The memory surfaced unbidden, creeping into Evelyne's consciousness like a wraith from the depths of time. It was not her memory, not truly—Ari had inherited it from the former Evelyne, the girl who had once lived this life before her. And now, as if whispering from beyond the veil, that girl's past came rushing forward, unraveling a secret long buried beneath layers of fear and silence.

The grand ballroom had been bathed in golden candlelight, the air thick with the perfume of nobility. Music swirled through the space like an intoxicating mist, and laughter chimed from behind lace fans and gloved hands. Evelyne—young, timid, and desperately trying to blend into the wallpaper—had been abandoned to the wolves of high society while her father spoke with officials. He had assured her he would not be long.
He had been wrong.
She had been alone for too long when Lord Hawke found her.
A predator in human skin, he approached with the slow confidence of a man who knew his prey had no escape. His dark eyes glinted with something unreadable, something that made her stomach twist in ways she could not yet explain. He was not a man who stumbled into conversations; he was a man who orchestrated them, laying snares with words instead of rope.
"You seem rather lonely, Lady Evelyne," he had murmured, his voice rich with amusement. "Allow me to offer you some company."
She had stammered out a response, something polite but firm—at least, she had tried. But Lord Hawke was undeterred. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, testing her, seeing how far he could push before she broke. His fingers brushed against her arm, featherlight, yet suffocating.
"Timid little thing, aren't you?" he mused. "You remind me of someone I once knew."
A flicker of something—amusement? Contempt?—crossed his face. His words were casual, but the weight behind them was crushing. Evelyne's breath hitched. There was something in his tone that made the room tilt around her, an invisible snare tightening around her throat. And then, he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, and whispered something that turned her blood to ice:
"She's not here anymore. I made sure of that."
The words coiled in her mind like a viper. A confession laced with arrogance, a truth spoken with the certainty that no one would dare challenge it. Evelyne's body had gone rigid, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Whoever she had reminded him of—whoever this 'she' was—had been erased from existence. And now, he was looking at her the same way.
His fingers curled as if to seize her wrist, and panic had coiled tightly in her chest—but before he could grasp her, before the nightmare could root itself further in her flesh, a hand closed around her shoulder.
Her father.
The Duke of Orvienne had returned, and in that moment, he had been her savior. His presence alone had been enough to make Lord Hawke retreat with a languid smile and a bow, as though nothing had happened. But something had.
That night had changed Evelyne.
From that moment forward, she refused to attend any ball or gathering where Lord Hawke would be present. She avoided his gaze, his presence, his shadow. She buried the memory deep, where it could not touch her.
Until now.
Ari—now Evelyne—stood in the same grand ballroom, but this time, she was no longer the hunted.
She was the hunter.