Reborn at a cost

Liana's POV

Prisoners on my level don't get beef stew.

We get congealing porridge. Bread. Potatoes. Rice.

So when the tray slid through my door and I saw a bowl of thick, dark stew with actual meat floating in it. I didn't touch it.

Something was wrong.

The slot clanged shut with the usual metallic echo. The steam rising from the bowl carried a faint, oily warmth.

Prison smells like rust, old sweat, and mold. I learned that the moment I got thrown in here.

The fluorescent bulb above my bunk has been flickering for weeks. It doesn't bother me anymore.

Each stutter of light sent faint shadows dancing across the pitted concrete walls, like insects skittering just out of reach. The air felt thick, always slightly damp, clinging to my skin and making every breath taste faintly of iron.

I lie flat on my back, my hands laced behind my head, staring at the ceiling tile. I count the brown stains again.

One thousand, two hundred and twenty-three.

Twelve years.

That was my sentence. Twelve years for leaking company secrets I didn't even know existed.

My first month here was excruciating. Then I got a cellmate. She was transferred two weeks later. I've been in isolation ever since.

By my sixth month, I stopped flinching when the guards slammed metal batons against the bars just to remind us who we were.

By my twelfth, I stopped trying to prove myself.

Because innocence doesn't protect you here. Neither does silence.

They said I was a corporate spy.

Me. Liana Bennett. All I knew was how to analyze data and create spreadsheets. I color-coded my grocery lists. I cried once because my plant died while I was on a business trip.

They said I leaked confidential Blaise Corps data to a rival company. Sold access logs. Manipulated servers. Took bribes.

The evidence was clean. Too clean.

My access ID showed downloads at 2:14 a.m. from a secure terminal.

An IP address traced directly to my home router.

An anonymous tip, written in perfect corporate language, flagged me as a high-risk internal actor.

I didn't even know how to access half the systems they accused me of breaching.

It didn't matter.

The judge barely looked at me when he read the sentence.

Twelve years.

My mother fainted in the gallery. My lawyer avoided my eyes. My colleagues from Blaise Corps didn't show up at all.

I stopped counting days after that.

The cell is smaller than my old bathroom. Concrete bed. Stainless steel toilet. A thin slit of a window that lets in light and nothing else.

They said the isolation was for my protection.

Funny how protection feels exactly like punishment.

The thin blanket scratched against my arms like sandpaper, never quite warm enough. My scalp itched from the cheap shampoo that I had been using.

I sit on the edge of the bed now, hands folded, nails bitten. My dinner tray rests on the metal shelf by the door. A plastic cup of water that tastes faintly chemical. A plastic spoon.

And the stew.

I stare at it.

Don't be paranoid, Liana, I tell myself. You've been paranoid for months.

Still, I don't eat.

Time passes. Minutes. Maybe hours.

My stomach growls.

With a sigh, I pick up the spoon and stir the stew. A thin oily sheen rises to the surface.

The first bite is good.

Really good.

Same with the second. The third. I lose count.

Then my throat tightens.

I freeze.

The warmth in my mouth turned sour, metallic, coating my tongue like liquid rust. A slow heat bloomed in my chest spreading outward in burning waves. My esophagus felt lined with thorns, each swallow scraped raw fire downward.

No.

My chest seizes, like something has closed around my lungs. I stagger back, the tray slipping from my hands. The spoon clatters to the floor. My knees give out and I hit the wall hard.

Sweat beaded instantly cold on my forehead, trickling into my eyes with a sting. My fingers tingled, then numbed at the tips. The room tilted; the flickering bulb pulsed brighter, searing white streaks across my vision.

Air won't come.

My heart slams against my ribs. Too fast. Too hard.

Poison.

I had been poisoned. The realization of that was terrifying.

I crawl toward the door, fingers scraping uselessly against concrete. My vision blurs at the edges. Black spots bloom.

My nails caught on rough grit, tearing a thin line of skin. Each breath came shallower, raspier, like sucking air through wet cloth. A deep, grinding ache settled in my stomach, twisting tighter with every heartbeat.

