Chasing The Reborn Heiress

CHAPTER ONE

*SOPHIA*

"You look beautiful, sweetheart. Alexander won't be able to take his eyes off you."

My mother's voice cut through the darkness like a knife, and I jolted awake, gasping. The words echoed in my head Words she'd said ten years ago. Words that had started everything.

I sat up, heart hammering, and looked around wildly. Pink walls. Floral curtains. The poster of Monet's Water Lilies I'd taken down when I turned nineteen. My hands flew to my face, touching smooth skin where fine lines should be. No wedding ring. No bruises hidden under makeup.

My phone sat on the nightstand, and I grabbed it with shaking fingers. The date glowed back at me: March 15th. My eighteenth birthday.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

But my reflection in the mirror across the room told the truth. I was eighteen again. A decade had vanished like smoke.

I stumbled to the bathroom and vomited.

Three days passed in a fog. I stayed in my room, claiming illness, while my brain tried to process the impossible. I'd died. I knew I'd died. The car had spun off that cliff, and I'd felt the impact, felt everything stop. Alexander's face had been my last thought not because I loved him, but because I hated that he was my last thought.

Now I was here. Young. Alive. With ten years of memories that hadn't happened yet.

On the fourth day, my mother knocked. "Sophia? The gallery opening is tonight. You promised you'd come."

The gallery. I'd gone to that opening in my previous life, had met Mrs. Laurent who'd encouraged me to pursue art seriously. Then I'd met Alexander six months later and abandoned everything for him.

Not this time.

"I'll be ready in an hour," I called back, and my voice sounded different. Harder.

I stood in front of my closet and pulled out the demure pink dress my mother had picked out. The one I'd worn like a good daughter. I threw it on the floor and reached for something else a simple black dress I'd bought on impulse and never worn because Mother said it was too mature.

When I walked downstairs, my mother's smile faltered. "That's not the dress we chose."

"I changed my mind."

"But sweetheart, pink is more appropriate for"

"I'm eighteen, not twelve." The sharpness in my tone made her blink. I'd never spoken to her like that before. Never pushed back. "I'm wearing this."

My brother Marcus appeared in the doorway, coffee in hand, and raised an eyebrow. "Someone woke up with opinions."

"Someone always had them," I said quietly.

The gallery was exactly as I remembered white walls, soft lighting, wealthy patrons pretending to understand abstract art. Mrs. Laurent spotted me immediately and waved me over, but I barely heard her greeting. My mind was racing, cataloguing everyone I recognized, remembering which artists would become famous, which investments would pay off, which people in this room would matter.

"Your mother tells me you paint," Mrs. Laurent was saying.

In my previous life, I'd blushed and demurred. Said it was just a hobby. This time, I looked her directly in the eye.

"I do more than paint. I create." I pulled out my phone and showed her photos I'd taken yesterday pieces I'd recreated from memory, paintings I'd made in my first life that critics had praised after I'd abandoned art entirely. "I'm building a portfolio. I want to open my own gallery within two years."

Mrs. Laurent's eyes widened. "Two years? That's ambitious."

"I know exactly what I'm doing."

And I did. I knew which emerging artists to invest in. Knew which art dealers were about to go bankrupt. Knew that the sculptor currently being ignored in the corner would have a piece in the Guggenheim by 2020. I'd lived this already.

Over the next eighteen months, I worked like someone possessed. I took out student loans and maxed out credit cards, buying pieces from artists no one else wanted yet. Used my trust fund the one I'd signed over to Alexander in my previous life to rent a tiny gallery space in a neighborhood that would gentrify within a year.

Marcus thought I was insane. Mother thought I was throwing away my future. I didn't care.

By the time I was twenty, Sera Morningstar Gallery was being written about in art magazines. I'd made back my initial investment three times over. And I'd carefully, methodically changed my name professionally so that when Alexander Sterling searched for Sophia Chen, he'd find the political daughter my mother had groomed, not the artist I'd become.

