Harper.
My hands. They weren't my hands. The thought repeated, a frantic, broken record in the silent chaos of my mind. I tried to sit up, a groan catching in my throat. But no sound came out. Nothing. Not a whisper. Panic clawed at me, cold and sharp. I tried again, pushing air from my lungs, willing my vocal cords to work. Silence. The door opened with a soft whoosh. A woman in light blue scrubs bustled in, her smile kind and professional. “Ah, Ms. Steel. You’re awake. You gave us quite a scare.” Ms. Steel? My name was Harper. Harper Trent. No, it was supposed to be Harper Thorne now. I was married. I was dead. The nurse checked the monitors beside my bed. The rhythmic beeping was a steady counterpoint to the frantic screaming in my head. “Don’t try to talk, honey,” she said gently, noticing the strain on my face. “Your vocal cords are still recovering. There was a lot of damage from the water.” Water? I didn’t die in water. I died on a silk rug, poisoned champagne burning its way through my veins. I shook my head, my eyes wide with a plea she couldn't possibly understand. Who are you? Where am I? What year is it? The nurse misinterpreted my panic as simple confusion. “You’re at St. Jude’s Hospital. You’ve been unconscious for a little over a week. Some fishermen found you by the pier.” She adjusted my pillow. “You’re very lucky, Ms. Steel. It’s a miracle you’re alive.” I wasn't Ms. Steel. I wasn't. I lifted my hand, the stranger's hand, and pointed a shaky finger at my own chest. She nodded. “Yes, you. Fiona Steel. It was on the ID in your wallet.” Fiona Steel. The name felt like a foreign language on a tongue I no longer possessed. I needed a mirror. Now. My eyes darted around the room, searching. They landed on the dark, reflective screen of the wall mounted television. I threw the thin blanket off my legs. They were long, toned, and as unfamiliar as my hands. I swung them over the side of the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold linoleum floor. “Whoa there, take it easy,” the nurse said, rushing to my side. “You’re not strong enough to be walking yet.” I ignored her. I was fueled by a terrifying, desperate need. I pushed away from the bed, my legs trembling but holding. I stumbled toward the blank TV screen. “Ms. Steel, please get back in bed,” the nurse urged, her voice tight with concern. I reached the television and braced myself with one hand against the wall. I leaned in close, my breath fogging the dark glass. I stared. And a stranger stared back. The woman in the reflection was breathtaking. Not pretty. Not beautiful. She was a work of art forged in fire. High cheekbones slashed across a heart shaped face. Her eyes were enormous, a stormy grey fringed by thick, black lashes. Her lips were full, sculpted into a natural pout. A cascade of dark, wavy hair fell around her shoulders. There were no scars on her neck. Her skin was flawless, perfect. She was everything I had never been. Everything Lara was. Everything Caleb had wanted. The image was so alien, so utterly impossible, that a strangled, silent laugh escaped my throat. This had to be a nightmare. A very, very cruel joke. “Please, Fiona,” the nurse said, her tone softening. “Let’s get you back to bed.” I allowed her to guide me, my body moving on autopilot. My mind was reeling, trying to make sense of the impossible. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my gaze distant. The nurse brought over a small tray table with a pitcher of water and a tablet. “The doctor will be in to see you soon,” she said. “Maybe you’d like to read a little? Catch up on the news? It might help you feel more grounded.” She gave me another kind smile and left the room, pulling the door quietly shut. Catch up on the news. The words echoed in my head. I picked up the tablet, my slender fingers clumsy on the device. I opened the web browser. The date at the top of the screen made my blood run cold. October 12th, 2024. No. It couldn't be. My wedding was in June of 2022. Two years. Two whole years had vanished. My fingers shook as I typed my own name into the search bar: Harper Trent. The results loaded instantly. An avalanche of headlines that stole the breath from my borrowed lungs. *PERFUME HEIRESS Harper Trent DEAD AT 28* *Trent FORTUNE HEIR RULED A SUICIDE* *TRAGIC END FOR A TROUBLED GENIUS* Suicide. They called it a suicide. They bought the lie. Caleb and Lara had gotten away with it. They murdered me and told the world I killed myself. The rage was a physical thing, a hot wave that washed through me, so potent it made me dizzy. I clicked on an article from a well known business journal, dated just last week. The headline was a punch to the gut: *CALEB THORNE, CEO OF AURA FRAGRANCES, NAMED INNOVATOR OF THE YEAR.* There was a photo of him, smiling, handsome, and utterly repulsive. He stood on a stage, holding an award. And on his arm, draped in a glittering emerald gown, was Lara. My stepsister. His wife. “Aura Fragrances,” I whispered, the sound completely silent, a ghost of a word. My company. My inheritance. My name. I kept reading, my heart turning to a block of ice in my chest. The article praised him for his revolutionary new scent, ‘Elysian’. It was hailed as a masterpiece, a fragrance that had shattered sales records and redefined the industry. They described the complex notes. The top notes of saffron and jasmine, the heart of amberwood, the base of fir resin and cedar. It was my formula. My signature creation. The one I had been perfecting for years, the one I had told only Caleb about. He hadn't just taken my money. He hadn't just taken my life. He had stolen my soul. My legacy. I looked down at my hands, at these elegant, perfect hands. I thought of the face in the reflection, the fierce, stunning woman named Fiona Steel. They had left Harper Trent to die. They had buried her, erased her, and built an empire on her bones. But I wasn't Harper Trent anymore. I was a stranger. A ghost. And I was back from the dead. A slow, cold smile stretched across lips that were not my own. It didn't reach my stormy grey eyes. They thought they were safe. They thought the game was over. They had no idea it was just beginning.