"Help," I try to say.

Nothing comes out but a wet rasp.

Someone wanted me gone. Permanently.

As my body convulses, one thought cuts through the pain.

I didn't deserve this.

I wasn't careless. I wasn't weak. I trusted the wrong people, but that shouldn't have been a death sentence.

My legs jerked once, twice, muscles locking in painful spasms. Heat flooded my face; my cheeks burned as if pressed to a hot iron. Tears spilled, hot and fast, carving tracks through the dirt on my skin.

My fingers curl against the floor. Tears spill, hot and fast.

If I had one more chance, If I could go back.

I would burn it all down.

I would find who did this. I would reveal the truth.

The ceiling spins. The flicker of the bulb grows louder. My heartbeat stutters, then slows, each beat heavier than the last.

A strange calm settles over me.

I wish I could save myself.

Then everything goes black.

-----------------------------------------------------

I gasp.

Air slams into my lungs so violently it hurts. I bolt upright, hands clutching my chest, heart racing like I've been running for my life.

I'm not on concrete.

I'm on my bed.

My bed.

A soft mattress. Familiar dip near the edge. Cotton sheets twisted around my legs. Morning light spills through the blinds, painting my one-bedroom flat in pale gold.

The sheets carried the faint, comforting scent of my own laundry detergent, lavender and clean cotton instead of the prison's bleach.

My skin felt warm, alive, no longer clammy with drying sweat.

For a moment, am I dead? This is death, right?

Or am I hallucinating?

Then I hear it.

Traffic. A bus honking down the street. Someone arguing on the phone. A distant siren.

London.

I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, nearly knocking over the lamp.

06:57 a.m.

My hands shake as I look around. The cracked mirror. The overworked kettle. My blazer draped over the chair exactly where I left it yesterday.

Yesterday.

The screen lights up again.

October 4th.

My breath catches.

No.

October 4th was one month before everything went wrong.

One month before the leaks.

One month before the arrest.

One month before my life ended in a concrete box.

My reflection stares back at me from the dark screen. Unmarked. Alive.

I'm alive.

Not a dream.

Not a hallucination.

I was given a second chance.

Fear, rage, and relief crash into me all at once.

Someone tried to have me killed.

They failed.

This time, I won't wait to be saved.

This time, I'm coming for the truth.

Even if it costs me everything.

Liana's POV

Blaise Corps looks exactly the same.

And that terrifies me.

The glass tower loomed under the grey October sky, its reflective surface throwing back a thousand hurried strangers none of them knowing I had died once because of this place.

The glass of the building reflecting the early sun.

Employees stream through the revolving doors with takeaway coffees and pressed suits, laughing, complaining about meetings and clients.

Their voices carrying a casual, oblivious chatter about deadlines and weekend plans. It felt obscene, like the world had erased my twelve-year sentence the moment the cell door closed.

I paused, took a deep breath and crossed the street.

I paused in front of the building, my reflection warped on the building surface.

"You died because of this place." I whispered to myself.

My fingers clenched the strap of my bag until the leather creaked, grounding me against the urge to turn and run.

I adjust my blazer and walk in.

The lobby smells of polished marble, overworked carpet, and a hint of overly sweet lemon air freshener. A massive digital screen scrolls through company achievements: growth charts, innovation awards, smiling employees frozen in curated success.

None of it matters.

My ID badge still works.

The soft beep at the security gate makes my stomach twist.

The beep echoed too loudly in my ears, a reminder that the system still recognized me. My pulse hammered against my collarbone, too fast for calm.

I half-expect alarms. Hands grabbing my arms. Someone shouting my name and well, nothing happens.

"Liana!"

The voice hit me like muscle memory.

Lucy Fletcher runs towards me, her beige heels clicking the floor, her bleached blonde hair perfect, her whitened teeth showing through her wide smile.

My chest tightens. Recognition. Threat. Relief.

