Chapter 2

The smell hit her first.

Sharp. Chemical. Bleach and rubbing alcohol.

Then came the sound. A steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep... that drilled directly into her skull.

April gasped, her lungs expanding violently. Her eyes flew open.

The harsh, blinding fluorescent lights above her felt like physical needles piercing her retinas. She squeezed her eyes shut and instinctively raised her hand to block the glare.

She froze.

She opened her eyes to a squint and stared at her arm. It was hooked up to three different IV tubes. But that wasn't what made her heart stutter.

The skin on her arm was flawless. Pale, smooth, and completely devoid of the small burn scar she had gotten from a coffee spill three years ago. She turned her hand over. The palms were soft. The calluses on her fingertips from years of typing endless financial models were gone.

These were not her hands.

The heart monitor beside the bed suddenly spiked, the slow beeps turning into a rapid, frantic alarm.

Footsteps echoed sharply outside the door. High heels clicking frantically against marble.

The heavy door was pushed open. A woman rushed in. She wore a pristine Chanel tweed suit, her hair perfectly coiffed, but her face was stained with tears.

"Altagracia!" the woman sobbed.

She threw herself at the side of the bed, grabbing April's unfamiliar hand with a desperate grip.

"Oh, thank God," the woman wept, pressing April's hand to her wet cheek. "Thank God you're awake. My baby."

April's throat was as dry as sandpaper. She tried to pull her hand back, a spike of pure panic hitting her chest. Her muscles felt like jelly. She couldn't move.

She opened her mouth, but only a raspy exhale came out. She stared at the strange woman in absolute terror.

A team of doctors in white coats flooded into the VIP hospital room.

"Mrs. Blanchard, please step back," the lead neurologist said, gently guiding the crying woman away from the bed.

The doctor leaned over April, clicking a small penlight. He shined it directly into her pupils.

"Miss Blanchard? Can you hear me?" the doctor asked. "Do you know your name? Do you know what year it is?"

Miss Blanchard.

The moment the name registered in her brain, a violent, tearing pain ripped through her skull. It felt like her brain was being split open with an axe.

Images that didn't belong to her crashed into her consciousness like a tidal wave.

The roar of a sports car engine. The blinding flash of paparazzi cameras. The taste of expensive champagne in a crowded Hamptons club. The sprawling, terrifying wealth of the Blanchard family empire.

And the name. Altagracia Blanchard. The most notorious, spoiled heiress in New York.

April arched off the mattress, her hands flying to her head as she let out a choked scream.

"Her vitals are spiking! Push two milligrams of Ativan!" a nurse shouted.

The pain slowly receded, leaving her gasping for air against the pillows. The sweat on her forehead was cold.

She lay there, staring at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Her mind was a chaotic battleground. The agonizing memory of her grandfather's fall clashed violently with the phantom sensation of a steering wheel crushing her ribs. For a long, suffocating moment, she didn't know who she was-the betrayed financial analyst or the reckless billionaire heiress. The sheer impossibility of it all threatened to drag her back into unconsciousness. But then, a cold, hard anchor dropped in her mind: Julian's arrogant smirk. The grief and terror slowly stopped spinning, crystallizing into a singular, razor-sharp focus. She wasn't just April anymore. She was Altagracia Blanchard, armed with an empire.

She understood now. It was impossible, it defied every law of physics and nature, but she knew it was true. April Gamble had died in that intersection. Her grandfather was dead.

But her soul had woken up in the body of Altagracia Blanchard, who had crashed her race car on the exact same night.

Eleanor Blanchard broke free from the nurse and rushed back to the bed. "Where does it hurt, darling? Tell Mom."

April looked at the woman. This was Eleanor. Altagracia's mother.

April swallowed hard. The hatred and grief from her past life were still burning a hole in her chest, but she forced it down. She needed to survive.

She took a shallow breath and forced her vocal cords to work.

"Mom," she rasped.

Eleanor let out a loud sob and buried her face in the crook of April's neck, hugging her tightly.

April rested her chin on Eleanor's shoulder. Her eyes drifted past the woman to the large, full-length mirror mounted on the closet door across the room.

Staring back at her was a stranger.

A breathtakingly beautiful, aggressive face with sharp cheekbones and piercing, exotic eyes. It was a face built for power. A face that commanded attention.

April stared at her new reflection. Slowly, the corners of her mouth tipped upward into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. It was a cold, terrifying expression.

Julian, she thought, the name tasting like blood in her mouth. You took everything from me. Now, I have the power to take everything from you.

"Her vitals are stabilizing," the doctor announced, relief evident in his voice. "It's a miracle, Mrs. Blanchard."

Eleanor pulled back, wiping her face. She turned to the man standing silently by the door. "Alistair. Call my father-in-law. Tell the family. The heir to the Blanchard empire is back."

April leaned back against the pillows. She closed her eyes, hiding the lethal intent burning in her pupils.

Yes. She was back.