A Royal Rebirth

Lucy’s POV

I gasped—loud, sharp, desperate—as consciousness slammed back into me.

My chest heaved. My lungs burned. My fingers twitched against something cold and stiff. For a moment, my mind was nothing but a blank white void, swirling and disoriented, like I had been thrown into a world I didn’t recognize.

Where… am I?

The question brushed across my mind like a trembling whisper.

Then scents began to filter in—antiseptic, harsh and stinging; the faint sweetness of medicinal alcohol; plastic tubing; bleach; the sterile, metallic bite of hospital-grade air. Machines beeped somewhere near my head in a soft, rhythmic pattern. A ventilator hummed. The air-conditioner whirred.

I wasn’t home. I wasn’t outside.

I wasn’t… dead?

My eyes widened as the last thought jolted through me.

Was I not dead? Did I somehow survive?

Images flashed—frantic, jagged, incomplete—until one memory hit me so hard my breath caught in my throat.

Kenneth.

The moment his name formed, my chest tightened painfully.

My husband. My foolish, beautiful, stubborn husband.

Was he here? Did he make it? Or had my death dragged him along with me?

The answer churned in my stomach like poison.

Tears rose before I could control them—hot, stinging, relentless. They streamed down my temples as everything flooded back with merciless clarity.

Patricia.

Of course it would be Patricia—the spoiled heiress who thought the world should kneel simply because she was rich enough to buy it. The girl who had arrived in our quiet town dripping with privilege and entitlement. The girl who decided she wanted my husband and believed she only had to snap her fingers to get him.

Kenneth rejected her. Repeatedly. Coldly. With dignity.

And the more he rejected her, the more obsessed she became.

She tried gifts. Flirting. Seduction. Manipulation. Tears.

Nothing worked.

Because Kenneth loved me. Truly, deeply, stubbornly loved me.

Even now, just remembering the way he used to look at me made my heart constrict.

So she did what monsters do when they realize they cannot control something.

She plotted.

She planned my elimination.

She kidnapped me—drugged, tied, dragged me to an abandoned warehouse like I was some kind of sacrificial offering in her delusional fantasy. I remembered the cold concrete beneath me, the rope biting into my wrists, her face twisted with unhinged jealousy as she raised that dagger.

And then—

Kenneth.

My idiot. My hero. My everything.

He came. Alone. With no backup. No police.

Of course he did.

He burst in right as Patricia plunged the dagger through my back, straight into my heart. The white-hot pain, the taste of blood in my mouth, the way my vision blurred—it all came back in a violent flood.

Grief consumed him in a blink. He didn’t hesitate. He shot her. Point blank. The sound was deafening.

Before my life force could fade, another shot rang out.

Kenneth staggered. He fell.

And then—bleeding heavily—he dragged himself toward me with what little strength he had left.

I saw the pain in his eyes.

I saw the love.

I saw the stupidity, too.

He leaned close and whispered with trembling lips,

“Wait for me, babe… I’m coming with you.”

That reckless, overwhelming love—the same love that made him promise me forever—had cost him his life.

He should have let me go alone.

He should have let me die.

Why did he have to follow me into death?

I choked on a sob.

And then—

“Oh Lucy baby, thank God you’re awake! I’ve been so worried. I thought I lost you.”

The voice jerked me from my grief.

Soft. Feminine. Warm.

Unfamiliar.

My eyes slowly shifted toward the source.

A beautiful middle-aged woman rushed into the room, her steps quick and frantic. Her face brightened with relief when she looked at me, but my stomach twisted.

My name—Lucy—rolled off her tongue with far too much familiarity.

My expression instinctively tightened.

Lucy might be my name, but I didn’t know this woman. Not at all.

“How do you feel, baby?” she asked softly as she pulled a chair close, sliding her hand around mine with gentle warmth.

I stared at her blankly.

My mind raced.

Why was she touching me like she knew me?

Why was she looking at me like I belonged to her?

I was an orphan.

I had no one.

Kenneth was the only family I had ever managed to build.

I frowned, confusion clouding my face.

She squeezed my hand tighter, worry filling her eyes.

“Lucy, my love, how do you feel? Are you still in pain?” she asked, adjusting my pillow with meticulous care.

“I’m… okay,” I rasped.

My voice sounded strange—weak, brittle, hoarse, like I hadn’t spoken in months. That didn’t make sense. It had barely been hours since Patricia stabbed me.

The woman’s gaze sharpened with concern.

“Are you sure? Let me call the doctor.”

Before I could protest, she rushed out of the room.

Within seconds she returned with a man in a white coat. A doctor—complete with a stethoscope dangling from his neck and a clipped badge swinging slightly with each step.

“Welcome back, Lucy,” he greeted warmly.

I nodded stiffly. My throat was painfully dry. I glanced at my left hand and noticed an IV dripping into me. The needle prick hurt, but something else bothered me more.

My hand looked… smaller. Thinner. Younger.

A ripple of panic rose in my chest.

The doctor didn’t seem to notice. He went about checking me, lifting my eyelids, flashing a light, rolling a metal rollerball along my feet. Each touch made my feet jerk instinctively away. They felt stiff—like they hadn’t moved in a long time.

“Thank God you survived the accident,” he began, turning to the woman. “Ms. Margaret, your niece has made a remarkable recovery.”

I blinked.

Niece?

Accident?

I looked at the woman—Margaret—as though I were seeing a ghost.

“You’re my… Aunt?” I croaked.

Her forehead tightened, surprise flashing across her features.

“Yes, baby. Did you forget me?” she asked, her voice trembling. She glanced sharply at the doctor. “What’s happening?”

“It’s normal for her to have amnesia,” the doctor replied calmly. “She’s been in a coma for two months. Memory loss is common—could be temporary or permanent. She hit her head on the dashboard when the car rolled. It’s expected.”

My breath stalled.

Two months?

A coma?

A car accident?

What were they talking about?

I had been stabbed.

I had died.

Why were they acting like that never happened?

My heart pounded wildly. Had they mistaken me for someone else? Had they switched patients?

“Accident?” I whispered, panic rising. “What accident? This is wrong. Completely wrong. I never—”

“Baby,” Margaret interrupted gently, “aren’t you Lucy Foster?”

“Yes,” I answered slowly. “But—”

“I’m your Aunt, Margaret Foster. I’ve raised you since you were an infant, after your parents died.”

My blood turned cold.

That was impossible.

I grew up in an orphanage.

I was never raised by any aunt.

I had no extended family.

None.

My head started to throb. I held it between my hands, squeezing my temples.