Confusion. All in one.

Her perfume slammed into me first. Sweet jasmine laced with something else.

She pulls me into a hug before I can react. Perfume hits me. Sweet, floral and the same one she wore when she visited me in prison.

I don't hug her back. Not yet.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she says softly. "Are you okay?"

Her breath brushed my ear, warm and too close; her arms squeezed with practiced affection that now felt like a restraint. My skin crawled under the contact.

I force a smile. "I just didn't sleep well."

Her eyes linger on my face, searching for something. Then she relaxes, looping her arm through mine like nothing happened, like she didn't watch me disappear in a concrete box.

Her grip was light but firm, guiding me forward. My muscles tensed, ready to pull away at the slightest wrong move.**

"Dont worry, I'll get us that cappuccino that has caramel in it." she murmurs.

The elevator doors slide open, and we step inside. The mirrored walls trapping us together, our reflection staring right back at me.

In the cold steel reflection, my face looked haunted, dark circles under whiskey eyes, lips pressed thin. Lucy's smile gleamed beside me, flawless and empty.

"I heard Graham's already on edge," Lucy continues. "Something about audits and access reviews."

My pulse skips.

"Access reviews?" I echo, keeping my tone light.

She shrugs. "You know management. Always paranoid."

Yes. I do. I survived prison. I can survive paranoia too.

The elevator dings, and we step onto our open floor office.

Rows of desks, glowing monitors, the constant clicks of keyboards. Phones ring, chairs squeak, and laughter bounces off the walls,a sound that now feels too sharp.

The lights buzzed overhead like trapped insects, casting harsh shadows across every face. The air carried the faint burn of overheated printers and stale coffee-ordinary smells that now set my nerves on edge.

It was....Normal.

Brian Cooper pops up from his desk the moment he sees me.

"There she is," he grins, already pushing back his chair. "London's brightest data wizard."

He stood and walked towards me. He steps too close. I stiffen.

His cheap cologne rolled over me, woody and overpowering. He leaned in just enough to invade my space, eyes flicking down my body with lazy interest.

"Morning, Brian," I say, sidestepping him.

His eyes flick down my body, then back to my face.

I remember him from the courtroom. He was stiff, careful, and unreadable. Did he notice me then? Did he care?

"You look... good," he says, voice lowering almost imperceptibly.

The words hung between us, heavy with something unspoken; his gaze lingered on my lips like he was measuring for a claim.

I fixed him with a level gaze. "You tell every lady on this floor that."

He laughs, unbothered. "Just being honest."

Honesty.

Well, that's new.

I move to my desk before he can say more. Everything is exactly where I left it: monitor, chipped mug, sticky note on the edge of my screen, Double-check permissions.

The irony tastes bitter in my mouth.

I logged in.

For a few minutes, I let work pull me under. Systems load, dashboards populate, numbers align. Data doesn't lie. It doesn't cheat. Not like humans who will stab you and still smile to your face.

The keys clicked under my fingers, cool and slightly grimy from a thousand shared touches. The screen's blue glow reflected in my eyes.

Nothing looks out of place. And that's worse.

"Bennett."

Graham McFadden's voice cuts the air, sharp and loud.

He stands at the end of the aisle, arms crossed over a pot belly that was straining against his shirt, his tie slightly crooked, eyes sharp.

Sweat darkened the underarms of his shirt despite the chill from the AC.

"Office. Now."

"What now?" I muttered to myself.

I follow him into the glass walled room. He doesn't sit. He never sits.

"You left early yesterday," he says. "Skipped after-work drinks."

I blink. "I wasn't aware that was mandatory."

His jaw tightens. "In this department, visibility matters. People notice patterns."

That was a warning disguised as a casual conversation.

"I'll keep that in mind," I reply evenly.

He studies me for a long moment, then his eyes flick to the office outside, scanning, calculating. He steps closer. "We'll be reviewing access logs this week."

My stomach twists.