The night of the charity gala, I stood in front of my mirror in a red dress that cost more than my first month's gallery rent. In my previous life, I'd worn pink to this event. Had been nervous, eager to please, desperate to fit in with the society mothers watching.

Tonight, I didn't give a damn what they thought.

"You look different," Marcus said when I came downstairs. He'd agreed to be my date, though he kept giving me strange looks. "When did you get so..."

"So what?"

"Cold."

I smiled without warmth. "I grew up."

The gala was being held at the Sterling Hotel downtown Alexander's flagship property. I'd walked into this building once as a naive girl who believed in fairy tales. I'd left it three years later as a woman who knew exactly what monsters looked like in expensive suits.

The ballroom was full of people I recognized. There was Victoria Ashford in silver, already positioning herself near the bar where Alexander would stand. There was Eleanor Sterling, surveying the room like a queen inspecting her kingdom. And there, across the room, was Alexander.

Thirty-two years old. Devastating in a custom tuxedo. Every inch the billionaire heir who'd charmed me senseless in another lifetime.

He was talking to a congressman, that practiced smile on his face the one that didn't reach his eyes. I'd thought that smile was mysterious once. Now I knew it just meant he was bored.

I turned away deliberately and headed for the bar.

"Champagne," I told the bartender.

"Make that two."

The voice came from behind me, smooth and confident. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. I could feel Alexander's presence like a cold wind.

I took my champagne and turned slowly, meeting his eyes with complete indifference.

"Do I know you?" I asked, though of course he'd just watched me walk away from his conversation range.

His smile widened slightly, intrigued. "I don't believe we've met. Alexander Sterling."

"How unfortunate for you."

I walked away, leaving him standing there with two champagne flutes and confusion written across his perfect face.

Marcus materialized at my elbow. "Did you just blow off Alexander Sterling?"

"I did."

"Why do I feel like you just started a war?"

I smiled into my champagne glass, watching Alexander's reflection in the mirrored wall as he stared after me.

"Because I did."

"Sophia, what the hell is going on with you?"

I looked at my brother the only person in my previous life who'd suspected something was wrong, who'd tried to help when I was too broken to accept it.

"Would you believe me if I said I've done all this before?"

CHAPTER TWO

*ALEXANDER*

She haunted me.

Three days after the gala, I still couldn't get her face out of my head. The way she'd looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was boring.

No one had ever looked at me like that.

"You're distracted," Victoria said, sliding into the chair across from my desk. She'd let herself into my office without knocking, as usual. "The Hong Kong deal needs your signature."

I signed without reading it. Victoria would have handled the details already. She always did.

"Who was the woman in red at the gala?" I asked.

Victoria's hand stilled on her tablet. "Which woman?"

"Red dress. Dark hair. Early twenties. She was at the bar."

"Why do you care?"

Good question. I didn't know the answer. "Just curious."

"Her name is Sophia Chen. Catherine Chen's daughter. Political family, old money, nothing special." Victoria's tone was dismissive. "Why?"

Because she'd walked away from me. Because her eyes had held something I couldn't name not attraction, not intimidation, but something colder. Recognition, maybe, though we'd never met.

"No reason," I lied.

That night, I dreamed about her for the first time.

She was thinner in the dream, sadder. Sitting alone in a hospital room, crying silently while machines beeped around her. I tried to reach her, but my hands passed through her like smoke. Then the scene shifted a dinner table, my grandmother's voice sharp and cutting, and the woman flinching at every word. The woman who looked like Sophia but broken.

I woke up drenched in sweat.

"What the hell," I muttered, checking my phone. Three in the morning.

I couldn't fall back asleep.

Over the next two weeks, I saw her everywhere. At a tech summit, chatting with investors about emerging artists. At a museum opening, standing in front of a painting with an intensity that made everyone else fade into background noise. At a restaurant where I'd taken a client, sitting alone with a sketchbook.

I had James, my assistant, look into her. He came back with a thin file.

