happening.
I needed a distraction. Sothing to shift his focus before he could shift mine.
So what did I do?
I stord out of his office, went straight to the kitchen—because let’s be real, stress-eating was my coping chanism—and started aggressively making cookies.
Because nothing scread I’m definitely NOT having an existential crisis over past-life torture like baking at 10 PM.
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