"Of course," I reply, voice calm, but inside my mind sparks. He knows something. Or wants me to think he does. Either way, I need to stay two steps ahead.

"Pull up last quarter's risk analysis," he continued,"I want a clean breakdown by noon."

"Yes sir."

He nods once with a thin smile, and dismisses me.

The glass door hissed shut behind me; his stare burned into my back like a brand as I walked away.

Back at my desk, my hands tremble slightly as I sit. My pulse races.

Then Lucy leans over the divider. "Lunch later?" She asked softly. "There is this really good curry place I want us to try. My treat."

"Maybe," I say. "Depends on how my morning goes. Graham already dumped his workload on me."

Someone laughed across the room.

She nodded and then left.

By mid-afternoon, I noticed it. A small permissions change. Almost invisible. A file accessed that shouldn't have been. My file.

My heartbeat spikes. I pull up the metadata. Cleaned. It was gone. Someone is already moving.

My mouse hand froze; the cursor blinked mockingly. A cold sweat prickled along my spine, proof that the game had restarted without me.

My eyes scan the office. Lucy laughs at what Ethan from HR said by the printer, her smile effortless.

Brian pretends to work but steals glances at me when he thinks I'm not looking. Graham paces inside his glass office. The rest of my colleagues either worked, on the phone, or gathered sharing gossip.

Every laugh sounded forced now, every glance weighted. The room pressed in, walls closing with the hum of secrets and the click of keys like countdowns.

One of them framed me. One of them watched me die.

I take a slow breath and I focus.

I open a hidden folder on my system. Quiet redundancies. Invisible safeguards. Traps disguised as routine processes. It will take patience, but they won't see it coming.

I check my mental list:

Lucy: too friendly, too sweet, always close, always watching.

Brian: too familiar, awkwardly confident, unpredictable.

Graham: overtly controlling, temperamental, skilled at manipulation.

Sean: over friendly, even after I rejected his offer to take me to dinner.

Martha: No. Can't be Martha. She hates this place but is still the first person at work everyday.

And somewhere beneath all of this, the real mastermind is already moving. Could be anyone. Could be all of them.

I lean back and let my eyes wander the office. The hum of traffic in the distance, the clack of keyboards, the murmurs of voices. Everything seems normal

And yet, nothing is.

Not anymore.

I straighten in my chair. Hands firm on the desk. Heart racing. Mind sharp.

If they're watching me, fine. Let them.

This time, I'm watching back.

Liana's POV

The office suffocated me. Don't get me wrong, the AC is working perfectly fine. But every glance, every movement, everything felt like I was being monitored. Graham's thin smile, Lucy's too-bright eyes, Brian's hovering... it pressed against my chest uncomfortably, I couldn't breathe inside those walls anymore. It was all too much

The office hum still echoed in my ears even after I stepped outside, rain misting my face like cold fingers reminding me the world hadn't changed, just I had.

After a day of mostly observing everybody at Blaise Corps, I needed out.

The streets of Shoreditch were slick with recent rain, the air sharp with exhaust and fried food. Street musicians played chords too high for human ears, and laughter drifted out from bars that smelled of alcohol and food.

Neon signs shone on the pavement, reflecting in puddles that shattered under my boots. The chill seeped through my coat, but it felt alive, better than the sterile chill of the office or the concrete death I'd escaped.

I didn't have a plan, and I didn't want one. I just needed the city to swallow me up for a little while. Let me vanish.

I found a dim bar tucked behind a brick alley, lights low, music throbbed beneath whispered conversations. It was soothing in an odd way and chaotic in another. I slid onto the end stool, nursing a gin and tonic, scanning the room without really looking.

The bar top was sticky under my elbows, scarred from years of spilled drinks. Bass vibrated through the wood, matching the unsteady beat in my chest. A girl laughed at something on her phone at a booth at the far end, a couple probably on a date.

A girl laughed at something on her phone at a booth at the far end, a couple probably on a date.

Then I noticed him.