"Sophia Chen, twenty years old. Runs a gallery under the name Sera Morningstar. Started eighteen months ago, already profitable. Art degree from NYU, graduated early. No social media presence worth mentioning. Lives alone in SoHo. Doesn't date publicly."

"Why the different name?"

James shrugged. "Artists do that sometimes. Separation between personal and professional."

I stared at her photo a candid shot from an art magazine. She was looking at something off-camera, and that same intensity was there. Like she could see through everything.

"Set up a meeting. Tell her Sterling Hotels is interested in commissioning pieces for our new Singapore property."

"Are we?"

"We are now."

The meeting was scheduled for the following Tuesday. I arrived early, unusual for me, and waited in the conference room feeling inexplicably nervous.

She walked in exactly on time, wearing all black, her hair pulled back severely. Professional. Untouchable.

"Mr. Sterling," she said, not offering her hand. "I have thirty minutes."

"I appreciate you making time." I gestured to a chair. She remained standing.

"Your assistant mentioned a commission. I don't typically work with hotels, but I'm listening."

I launched into the pitch I'd had James prepare contemporary pieces for the Singapore lobby, budget flexible, timeline negotiable. She listened without interrupting, her expression unreadable.

When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment.

"No."

I blinked. "I haven't mentioned the budget yet."

"I don't care about the budget. I'm not interested in the project." She picked up her bag. "Was there anything else?"

"Why not?"

"Because your hotels are soulless corporate spaces designed to impress rather than inspire. My work doesn't belong there."

The bluntness should have offended me. Instead, I laughed. "Tell me what you really think."

"I just did. Goodbye, Mr. Sterling."

"Wait." I stood quickly. "Have dinner with me."

"No."

"Why not?"

She finally met my eyes fully, and something in her gaze made my chest tighten. Old pain, maybe. Or anger.

"Because I know exactly who you are, and I'm not interested in anything you're offering."

She left before I could respond.

James poked his head in five minutes later. "How did it go?"

"She turned down the commission and a dinner invitation."

"Oh." James looked genuinely surprised. "That's... unexpected."

Unexpected. That was one word for it.

The dreams got worse. More vivid. More disturbing.

I saw her at a wedding our wedding, though I didn't understand how I knew that. She was smiling, but the smile was wrong. Empty. I saw my grandmother criticizing her dress, her hair, her family. Saw Victoria touching my arm possessively while Sophia watched. Saw Sophia alone in a massive house, staring at her phone like she was waiting for a call that would never come.

Then the hospital dream came back, but this time I heard the doctor's words. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Sterling. There was nothing we could do to save the pregnancy."

I woke up gasping, and the name came out instinctively: "Sophia."

Mrs. Sterling. The pregnancy. None of it made sense. I'd never been married. Never gotten anyone pregnant. Didn't even want kids.

But the grief in that dream felt real. The woman's tears felt real.

I called my doctor the next morning and asked about sleep studies. He recommended a psychiatrist instead when I mentioned the recurring dreams.

Dr. Matthews listened patiently while I described everything, then asked, "Do you know this woman in waking life?"

"Barely. We've met twice."

"And you're attracted to her?"

"I don't know." Honestly, I didn't. She was beautiful, but that wasn't it. The pull I felt was deeper. More unsettling.

"Dreams often process our anxieties and desires. Perhaps this woman represents something you feel you're missing in your life."

I left the session unconvinced.

That Friday, Victoria invited me to an art exhibition. "Networking opportunity," she said. "Some of my investors will be there."

I agreed, distracted.

The gallery was intimate, modern, with stark white walls showcasing bold contemporary pieces. I was reading the program when I saw the name: Sera Morningstar Gallery.

Sophia's gallery.

"You didn't tell me this was her space," I said to Victoria.

"Whose space?"

"Sophia Chen's."

Victoria's expression flickered something too quick to read. "Does it matter?"

Before I could answer, I saw her across the room talking to an elderly couple. She wore dark green tonight, her hair down in waves. Professional but softer.

Then she turned and saw me.

