Pov: Elizabeth

“Claire! Why are you in such a hurry?”

A hand caught mine, spinning me around so fast I almost lost balance.

I froze. Standing in front of me was a man. Tall, maybe six feet, grey pants hugging long legs, white tee stretching across a lean chest. His dark hair fell carelessly across his forehead, and his grip was firm, a little too familiar.

My heart stuttered. Who the hell—

He stared at me like he knew me. Like he owned the right to touch me.

I swallowed hard, forcing a blink. Great. Apparently, this jerk, or rather Claire’s jerk was the type who ran across a busy road just to grab a girl’s wrist.

His eyes scanned me from head to toe, lingering for a beat too long before returning to my face. His brows furrowed.

“You look... different.”

Different? I brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to play along.

What was he expecting? Baggy jeans and a faded hoodie? Sorry, sweetheart. The new Claire had standards.

He took a step closer, his voice soft but edged with concern.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for three days. You didn’t answer my calls. Are you okay?”

I blinked again. Three days? Oh, right! Those missing days I spent dying, waking up in another body, and trying not to lose my mind.

“Do I look not okay to you?” I asked, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. I didn’t have time for this nonsense. The bus was already hissing like an impatient dragon behind him.

When I tried to move past, his hand shot out again, fingers curling around my wrist.

“Claire, are you still mad at me?”

Mad? I almost laughed. So you’re another one of her screw-ups? Perfect.

For all I knew, this guy was part of the reason Claire ended up a mess.

“You know what?” I said briskly. “I really have to go. We’ll... chat when I return, okay?”

He blinked, clearly thrown off. “Claire—”

But I was already sprinting down the street like a lunatic, waving wildly at the departing bus.

“Wait! Wait!”

The driver rolled his eyes but stopped just long enough for me to hop on. I collapsed into the nearest seat, chest heaving, heart racing like I’d just escaped a bad soap opera scene.

Only when the bus started moving did I let out a shaky breath.

“Whoever you were, Romeo,” I muttered under my breath, “your girlfriend’s got bigger problems now.”

The city blurred past the window. Yet somewhere deep inside, a strange ache pulsed, a remnant of Claire’s emotions bleeding into mine. Guilt. Longing. Something I didn’t want to name.

---

When the bus screeched to a stop, I stepped down and froze.

The glass doors reflected my new face back at me, a stranger staring at the place I once ruled. The silver letters above still read “Wakefield Enterprises”, bold and gleaming in the morning light.

Nothing had changed.

Except me.

I took a hesitant step toward the entrance.

Another hand clamped around my wrist.

Not again.

I spun, ready to unleash hell, but stopped short when I saw the flicker of crimson.

Red.

“You really have a thing for getting grabbed, huh?” he drawled, arms folded. His smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So what’s the plan now, genius? Walk in there and yell Surprise, I’m the dead daughter?”

I scowled. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, I’m not trying to be funny.” He tilted his head, his red-tinted hair glinting beneath the sunlight. “No wonder you died early. You’re really not good at thinking things through. Can’t believe you were once an heiress, your father must’ve done all the brain work.”

“Excuse me?”

He ignored me, gaze flicking up the mirrored tower.

“Your dear boyfriend looks quite comfortable up there, by the way. CEO suits him. Betrayal always pays well.”

I stiffened. “Jason can’t do that to me. My father trusted him.”

Red gave a humorless laugh and held out a brown envelope. “Trust? Cute word. You might want to take a look at this before you start defending the enemy.”

I opened the file, a résumé. Claire Hart.

Age 24. Parents: deceased. Degree: Business Admin.

A plain, invisible life. My new mask.

“Where did you even get this?” I asked.

He shrugged, clearly pleased with himself. “I’m the reason you’re not rotting in a coffin right now. Paperwork’s the least of my tricks.”

My brows knit. “So she’s in there? The real Claire?”

He shrugged. “Sleeping. The body’s yours for now, as long as you don’t mess it up.”

A strange heaviness pressed against my chest. I looked at the photo on the file again, the real Claire, smiling faintly, unaware her life was now intertwined with mine.

“So she’ll wake up someday?”

“That depends on you,” he said simply, then added with a lazy grin, “Now, are you done asking questions, or do you plan to faint again?”

I looked up again, but Red was gone. Vanished into thin air.

Typical.

Fine. I was on my own now.

The glass doors slid open, and my reflection stared back at me. Claire Hart’s face, Elizabeth Wakefield’s soul.

Let the show begin.

-

I pushed open the glass door, nerves coiling like live wires beneath my skin.

The lobby smelled faintly of lemon polish and ambition. People in suits brushed past, phones glued to their ears, faces too serious to notice me.

The receptionist barely looked up. “Interview applicants? Left corridor, last room.”

I nodded, clutching the brown envelope Red had given me, and followed her directions. My heels echoed against the marble floor.

Breathe, Elizabeth. You’re Claire now.

A group of applicants stood waiting, clutching files and resumes, whispering nervously. I joined them, forcing a small smile. My palms were sweaty.

Minutes later, a sharp voice cut through the murmurs.

“Claire Hart?”

I straightened. “Yes.”

A woman in a pencil skirt and stilettos gestured briskly. “This way.”

I followed, heart thudding. We stopped outside a tall wooden door.

“You can go in,” the woman said, and turned away.

I hesitated, gripping my file tighter. Then I stepped inside.

The office smelled of cedarwood and authority. Behind a sleek mahogany desk sat Jason.

My Jason.

Or rather, Elizabeth’s Jason.

He was flipping through a document, pen tapping absently against his jaw. Time seemed to freeze.

My breath caught in my throat. For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. As if I could still cross the room, tease him about his tie, pretend the world wasn’t burning behind us.

But then he looked up.

Our eyes met.

And my heart cracked open, all over again.

He froze too. The pen slipped from his hand.

Does he recognize me?

No. He couldn’t. Not like this.

I blinked quickly, forcing down the wave of emotion threatening to expose me.

You’re Claire now. Don’t forget.

I stepped forward, holding out the file. “Good morning. I’m Claire Hart.”

Jason blinked, took the envelope.His gaze lingered on my résumé longer than necessary. “You studied at Westfield High?” he asked, his voice low, curious.

Before I could answer, the door burst open.

“Baby, you won’t believe the traffic this morning—”