Reborn in Ashes

Five years later.

Sometimes I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror .Her name isn’t Selene Carter anymore. Her name is Aria Vale.

Selene died that night, bleeding out on the living room floor with her family. Aria was born in the hospital days later, stitched together with broken bones and emptier eyes.

The scars on my body healed, though some never fully faded. The ones on my soul never will.

Every day since, I’ve lived for one thing: revenge.

I built myself again out of ashes, piece by piece, until I was unrecognizable. New hair, new voice, new papers, new life. Even my smile doesn’t look the same anymore. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the mother who loved chocolate and laughed at her husband’s bad jokes. I see a mask. A mask that hides fire beneath it.

That mask led me here.

To him.

Damian Blackthorne.

The man whose name was whispered in my ear as I bled out. The man I swore I would destroy. The man I now serve every single day, as his loyal executive aide.

I walk the halls of Blackthorne Enterprises with my head high, heels sharp against the marble floors, files stacked in my arms. To everyone else, I am the perfect assistant—organized, polite, calm under pressure. To him, I am indispensable. His shadow. His right hand.

Inside, every step I take makes my stomach coil. Every glance at him makes my hands itch for the blade I keep hidden in my apartment. Every smile I give him tastes like poison on my tongue.

Because I am close now. So close.

Damian Blackthorne is a powerful man. Ruthless. Fearless. Cold. The world bows to him. CEOs fear him. Politicians whisper his name in caution. He commands with a look, crushes with a word.

And yet…

With me—“Aria”—he is different.

He says please when asking for his coffee. He thanks me when I hand him a file. Sometimes his eyes soften when he sees me struggling with a heavy stack of folders, and he takes them from my arms himself. It unsettles me. It confuses me.

It disgusts me.

Because I know what he is. Or at least, I think I do.

He destroyed my life. He made me what I am. And soon, I will return the favor.

But revenge is a patient thing. If I stab him in his office now, someone will save him. His guards. His board. His men. No—when I strike, it has to be final. Clean. Certain.

So I wait. I smile when he calls my name. I nod when he gives orders. I laugh politely at his dry jokes, even though inside I want to scream.

And every night, when I close my eyes, I see Matthew’s blood, Lily’s silence, my baby’s kicks turning to stillness. I remember the whisper. Damian Blackthorne sends his regards.

That memory is the fuel that keeps me alive.

Tonight, I am in his office late.

The city sprawls beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, glittering lights against the dark. Damian is at his desk, his suit jacket draped over the chair, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His tie hangs loose. He looks almost human like this—less of the untouchable titan the world knows, more of a man burning through too many midnight hours.

But I don’t forget. I can’t.

“Aria,” he says, without looking up from the papers in front of him, “did the Tokyo files arrive?”

“Yes, Mr. Blackthorne,” I answer smoothly. My voice never wavers anymore. I’ve trained it to be steady, calm. Never betraying the storm beneath. “I’ve already organized them for tomorrow’s meeting.”

“Good.” He signs something quickly, his pen cutting sharp strokes. “You’re efficient. I don’t say it enough.”

A simple compliment. Ordinary. But it lands like a stone in my chest.

Because Matthew used to say the same thing. About dinners, about schedules, about bills. “You’re efficient, Selene,” he’d tease. “Too good at making me look bad.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile. “Just doing my job.”

Damian finally looks up. His eyes are sharp, a piercing gray that sees too much. Sometimes I wonder if he looks at me and sees through the mask. If he recognizes the ghost standing in front of him.

But he doesn’t. He can’t.

If he did, he would be dead already.

“Aria.” His voice softens in a way that makes my stomach twist. “You’ve been with me for… what, three years now?”

“Yes.” My palms itch. My heart pounds.

Three years. Three years of watching him every day. Three years of swallowing down hatred. Three years of pretending.

“I trust you,” he says simply. “You’re the only one I do.”

The words slice through me, leaving a wound I don’t know how to close. Because he says it like he means it. Like he actually… trusts me.

And that makes it harder. Harder to remember that this man is the reason my daughter is in the ground. Harder to remember the blood soaking my living room floor.

I look down quickly, hiding the fire in my eyes. If he saw it, if he even suspected—everything would crumble.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

The lie tastes bitter.

He nods once, then gathers his papers into a neat stack. The silence in the office stretches. Only the hum of the city fills the air.

I force myself to breathe evenly. To appear calm. But inside, my chest is tight, my hands trembling just slightly at my sides. I imagine plunging the knife into him. I imagine watching him fall the way Matthew fell. I imagine hearing him beg.

Soon, I remind myself. Soon.

“Aria,” Damian says suddenly. His voice is low now, softer, almost too quiet.

I look up. He’s standing, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of his cologne—smoke and spice. My pulse kicks hard in my throat.

He steps past me, brushing close enough that his shoulder grazes mine. I freeze, my breath caught. His presence fills the space around me, heavy and deliberate.

Then he leans in. Close. Too close.

His lips are near my ear when he murmurs, low and deliberate:

“You watch me too closely, Aria. Why?”