Chapter 1
I was the orphan Hayes Holt pulled from the foster system, the girl he raised for eight years.
In my past life, I drowned in his suffocating tenderness, mistaking his guardianship for love. When he brought Josie Rowe home and announced their engagement, I snapped.
I threw a hysterical fit, screaming my unrequited love until the scandal bled into every gossip rag in New York.
My reward was his cold disgust. Labeled "sick," I was shipped off to a psychiatric ward, where I died strapped to a table, my brain fried by forced ECT.
The very next day, Hayes gave Josie the Manhattan wedding of the century. To the world, I became nothing but a cautionary tale: the delusional slut who tried to seduce her adoptive father.
But fate pulled me back. Back to the exact moment I ruined my life. Back to the fatal question:
"Can't we be more than just father and daughter?"
Across the dining table, the ruthless CEO of Holt Holdings was painstakingly peeling a shrimp for me. At my words, his long fingers froze.
"What did you say?"
In my past life, I missed the flash of pure disgust in his eyes and just cried, begging for his love.
But now, hearing his icy tone, the phantom stench of my own burning flesh filled my nostrils. A violent shudder ripped through me. Digging my nails into my palms, I forced a flawless smile and pulled my plate away.
"Dad," I said, the word tasting like ash. "Didn't you tell me to grow up? I can peel them myself. I won't bother you anymore."
Hayes’s hand hovered in mid-air.
Eight years of him doing this for her. Cutting her steak, tying her school ties, tucking her in with a story every night. Eight years of her drinking in every small gesture, twisting them into proof of something they could never be.
Eight years. This was also the exact number of years it took for me to finally, voluntarily, pull away from him.
The silence in the dining room turned brittle. Finally, he lowered his dark gaze and went back to peeling the shrimp.
"No need to get your hands dirty," he murmured.
In my past life, those exact words had sent a thrill straight to my heart. I had foolishly believed it was a special kind of devotion.
Now, I saw it for exactly what it was: the condescending care of a guardian indulging a child.
I reached across the table and took the plate right out of his hands. "It's fine," I said, my voice perfectly level. "I'm going to have to get married eventually. I should probably learn to do things for myself."
"Married?"
Hayes’s eyes snapped up, his jaw tightening. "You’re only twenty."
"Twenty isn't exactly a child anymore." I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, methodically peeling my own food. "Besides, didn't you say you hoped I'd marry early so I'd stop clinging to you?"
Those were the exact words he had hurled at me in my past life, on the very day he brought Josie Rowe back to the estate. Back then, the cruel dismissal had shattered me into a million pieces. Saying them now, however, I felt nothing but a hollow calm.
Dead silence fell over the table again.
I chewed, swallowed, and stood up. "I'm full. Enjoy the rest of your dinner. Dad."
As I turned to leave, the harsh, grating scrape of a heavy chair being pushed back echoed behind me. He had stood up.
I didn't look back.
The moment my bedroom door clicked shut, I leaned heavily against the wood, my legs turning to jelly. Pretending not to care took a physical toll I hadn't anticipated. It was exhausting.
I scanned the sprawling bedroom. Every inch of it was a suffocating shrine to his care.
Leather-bound fairytales lined the nightstand—the ones he used to read to me, page by page. The bay window was cluttered with snow globes and porcelain figurines he had brought back from business trips in Paris, London, and Milan.
And there, sitting on my vanity, was last year's birthday present: a custom-made diamond necklace.
I remembered the night he had fastened it around my neck. His fingers had brushed my skin, warm and lingering, as he smiled in the mirror.
"Our Hazel is all grown up. It's time you had your own real jewelry."
In that fleeting moment, I had mistaken his indulgence for a confession.
Yet, in my past life, when I wore that very necklace to confront him about Josie, he had ripped it from my throat in front of half of Manhattan’s elite, tossing it into a nearby trash can like it was garbage.
Don't be a delusional, ungrateful brat, Hazel.
A sharp, phantom pain seized my chest. I grabbed a large cardboard box from the closet and started packing.
The fairy tales. The souvenirs. The diamonds. The framed photos. I threw them all in, one by one. Every single item felt like a dull knife scraping against my ribs, heavy with a past I needed to bury. I sealed the box and shoved it into the darkest, deepest corner of my walk-in closet.
Out of sight, out of mind.
I was just dusting off my hands when a knock tapped against my door.
"Hazel? Are you awake?"
It was Hayes.
"Yes. Did you need something, Dad?"
The door pushed open. Hayes stood in the doorway, the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, holding a glass of warm milk.
"Drink this before you sleep," he said, stepping inside. "Goodnight."
Same as every night for eight years. Same quiet ritual.
I reached out and took the glass. In the past, this was my cue to act spoiled. I would have grabbed his sleeve, pouted, and forced him to sit on the edge of my bed until I finished every last drop.
Tonight, I just gave him a polite, distant nod. "Thank you, Dad. Have a good night."
Hayes froze. He stood rooted to the carpet, his dark eyes searching my face, waiting for the usual routine. Waiting for the clingy girl he was so used to.
When she didn’t, he gave a single sharp nod, turned, and walked out.
Just before the door clicked closed, she saw his shoulders pause. Like he’d turned to say something, thought better of it, and kept going.
The lock snicked into place.
In the end, he walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.
I stood alone in the center of the room, staring at the warm milk in my hands. Then, I walked straight into the en-suite bathroom and poured it all down the drain.