The smile dropped from her face immediately. She excused herself from the couple and walked straight toward me, but there was nothing welcoming in her approach.

"Leave," she said quietly when she reached us.

"I was invited," Victoria interjected.

"I don't care. Both of you. Out of my gallery."

People were starting to notice. Victoria looked scandalized. I felt something click into place a piece of a puzzle I didn't know I was solving.

"You really hate me," I said, more statement than question. "But we've never even had a conversation longer than five minutes. So what did I do?"

Sophia's laugh was bitter. "You haven't done it yet. And you never will."

"What does that mean?"

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me.

"It means I know how this story ends, Alexander Sterling. And this time, I'm writing a different one."

CHAPTER THREE

*SOPHIA*

I shouldn't have said that. The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I'd made a mistake.

Alexander's face went pale. "What do you mean, 'haven't done it yet'?"

"Nothing. Forget it." I turned away, but his hand caught my wrist. Not hard, but firm enough to stop me.

"Sophia."

The way he said my name made my stomach twist. Soft. Concerned. Like he actually gave a damn. In my previous life, he'd never said my name like that. It had always been perfunctory, distracted, or worse absent entirely.

I yanked my hand free. "Don't touch me."

Victoria stepped between us, her smile sharp. "Darling, I think we should go. Clearly, we're not welcome here."

"I'm not talking to you," Alexander said without looking at her. His eyes stayed locked on mine. "Sophia, please. I don't understand what's happening, but"

"You're having dreams, aren't you?" The words came out before I could stop them.

His whole body went rigid. "How do you know that?"

Because I was having them too. Because the timeline was bleeding and I didn't know how to stop it. Because somehow, impossibly, he was remembering things that hadn't happened yet.

"Lucky guess," I said flatly. "Now get out."

I walked away before he could respond, before I could see whatever expression was on his face. My hands were shaking.

Marcus found me in my office ten minutes later. "What the hell was that about?"

"Alexander Sterling is what that was about."

"Yeah, I got that part." He closed the door and leaned against it. "You want to tell me why you're treating him like he murdered your dog?"

"He did worse."

Marcus waited. He'd always been good at that letting silence do the work.

I sat down heavily. "You asked me three days after my birthday if you'd believe me if I said I'd done all this before."

"I remember."

"I died, Marcus. Ten years from now. I married Alexander Sterling, and it destroyed me, and I died running away from him." The words tumbled out faster now. "I woke up on my eighteenth birthday with all of it in my head. Every moment. Every betrayal. And now he's having dreams about it, which means I'm not crazy, which means"

"Okay, stop." Marcus held up his hands. "You're saying you time-traveled?"

"I'm saying I got a second chance, and I'm not wasting it on him again."

My brother studied me for a long moment. "The art thing. The gallery. The way you knew exactly which pieces to buy. You've been using future knowledge."

"Yes."

"And Alexander Sterling is going to do something that makes you hate him this much?"

"He already did it. Just not in this timeline."

Marcus ran his hand through his hair. "This is insane."

"I know."

"But you're not crazy. I've watched you for two years. You've changed, Sophia. You've always been three steps ahead of everyone, like you're reading from a script only you can see." He paused. "I believe you."

I felt tears prick my eyes. "Really?"

"Really. Which means we need a plan, because if Sterling is starting to remember too, this gets complicated."

He was right. I'd assumed I was the only one carrying memories forward. But Alexander's dreams meant the timeline was unstable. And if he was remembering, who else might be?

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "We need to talk. I'm not leaving until we do. - AS"

I looked out my office window. Alexander's car was parked across the street.

"He's waiting outside," I told Marcus.

"Want me to call the cops?"

"No. I need to handle this." I grabbed my coat. "But stay close. If I'm not back in twenty minutes, come looking."

Alexander was leaning against his car when I stepped outside. Victoria was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's your shadow?" I asked.

"I sent her home. This conversation is private."

"There is no conversation."

