Chapter 1From His Shadow To A Blackwood

I was on the edge of a cliff, tied to Isabelle, the ghost who had haunted my marriage before it even began.

Jackson, my fiancé, stood a safe distance away, silent for a long time. In the end, he chose me, the girl he’d grown up with.

It was the wrong choice.

Less than three days later, they pulled Isabelle’s body from the sea. Her clothes were shredded, her face unrecognizable.

Jackson never showed his grief, not outwardly. But I knew. In the quiet, hollow spaces of our life together, I could feel it. He hated me for it.

For the next ten years of our cold, calculated marriage—a merger of families, not hearts—he made sure I felt that hate. The late nights, the string of affairs plastered across gossip sites. I became the designated laughingstock of New York’s elite, the woman pointed at and whispered about at charity galas. The “abandoned wife.” Through it all, he watched with indifferent eyes.

I thought we would stay like that, locked in our mutual torment until we were old and gray.

But then came the research expedition to Antarctica. An extreme blizzard, an avalanche. In the final, roaring moments before the world turned white, Jackson—the man who had despised me for a decade—used the last of his strength to shove me toward safety.

He was swallowed by the ice and snow.

As his life faded, he smiled, a look of profound release on his face. His voice was a wisp of air.

"Liv," he breathed, "what I owed you… it's paid."

"Now I can finally be with Isabelle."

"Next life… please, stay away from us."

I nodded, tears freezing on my cheeks, my heart turning to ash.

And then I opened my eyes.

Back on the edge of the cliff.

* * *

The wind howled, a physical force against my eardrums. Just like before, I was tied to Isabelle, the abyss yawning below our feet. The kidnapper was already laying out the choice for Jackson.

“One is the girl you grew up with, your little shadow. The other is the one that got away. Make a choice, Mr. Croft. The other one goes for a swim with the fishes.”

I could hear the sick amusement in his voice, the thrill of a cat toying with a mouse.

Jackson stood beyond the danger zone, a statue carved from indecision.

His mother, Eleanor, was frantic beside him. "Save Olivia! Jackson, what are you even hesitating for? Her parents died saving your father! The Crofts do not forget a debt like that!"

"Save Olivia, now!"

Still, Jackson was silent.

I knew why. His soul was screaming to save Isabelle. She was the great lost love of his life, the dream he never got over. In our last life, even after she was gone, he kept a part of his heart cordoned off for her, a sacred ground I was never allowed to tread upon.

He only chose me because of the duty, the debt his mother had shackled him with.

The kidnapper was losing his patience. He brandished a remote connected to the unstable plank beneath our feet. "The sea breeze is picking up, Mr. Croft. My thumb might slip. If you don't decide soon, these two lovely ladies are going to take the plunge together."

We stared at each other across the wind-whipped distance.

Jackson’s eyes were on me, but what I saw in them was a reflection of his own torment, a pain so profound it was about to spill over.

"I choose O—"

He was about to say my name, just like last time.

I jerked my head up, and with every ounce of strength in my body, I screamed, "SAVE ISABELLE!"

Jackson’s head snapped up.

His eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated disbelief.

It made sense. Since we were kids, I was the one who threw a tantrum if I didn’t get the first piece of candy, the shiniest toy. I’d learned early to demand to be his priority. The thought of me willingly handing him over to another woman—to Isabelle, of all people—was unthinkable.

Everyone in our circle knew my deepest insecurity, my most profound jealousy, was reserved for her.

Jackson and I had grown up in each other’s pockets. From the moment I understood what love was, I believed he was mine. I’d spent my teenage years systematically driving away any girl who got too close.

But Isabelle was different. She was the first girl he’d ever truly loved.

His forever girl.

I had been powerless against that. What I called hatred for her was really just a bone-deep fear.

The cold, salty air hit me, making me sway.

I screamed it again, my voice clear and final this time. "Save Isabelle."

Don't hesitate, Jackson.

Go. Save her.

I won't be in your way this time. I don't want your hate to be the story of my life again.

In the end, Jackson pulled strings and paid a king's ransom.

For Isabelle.

As he carried her trembling form away, he never once looked back at me. From my angle, I could just catch the profile of his face, and on it, a clear, unmistakable look of relief.

I tried to smile, but all I tasted was the cold, bitter salt of my own tears.

A lifetime of devotion.

It hadn't been enough to earn a single backward glance.

The rescue team arrived faster than I expected. Just as the kidnappers were preparing to move me, SWAT descended on the cliffside like ghosts emerging from the mist.

A flicker of suspicion crossed my mind. If law enforcement was this efficient, why had Isabelle died so horribly in our last life?

But the thought was swept away as my best friend, Sophie, launched herself at me, a blur of motion and terrified sobs. She clung to me like her life depended on it. "Liv! You scared the hell out of me! If something happened to you, what would I do?"

The ropes were cut from my wrists. I hugged her back, patting her shoulder. "I'm okay, Soph. I'm okay."

Sophie was shaking with rage, pointing back toward the path Jackson had taken. "That bastard! I can't believe he actually chose that bitch Isabelle!"

"He left his own fiancée for some manipulative shrew!"

Yes. Fiancée.

By morning, the headlines would be everywhere: Croft Heir Abandons Fiancée on Cliffside for Old Flame.

It would be the final nail in the coffin of my reputation, cementing my status as the joke of the Upper East Side. A joke I’d written for myself, really. In my previous life, I was always the one forcing photos of us, manufacturing a grand love story that never existed.

It’s pathetic, looking back.

Real love doesn't need an audience. You only show off the things you're terrified you don't really have.

Amid the chaos of the crime scene being processed, a figure in a black trench coat caught my eye. He was there and gone in a flash.

I narrowed my eyes.

I was sure of it. Over six-foot-three, an aura of quiet authority that demanded attention. In this city, that description fit only one man.

Ethan Blackwood. The head of the powerful Blackwood family.