CHAPTER 124: PAST GHOST

Alexia’s POV

He remembers.

Good Lord.

He remembers.

Why now?

Why when everything was finally starting to go right? When the walls between us were falling, when I thought—for one goddamn second—I could be happy?

The universe really does hate me.

I locked the bathroom door behind me with shaky fingers and slid to the floor, my knees folding under the weight of everything crashing down, pressing a trembling hand to my mouth to keep from sobbing. My legs barely held me up. My chest was caving in.

He looked at me like I was poison.

Like I’d betrayed him in a way no apology could ever fix.

Because I had.

Not in this life—but in the last one. The one I’d spent years trying to forget. Or maybe just bury. Pretend it was a dream. A story someone else lived and I somehow inherited the guilt for.

But the screaming never really stopped.

And now I knew why.

God, he remembers.

I buried my face in my hands, trying to breathe, trying not to unravel right here on the glossy marble tiles.

Yes, I admit it—I wasn’t a saint when I was a princess. Hell, I was the furthest thing from it. I was spoiled, angry, traumatized in ways I refused to face, so I turned my pain into punishment. I lashed out at anyone who didn’t give me what I wanted. At everyone who couldn’t fight back.

Including him.

Especially him.

And yet... I changed. Eventually. Slowly. By the time I died, I wasn’t that person anymore. I’d tried to fix the damage. I tried to be better. I thought I had atoned.

But it doesn’t matter now, does it?

Because he doesn’t remember the girl I became—only the monster I was.

The one who locked him away.

The one who starved him.

The one who killed his sister and didn’t even flinch when he begged for her life.

I choked back a sob and pressed my forehead against the cool cabinet door.

To him, I’ll always be that monster.

It doesn’t matter what I do now.

It doesn’t matter how much I love him.

Not when all he sees is blood on my hands.

He had confronted me.

Stared me down with those furious, betrayed eyes and threw the truth in my face like a blade.

And I... denied it.

I stood there and lied.

Said I didn’t know what he was talking about. That I didn’t remember. That I didn’t understand.

But I do.

I remember everything.

The dungeon. The screams. His eyes, younger and broken. My voice—my own voice—cold and commanding, telling the guards to whip him harder for disobeying. I remember the sound of chains dragging behind him as he limped back to his cell, trying to hide the food he’d stolen to feed the others. I remember the rage I felt when I found out he’d dared to care.

And worst of all... I remember ordering her death.

His sister.

God.

I pressed the heel of my hand hard against my chest, like I could force the guilt to stay buried.

But it’s all coming back now, isn’t it?

No matter how many lifetimes I live, I can’t outrun the past.

I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My face is pale, my eyes glassy, red-rimmed. I don’t look like a monster now. But maybe monsters don’t look like monsters until it’s too late.

I should’ve told him.

I should’ve confessed. Apologized. Begged for forgiveness even if I didn’t deserve it.

But instead... I lied.

Because how do you look someone in the eyes after what I did and say, Yes, I remember every piece of your pain—and I caused it.

He hates me already. That much was clear in his voice when he said, Don’t touch me.

But if I admit it—if I stop pretending I’m blind to the past—then there’s no going back.

Still... can we go back anyway?

If I keep pretending not to remember, will he let things fall into silence again? Will he bury it and build something new with me?

Or will the truth eat us alive, whether spoken or not?

I rest my head back against the bathroom wall, tears slipping quietly down my cheeks.

He thinks I don’t remember.

And part of me wants to keep it that way.

Because if he knew the full truth—that I’ve remembered for months now, and kept it from him—he wouldn’t just hate the girl I used to be.

He’d hate the woman I am now.

He remember.

His sister.

God.

I was so convinced she was his lover.

They were always together. Whispering in corners, laughing when they thought I wasn’t watching. I’d catch them passing something between their hands and my blood would boil. I thought they were keeping secrets. Plotting something. That she was seducing him, distracting him from his duties to me.

I didn’t care that they were slaves. In my mind, he was mine. And I didn’t share.

I told myself I had every right to be furious. To punish. To protect what belonged to me.

So when I found out he’d stolen food—my food—and fed it to those filthy wretches I’d locked up for disrespecting me... I lost it. Threw one of my infamous fits. The kind that left dishes shattered, servants trembling, and walls echoing with my shrieking rage.

And when she stood there, shielding him, lying for him—I snapped.

I accused her of stealing, of seducing him, of poisoning his loyalty.

And I ordered her death.

Not even a whipping.

Not a cage.

Death.

I didn’t even let him explain. I didn’t care. I thought it was jealousy. Defiance.

I only found out she was truly his sister after the execution. When it was far too late. When his voice was raw from screaming, sobbing in chains, begging me to undo what couldn’t be undone.

The silence he gave me after that was the first thing that ever haunted me.

It should’ve changed me then. Maybe it did. Maybe it started the slow, agonizing process of becoming someone different. But it doesn’t erase what I did.

Yes, I was spoiled. Rotten. Given too much power, too much praise, too many people too afraid to tell me no. I had my own struggles—abandonment, pressure, isolation. I had pain. Deep, aching pain.

But that doesn’t justify any of it.

I took my wounds and carved them into the backs of others. Turned my disappointments into punishment. My heartbreak into brutality. My fear of being unloved into something twisted and cruel.

I became a monster because it was easier than being weak.

And now... here I am again. In a new body. A new life. With the same soul standing outside this door, hating me for what I did.

He thinks I don’t remember.

But I do.

I remember everything.

And no amount of pretending can change the look in his eyes when he remembers too.

********

Bathroom, mid-flight. Surrounded by silence, haunted by memory.

I used to think I was untouchable.

Gold-plated walls, silk sheets, and diamond-studded gowns. An army of servants at my beck and call, each one too terrified to meet my eyes. I had everything a girl could want—luxury, beauty, power.

And yet, I was hollow.

Bitter.

Starved for love and convinced that controlling everything around me was the only way to survive.

I was the favorite daughter of a broken kingdom, raised to be worshipped, feared, adored. But no one ever loved me. Not really. They loved my title, my smile when it was convenient, the illusion of charm I learned to wear like perfume.

Inside, I was... raging. Drowning in disappointment. My parents didn’t have time for affection, only expectations. Every mistake was a disgrace. Every emotion, a weakness. No one ever held me when I cried—not that I let myself cry.

So I stopped feeling.

Or rather, I twisted my feelings into fury. Because if I couldn’t be soft, I could be sharp. If I couldn’t be cherished, I could be feared.

And I took that out on everyone. My staff, my guards, the slaves beneath the palace floors who bore the brunt of my every tantrum. I threw food when it wasn’t hot enough. Screamed at servants for walking too loudly. I locked people away for days if they so much as rolled their eyes.

And him—he suffered the worst.

Because he was kind.

Because he cared.

Because every time he looked at me, I saw something I didn’t understand. Compassion. Resilience. Hope. And I hated it. I hated him for holding on to something I had long since lost.

So I broke him.

Or tried to.

I used him like he was nothing. My plaything. My shadow. My property.

And yet, he still had the audacity to feed others. To protect someone. Even when he had nothing left. Even when he was starving himself.

God, what kind of person was I?

What kind of girl looks at that kind of grace and responds with pain?

I don’t deserve forgiveness. Not from him. Not from the universe. Probably not even from myself.

And I told myself, in this life, I’d changed. I tried. I really did.

But now?

Now I’m not sure if the past ever really goes away.

Maybe we don’t get to outrun it.

Maybe monsters don’t get second chances.