Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
A man.
My lock screen is a photo of a man with his arm around me, and we’re both smiling, and he’s—
He’s beautiful.
But not like Devyn.
Devyn is sharp edges and golden predator eyes. This man is...softer. Warmer. Thick blond hair that catches the light like wheat in summer. Hazel eyes with laugh lines at the corners. Features that are elegant but approachable—the kind of face that makes you feel safe, not seen through.
He looks like the hero of a different kind of story. The steady one. The kind one. The one who stays.
He looks familiar.
Very familiar.
My breath catches. My hand trembles so badly the phone nearly slips from my grip.
I swipe through my messages with shaking fingers. Texts between me and this man. This man who calls me “my love” and “sweetheart” and signs his messages with a simple “P.”
P.
His contact name.
Paul Theodore.
I nearly drop the phone.
Paul Theodore. As in...the mysterious detective from Olympus Bewitched? The book I’ve listened to a hundred times? The hero I’ve swooned over since the first chapter, when Blair called him Mr. Handsome and I completely understood why?
That Paul Theodore?
I look at the photo again. The golden hair. The hazel eyes. The elegant, approachable frame.
It’s him. It’s definitely him.
And apparently...he’s my fiancé.
“You two are so perfect together.”
I look up. Marilyn has lowered her camera and is gazing at my phone screen with a wistful expression. Not mocking. Not cruel. Genuinely wistful.
“I’ve seen how he is with you,” she continues. “The way he looks at you. Like you hung the moon.”
My heart clenches. That’s exactly how Devyn used to look at me.
Before.
“Er.” I clear my throat. “How is he with me, exactly?”
Marilyn sighs. “He adores you. Can’t take his eyes off you.” Her expression flickers. “I wish I could say the same about my ex—”
They’ve broken up?!
In my world—my original world—Marilyn walked in here with a designer engagement ring. She was getting married. She was the bride.
“Amos,” Marilyn finishes.
And the fiancé’s name is Amos?!
That can’t be a coincidence. It can’t.
“I’m so sorry about your breakup,” I manage.
Marilyn shrugs, but there’s pain behind it. “Don’t be. I had a lucky escape, honestly. My college friend Abigail—”
I nearly fall out of my heels.
“—did some digging. That’s when she discovered what he really is.” Marilyn’s voice hardens. “He’s made a living out of sweeping women off their feet. Gets them to take out loans for wedding surprises, romantic gestures, whatever. Only the surprise is that he runs away with the money and leaves them with a debt they can’t pay.”
My blood runs cold.
Amos. Con artist. Preying on women.
Same name. Same pattern. Different world.
Heart’s voice cuts across the studio. “Marilyn! I need you over here!”
Marilyn winces. “Excuse me, please.”
“Yes, of course,” I say in a daze.
She hurries away, and I collapse onto a nearby couch, my wedding dress pooling around me like a white cloud.
Maybe I really was meant to come here. Maybe Hewhay brought me back for a reason.
But is Amos here like Amos there? Is he just a con artist in this world...or something worse?
An assistant appears at my elbow. Young, nervous, holding a delicate teacup.
“Tea, Miss Sutton? You look like you could use something warm.”
I stare at the cup. Steam curls from the surface. The liquid is amber-gold, catching the light.
Tea.
Some distant part of my brain fires a warning. Tea at Hewhay’s. Tea before everything changed. Tea that tasted like belonging and felt like being unmade.
But I’m exhausted. Hollowed out. My throat is raw and my heart is in pieces and someone is offering me something warm.
I take the cup.
I drink.
It tastes like—
Oh. I think. Oh no.
That familiar warmth spreads through me. Starting in my chest. Radiating outward.
I need air.
I set down the cup and walk toward the door. My legs feel strange. Heavy and light at the same time. The studio blurs at the edges.
I push through the door.
Step outside.
And the world is wrong.
THE LIGHT IS DIFFERENT.
That’s the first thing I notice. The cool, clean daylight of the studio is gone. Out here, everything is bathed in amber. Golden-warm, like late afternoon sun filtered through honey. The color temperature has shifted by at least a thousand Kelvin, and my photographer brain latches onto that detail because if I think about what it means, I might scream.
Same streets. Same storefronts. Same Providence architecture.
But there are flags.
Banners hanging from lampposts, snapping in the breeze. Four colors. Four territories. The crest of the Southern Territory—Devyn’s territory—repeated on every corner.
A man in a black suit nods at me as I pass. Respectful. Almost deferential. He has an earpiece. A military posture.
Royal enforcer. Not hiding. Not lurking in shadows. Standing in plain sight like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Another one, across the street, touches his earpiece and speaks quietly into his sleeve.
A sleek black car glides past, tinted windows, the kind of car that costs more than my apartment. A small flag on the antenna. The Southern crest.