"You knew about my dreams. You said I haven't done something yet. You told me you know how this story ends." He pushed off the car, taking a step closer. "Either you're psychic or something impossible is happening. And I don't believe in psychics."

"Believe what you want."

"I dream about you crying in a hospital. About losing a baby. About my grandmother tearing you apart at family dinners. About you driving off a cliff in the rain." His voice cracked slightly. "About you dying. And I wake up feeling like I failed you, even though we've barely spoken. So tell me I'm crazy. Tell me these are just stress dreams. Please."

The raw pain in his voice hit me harder than I expected. This Alexander the one who didn't know what he'd done yet was showing more emotion than the man I'd married ever had.

"They're memories," I said quietly. "You just don't know it yet."

"That's impossible."

"So is dreaming about someone's death before it happens."

He stared at me. "You died?"

"In another timeline. Another life. And you were there. Not physically, but you were the reason I was on that road, in that storm, with divorce papers in my hand."

"We were married?"

"For three miserable years."

Alexander took a step back like I'd slapped him. "I don't understand."

"You married me for my family's political connections. Kept Victoria around as your emotional crutch. Let your grandmother destroy my confidence piece by piece. Ignored me when I lost our baby. And when I finally couldn't take it anymore, when I tried to leave I died."

"No." He shook his head. "No, I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't"

"You did. You were cold and distant and cruel in ways you didn't even realize because I wasn't a person to you. I was an asset." I felt the old anger rising, hot and bitter. "So yes, Alexander. You haven't done it yet. But you will if I let you close enough. And I won't make that mistake again."

"I would never hurt you like that."

"You already have."

We stood there in the cooling night air, the truth hanging between us like a physical thing.

Finally, Alexander spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "If this is real if I really did those things then let me fix it. Let me be different."

"You can't fix something that hasn't broken yet."

"Then let me prove I never will."

I laughed, sharp and bitter. "You want redemption for sins you haven't committed? That's not how this works."

"Then how does it work, Sophia? You get revenge on me for a future that doesn't exist anymore? You hate me forever for things I might never do?"

"Yes," I said simply. "Because I can't risk being wrong about you twice."

His jaw tightened. "What if I'm having these dreams for a reason? What if this is the universe giving us both a second chance?"

"The universe didn't give me a second chance so I could fall for you again. It gave me one so I could save myself from you."

Alexander's phone rang. He ignored it.

"I'm not giving up," he said.

"You should."

"I've watched you for months. I've seen the way you command a room. The way you look at art like it matters more than money. The way you don't need anyone's approval, especially mine." He took another step closer. "The woman I see now is nothing like the broken person in my dreams. Which means you already saved yourself. So what are you really afraid of?"

That he might be right. That I might still feel something. That history might repeat itself no matter how hard I fought.

His phone rang again. This time he answered.

"What?" His tone was sharp. Then his face changed. "When? I'll be right there."

He hung up, already moving toward his car.

"What happened?" I asked despite myself.

"My grandmother. She collapsed. They're taking her to Presbyterian."

Eleanor Sterling. The woman who'd made my first life hell. Part of me wanted to feel satisfaction. Instead, I felt nothing.

Alexander paused with his hand on the car door. "Come with me."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because in your timeline, you married into this family. Which means you know things about them I don't. And right now, I need" He stopped, looking vulnerable in a way I'd never seen. "I need someone who won't lie to me about what's coming."

Every instinct screamed at me to walk away. But the look in his eyes reminded me of something I'd forgotten: before everything fell apart, before the cruelty and neglect, there had been moments when I'd thought I saw something real in him.

I'd been wrong then.

But maybe, in this timeline, I could use his desperation.

"Fine," I said, opening the passenger door. "But I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because I want to watch Eleanor Sterling face her karma."

Alexander's expression was unreadable as he started the car.

"Fair enough. But Sophia? Whatever happened between us in that other timeline I'm going to prove it doesn't have to happen again."

I didn't answer. Because the truth was, I was starting to worry he might actually try.

And even worse I was starting to wonder if I wanted him to succeed.