My Last Life With The King

Prologue

Six Hundred Thousand Years Ago

Rinoa

“No—no! My king, please don’t leave me, don’t die!” My voice cracked as I held his bloody body in my arms.

We were lovers — destined and bound to each other. The time we spent would never be enough.

I shut my eyes, praying to the gods that this was just a bad dream.

“Please! I will trade places with him. Don’t take him; take me instead!”

When I opened my eyes, a beacon of light blinded me. Heaven itself seemed to open, and someone powerful had heard my desperate plea.

A beautiful woman descended from the skies, glowing from head to toe.

“Are you the goddess here to take him away from me?” I asked, trembling.

She was beyond stunning — her hair a fiery red, her eyes pure white, divine and endless.

“Rinoa, do you love him?” the goddess asked, her voice soft but commanding.

He was the only man I would ever love.

“You know I do — more than my own life. So please, don’t take him. Take me.”

She studied me with a faint smile.

“Very well. I will let the man you love live, in exchange for you.”

Tears filled my eyes, my heart shattering as I realized what that meant. We didn’t have much more time.

I would die in his place.

“Then take me now — and let him live!” I cried out.

“Rinoa,” the goddess said gently, “your pure heart is both your gift and your curse. I will let him live with you, but every one thousand years, you will meet again and fall in love. Yet he will have no memories of you. The only one who will remember is you. And you will die in his place — again and again.

On your seventh life, Rinoa, if Cillian cannot die for you, you will disappear… and no one will remember you.”

Tears streamed down my face, my chest tightening with grief.

There was nothing I wouldn’t do for Cillian. If this was my fate — then let it be mine alone.

“Take me instead.”

My hands trembled as I held the papers, my eyes scanning every word. I was sitting across from my future husband — the billionaire boss with the same face as the man I’ve loved for thousands of years.

How could one moment of agony last forever? Why was I the only one still hoping our story would never die?

Sloane. Rinoa. Whatever name I carried this lifetime didn’t matter — because he had no recollection of who I was. That dagger was pinned straight through my heart. There was no sign of recognition, no flicker of the spark that once burned between us.

Separate bedrooms? Check.

Separate bathrooms? Of course.

I was expected to accompany him to every foundation gala, company ball, and event during our marriage. The most crucial part? Getting pregnant and giving birth to a Montgomery heir. No one could know about our contract. No soul could find out.

“Everything okay?”

His voice was calm, composed — too calm.

I stared at the man I used to know, the man I was once willing to die for… only to discover that now, I was just an employee to him.

I knew why his brows furrowed, what kind of coffee he liked, what time he preferred silence, and even how long he’d stare at that obnoxiously expensive watch when he wanted to avoid me.

The man of my every fantasy needed a wife and an heir.

He needed me.

No one knew Cillian King Montgomery better than I did. Despite every doubt in my soul, I was supposed to agree.

His emerald eyes locked on mine — piercing, breathtaking. How could anyone look this good? I swallowed hard, an air bubble caught in my throat.

My hands trembled, my nerves ricocheting through every vein.

Cillian made me want to hyperventilate into a paper bag. He was gorgeous — dangerously so. The perfect symmetry of his face, that aristocratic jaw, his light brown hair perfectly combed as if sculpted by the gods themselves. The Armani three-piece suit fit him like it was sewn from sin.

Cillian Montgomery looked like he stepped straight out of an Esquire cover.

I could describe him all day, but no word would ever be enough.

I cleared my throat. “Don’t you remember anything?”

“Remember what?” Cillian asked, confusion flickering in his eyes.

Remember me. Remember us. Give me something — even a spark of hope.

“Where was the part about... babymaking?” I whispered under my breath.

He adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his aristocratic nose. I followed every movement — hopelessly aware of how he stared right back. My cheeks burned hot with embarrassment.

“Sloane?” His voice cut through my thoughts. This man had been playing with my head since the day I met him. The pain of being forgotten — again — would be the death of me.

“Can I think about it?” I asked, looking away. My heart couldn’t take another second of his gaze — one more look and I’d fall apart.

“Is the money not enough?”

Money?

I flipped the pages, licking my finger nervously.

Page twelve, section seven.

What—fifty million dollars? A vacation house? Any car I want?

My uterus was worth a fortune. And yet, I already knew how far I’d go for him — again.

My jaw dropped, then I quickly shut it. I refused to embarrass myself further.

“Whatever house we buy during our marriage will be yours. Sloane, marry me, give me an heir — and whatever you want is yours.”

Whatever I want? The biggest lie of all.

I had died for him again and again, and still, he never came back to me. Now, in my seventh life, how could I believe him?

I was the girl he always missed — the one fate never let him remember.

My stomach turned. I shouldn’t be shocked by how rich he was, but I felt like a cheap auction prize waiting for the highest bidder.

Another bonus: I’d be a pathetic baby mama when he was done with me.

“If you’re that desperate,” I murmured, scratching the bridge of my nose, “why not just buy a wife? Or adopt a baby?”

Maybe hit your head on a wall while you’re at it — just enough to remember us.

You promised me the moon and sun, and not even a memory survived.

“Because with you,” he said flatly, “you’ll always know the score. You know that when I touch you, it’s because I have to.”

Score? Touch me?

Cillian rested his chin on his hand, looking bored.

“What I meant, Sloane,” he continued, “is that you won’t ask for more. You’ll take this arrangement as it is. And I trust you’ll be a good mother.”

Trust. That word meant everything to me — even more than love.

I would be the mother of his child. Cillian’s child.

Should that make me feel special? Probably not. But in his world, trust was rarer than affection.

When I worked for him, he showed me nothing but cold stares, empty words, and too much professionalism.

“Fine,” I said at last. I picked up the pen and signed.

I had nothing to lose — except my virginity. For the seventh time.

This should’ve been the happiest day of my life.

In this version of our story, the universe gave me what I always wanted: to be wanted by him, to be a mother.

But I felt nothing close to happy. Because Cillian was right — when it came to him, I always knew the score.

And after this, no one would be to blame but me.

I hated myself for it.

For taking anything from him. For loving him again. For giving him pieces of my heart just to have him break them — again.

What could be worse?

Is it even love if I keep offering myself — or my womb — in the name of it all.