Twice Lost, Reborn in Fire

I blink my eyes open. Wait… the last thing I remember is getting hit by a car. I should have died with how fast it was going. I bolt upright in shock, patting my hands over my body to make sure I’m really here. No blood. No injuries.

I look around—and freeze. I’m in my old room. The one right beside my biological parents’ room, the one they gifted me. The space unfolds with understated luxury, the kind that whispers rather than shouts. Soft morning light filters through tall sash windows dressed in cream damask drapery, pooling across polished oak floors partly covered by a Persian wool rug in muted burgundy and gold. I’m sitting in my four‑poster canopy bed, its carved mahogany posts draped in sheer voile panels, the crisp gold linens edged with embroidery.

Why am I here and not in the room I share with my husband?

Then the memories slam into me. The betrayal. Lorenzo had been distant ever since we married, but I never imagined he would stoop this low. He texted me saying he had a last‑minute event and needed me there—told me not to worry about dressing up because he had everything prepared in a hotel room at the venue. I was so excited that he’d thought of me. I rushed to the hotel, practically glowing. I even told my assistant and driver I’d go alone because I didn’t want anyone souring his mood when he was finally making an effort.

When I arrived, I did not even stop at the front desk to confirm the room number he’d sent. I hurried down the hall, opened the door—and froze. He wasn’t alone.

Lorenzo sat in an armchair with my adoptive sister straddling his lap, their lips locked in a heated kiss. They didn’t even notice me. A scream tore out of me before I bolted, terrified and heartbroken. I did not want to sit around to hear any excuses they may have tried to tell me. I ran out of the hotel, not even thinking to check for traffic. A car came out of nowhere, jumped the curb, and barreled straight toward me.

I shake the memory off and rush to my walk‑in closet. It looks exactly the same—cedar‑lined, with neatly hung dresses, tailored coats, and a row of polished riding boots. Even in my shock, I go straight to the floor‑to‑ceiling mirror.

I stare. I look younger—like I’m eighteen again, freshly returned home. I’m wearing the old pajamas my parents bought me, a pink plush two‑piece set. When they found me, they were adamant I was still the ten‑year‑old girl they’d lost, so every outfit they bought was meant for a sophisticated British little girl.

What the hell? None of this makes sense.

Then I hear voices I haven’t heard in years.

“Don’t let her do this!” my mother yells.

“I know. I’m not happy either,” my father sighs. “My precious daughter marrying that Italian dog… but she says she’s in love and won’t consider anyone else. She even told me she’d rather be alone for the rest of her life if she can’t marry him.”

I take a second to think about their words. They sound familiar in a way. I move to my bedroom door and press my ear against it, listening as they continue to talk.

“I don’t want to lose her! We just got her back!” my mother continues to yell at my father.

“I don’t want to lose her either, sweetheart, but Ivy has made up her mind. She’s been gone for so long, and we owe her so much. She was probably suffering with the Finnish Mafia. Whatever she asks of me, I’ll make it happen for her. I’d get her the moon if I could,” he explains gently.

Then it hits me. I’ve heard this conversation before. This was my mother’s last attempt to stop my marriage. My father started the arrangement last week, and they’re in the final stages of the marriage contract. A cold sweat breaks across my skin. I’ve gone back in time somehow.

I don’t hesitate—I swing the door open. My parents both look at me in shock.

“Darling! Are you okay? Are you sick? Should I call the family doctor?” My mother rushes to me, cradling my head between her hands as she frets over me. I can’t help but smile softly. She looks exactly the same. She’s wearing a pink power suit with a white blouse underneath, her blond hair styled in soft beach curls. She has gold accent jewelry to finish off her polished look. I gently move her hands from my face and pull her into a hug. I’ve missed her hugs. She freezes for a moment, then returns the embrace.

“I’ve missed you, Mama,” I whisper into her ear. She lets out a soft laugh.

“Silly girl, you just saw me last night when I brought your bedtime tea,” she says with amusement, giving me one last squeeze before letting go. Her radiant smile is hard to look away from, but I turn my gaze to my father.

He’s wearing a three‑piece navy pinstriped suit with a white dress shirt underneath. He hasn’t finished getting ready—his red tie is still draped around his neck, undone. His dark brown hair is combed back neatly. His few white strands he was getting are missing. My father is quite the looker for his age, well‑built as always. The Don of the British Mafia can’t exactly be fat and lazy. I step away from Mama and move to him, quickly finishing his tie and tucking the end into his vest.

“My little Poison Ivy,” he whispers, instantly sensing something is wrong. “Is something the matter? Do you need anything?”

I take a deep breath. I have a decision to make. I can pretend nothing is wrong… or I can change the fabric of time. And I know what I have to do.

“Papa,” I say, my voice steady, “I’ve decided to listen to you and Mama. I want to call off the engagement.”