Location: Paris, France — Morning
The morning sun bathed Île Saint-Louis in warm light, casting golden reflections onto the flowing Seine. Birds chirped lazily on wrought iron balconies, and the scent of fresh croissants drifted up from the boulangeries below. But none of it reached Mike White.
He stood at the edge of his penthouse terrace, dressed in silk pyjamas, a steaming espresso untouched on the marble table beside him. The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, indifferent and majestic.
Mike's sharp jaw tensed. His grey eyes, once dead with addiction, now held something new. Guilt. Determination. Memory.
"I can't repeat the same mistake that happened in my past life. When I see Olivia… I'll love her. I'll cherish her."
He gripped the railing, the chill of the iron grounding him.
He had died young, in another life. A drug overdose in a hotel suite in Milan. Cold. Alone. Hating Olivia for reasons he no longer even understood.
But when his soul opened its eyes again in this body, his body. He saw her crying over his grave. That pain… stayed with him.
And now?
He was back in Paris.
And Olivia was still alive.
Location: Château Noir Restaurant — Central Business District, Paris
Crystal chandeliers, fine wine, whispered conversations. Château Noir wasn't just a restaurant, it was where old money met dirty secrets and smiled for the cameras.
At a private table shielded by velvet curtains, the White Family and the Castle Family sat opposite each other. Old enemies dressed like old friends.
Richard White, regal in a charcoal three-piece suit, sat beside Mike. He hadn't said a word since they arrived.
Mike wore black. No tie. Clean-cut. Cold. Dangerous.
The restaurant doors opened with a hush of air. In walked Henry Castle, tall and broad, wearing a deep navy coat and surrounded by two sharp-eyed bodyguards. Every movement he made screamed: I own this city.
As he approached the table, Henry raised a hand. "Laissez-nous seuls."
His guards stepped back in silence.
"Old friend," he said, voice dipped in sarcasm, reaching out to Richard.
Richard extended his hand briefly. "Henry Castle. Always on time."
"White, don't fake it," Henry snapped, no longer pretending.
Mike sipped his water slowly.
"You should sit before you talk to my father like that," he said, voice calm but laced with venom.
Henry smirked. "Before I sit down… where is he? My future son-in-law? Don't tell me he's still in rehab, or worse, dead in some South African hole."
Richard's lips curled. "My eldest son won't be your son-in-law. I'd rather give you my youngest."
Henry let out a short, cruel laugh. "Lucas? The jazz-playing embarrassment in Brooklyn? The one who told the press he doesn't believe in arranged marriage?" He leaned forward. "Olivia deserves better than a drug addict and a man-whore, Richard."
Mike didn't flinch. Not at the insult. Not at the truth.
Because that was who he had been.
In another life.
Location: Le Marais — Olivia's Apartment
In a cozy yet elegant apartment above a flower shop, Olivia Castle sat barefoot on a vintage armchair, flipping through an old photo album. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, her delicate fingers paused on a photo.
It was Mike.
A younger version. At a vineyard in Bordeaux. Smiling, before the hate. Before the destruction.
She traced his face with her finger, her eyes misting.
"Why do I still love you?"
He had broken her once.
But part of her heart refused to forget him.
She closed the album gently and turned her eyes to the window, where the sun rose like a quiet promise over the city of love.