The first thing Éléonore felt was the icy burn in her chest, as if a frost‑tipped dagger had pierced her flesh. She shot awake in a start, the room's stark white walls glaring in the harsh light. At her feet, the modern parquet floor betrayed the anachronism of her attire: she was wearing a long ivory gown with billowing lace‑trimmed sleeves. Yet on the nightstand, her phone vibrated—an incongruous object in a setting worthy of a gothic novel.
She sat up, heart racing, one hand pressed to her bodice. Was it a dream?
No. Everything felt too vivid, too terrible. She remembered the train of her skirt growing heavy with blood, the eerie violin echoing through the great hall, the blade presented with a chilling smile…
A nightmare? No—a memory, etched into her very bones.
Her trembling fingers released the coverlet. She gathered the folds of her dress around her legs and slid off the bed. Every step toward the nightstand seemed to carry her back a century. On the screen, a message appeared:
Mom:
Dinner at the Rouvrays' tonight at 7 PM. You remember Célestin. Dress elegantly.
« Célestin… »she whispered, as if the name itself poisoned the air. A wave of nausea twisted her stomach.
In her previous life, it was that very man who had welcomed her in a white dress—not to embrace her, but to drive a dagger into her heart.
She drew a steadying breath. The gown, though familiar, felt like fire against her skin under the artificial light. She carefully slipped it off, revealing a sleek, tailored suit far more in keeping with her modern Parisian flat. Her chestnut hair, once braided with pearls, fell in disciplined waves around her bare shoulders.
In the mirror, she studied her reflection: a delicate face with a faint tan, large hazel eyes marred by a shadow of ancient sorrow. But now, determination gleamed in her gaze. This was no longer a mere recollection—it was a second chance.
At 6:45 PM, as she passed the long hallway mirror, she paused.
"You will live differently this time," she vowed.
The walk to the Rouvrays' hôtel particulier felt endless. The uneven cobblestones of the Parisian sidewalk echoed beneath her heels. She replayed the memory of the dagger: it hadn't been her husband's hand—it had been her in‑laws', in her fragmented dream, weaving the threads of her doom.
As she stepped through the wrought‑iron gate, her heart tightened. Lanterns bathed the grand façade in golden light, as though expecting her arrival. On the porch stood her mother, elegant in a midnight‑blue muslin gown. Beside her, a tall figure with dark hair and a distant gaze: Célestin de Rouvray.
He inclined his head politely, without a word. Éléonore knew he didn't yet remember their past—or perhaps chose not to. She bowed in return, chin lifted, eyes clear.
ÉLÉONORE (softly): "Good evening."
MOTHER (quiet warning): "Be on your guard—tonight will be… decisive."
Éléonore stepped into the hushed hall where muted conversations whispered through crystal chandeliers. One thought consumed her: learn. Observe. Understand.
Tomorrow, she would search the family library. She would uncover the secrets they so desperately hid.
And only then would her vengeance begin