Chapter 3The Magician Who Stole Reality

My heart leaped into my throat. "What do you mean?"

"Why the big show?" he asked, his voice low and strange. "The public proposal? The kissing for the cameras? You’ve never been one for 'spectacle' before."

He tilted his head, his eyes searching mine. "Do I have a terminal illness? Am I dying, Cass?"

Then, just as quickly, the coldness vanished. He looked worried, the Ben I knew returning. I let out a shaky laugh and gripped his hand.

"Don't be silly. I just... I wanted the whole world to know how much I love you. I wanted them to see you."

Ben looked away, his cheeks flushing again. "The show's starting. Pay attention."

I watched the magic with him, my eyes never leaving his profile for more than a second. Finally, the moment arrived. Victor Blackwood announced the Vanishing Act. He called for a volunteer.

I felt every muscle in my body lock. I held my breath.

It was Ben. Of course, it was Ben.

As the ushers moved toward our row, I stepped out into the aisle, blocking them. "I’m so sorry," I said, my voice firm. "I’m actually feeling quite ill, and my fiancé needs to stay here with me. He can't go up."

Ben blinked, startled, but then he nodded. "She’s right. I should stay with her."

The ushers moved on. I watched, breathless, as Victor Blackwood chose someone else—a middle-aged man from the front row.

The fear that had been suffocating me finally began to lift. I looked down at the Tiffany ring on my finger, already imagining our wedding, our life, our safety.

But then, the act ended. The lights in the theater plunged into total, absolute darkness for the transition.

Panic flared in my chest. I reached out for Ben’s hand, but my fingers met only cold, empty air.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

The house lights surged back on. The audience stood, cheering for the volunteer who had just "reappeared" at the back of the hall. But I was looking at the seat next to me.

It wasn't Ben. It was a stranger—a man in a grey suit.

Ben was gone. Again.

I stared at the man in the suit. I recognized him. He was the same man from my first life—the one who claimed the seat was his.

The roar of the crowd felt like it was miles away. I let out a scream that sliced through the applause. "Who the hell are you? Where is my fiancé?"

The theater went quiet. People turned, their expressions shifting from joy to annoyance.

The man in the suit looked at me with genuine confusion. "Ma'am, what are you talking about? I’ve been sitting here the whole time. This is my seat."

"Liar!" I screamed. "You weren't here! Ben was here! We just got engaged!"

He shook his head slowly. "Ma'am, you came in alone. I noticed you because you were talking to yourself earlier. You don't have a boyfriend."

It was a carbon copy of the previous nightmare. The same words. The same gaslighting.

But this time, I had proof.

I turned to the girl in the white dress. "You! You took our picture! You saw me propose! Tell them!"

The girl looked at me with a blank, pitying expression. "I never took a photo for you. Are you feeling okay? Like the gentleman said... you’ve been alone all night."

The blood in my veins turned to ice. I looked around. A sea of faces, all looking at me like I was a broken thing. A lunatic.

"No," I whispered. "No, that’s impossible. We were on the screen! Victor Blackwood congratulated us!"

People began to mutter. "What engagement?" "Is she high?" "She’s ruining the show."

The theater security hurried over. "Ma'am, please. You’re disturbing the performance. We’re going to have to ask you to leave."

"I’m not going anywhere! Check the security cameras! I came in with him!"

I demanded to see the footage. I refused to budge until they dragged me into the security office. When they played the tape, I felt the world tilt on its axis.

The footage showed me walking through the lobby. Alone.

It showed me sitting in my seat, turning to my left and talking to an empty chair.

Ben Montgomery wasn't there. He had never been there.

Even my phone... I opened the gallery, and the photo was there, but it was just a selfie of me, smiling at nothing, my arm draped over a vacuum of space.

My memories of him—every touch, every conversation—felt like they were being forcibly rewritten.

But then, as I looked down at my hands in despair, I saw it. The one thing they hadn't accounted for.