Tall. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. He was in a dress shirt. Leaning against the bar, his eyes scanning the room, and somehow, they landed on me. My stomach did that thing I hate. It flipped, betraying me entirely.

He stood out. He seemed too composed amid the chaos, like the room bent around him. The low amber light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, turning his hazel eyes dark and intent.

He smiled. Just a fraction. Not a grin, not a leer. But it held curiosity and charm at the same time. I looked away, pretending not to notice, gulping my drink to drown the butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

Minutes later, our eyes met again. He was closer now. Looking at me with open curiosity.

He ordered a drink, then moved to the stool beside me, just enough to intrude without asking.

His presence arrived before he did-clean cedar cologne cutting through the bar's haze of gin and damp wool. The stool creaked as he settled, close enough that heat radiated from his arm to mine.

"Mind if I join you?" His voice was deep, smooth. He had an accent. Was it Scouse? Or Irish? It was the kind that makes you forget how to think.

I raised an eyebrow. "It depends. Why are you here?"

He chuckled, low, almost dangerous. "I'm not sure. I was bored, I guess," he continued. "But mostly... I'm curious about the woman hiding in the corner."

His gaze didn't waver. It was steady and warm, like he saw past the sarcasm straight to the storm underneath. My pulse kicked up, traitorously loud over the music.

I wanted to scoff and shut him down. But the truth is, I liked being noticed. Even by someone I shouldn't.

"I'm not hiding in the corner."

"Sure, you're not." He smiled.

"I'm Raphael," he said, extending his hand.

"Liana." My voice was flat, but inside, I was a mess.

He stared at me, holding my gaze.

"Is there something on my face?" I asked, lifting a hand to wipe it off.

"No." His voice was soft. "I actually wanted to say beauty. But I didn't want it to be cliché or awkward."

His fingers brushed mine as we shook, brief, electric, calluses rough against my skin. The contact lingered a second too long, sending heat curling low in my belly.

I giggled, breaking into a proper smile.

"So, I guessit worked?" He murmured with a smile of his own.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself."

There was something in his gaze that made the hair on my arms stand.

We talked. About nothing and everything. Music, travel, corporate mundanity, London secrets. He didn't pry, didn't pressure. But the way he listened to me like I was the only one in the room, it made my heart flutter.

Every lean-in brought his breath warm against my ear over the noise, mint faint on it. His laugh rumbled low, vibrating through the narrow space between us. My defenses cracked with each drink, gin loosening the knot of revenge in my chest.

One drink turned into two, then four. We lost count. My defenses dropped.

I laughed at jokes I didn't even like.

"You're... different," he said smoothly, moving closer.

"Careful. Don't be deceived," I replied softly.

He laughed low. "Well, you can deceive me."

I grinned. What did that even mean?

I leaned closer when he leaned in. And then... one reckless decision.

"Want to get out of here?"

I nodded. My skin flushed.

We left the bar together, heading to a nearby hotel.

The rain had picked up, cold drops sliding down my neck as we hurried, his hand warm and sure around mine.

The walk was casual, effortless. We held hands. My mind screamed: Stop. You can't. You mustn't. But my body didn't listen.

By the time we reached the hotel building, he led me straight to the elevator. Does he stay here? Is he visiting? A part of me was excited while another part was sad.

The moment his lips met mine, the rational part of me evaporated. I didn't pull away.

His kiss tasted of gin and restraint finally snapping firm, hungry, one hand cupping my jaw like I might vanish. Heat flooded me, drowning the prison ghosts for the first time since waking.

A fire I hadn't realized I'd been starving for ignited.

I thought about my plans, about how I wanted to live this life.

But it didn't matter. Not now. Not when this sexy Adonis' hands roamed my body, leaving heat in their wake.

It was reckless and dangerous. It was perfect.

When morning came, sunlight pierced through half-closed blinds. I woke in an unfamiliar bed, tangled sheets, faint scent of expensive cologne, and a splitting headache.

The room smelled of him, cedar lingering on the pillows, mixed with the sharp tang of last night's gin. My body ached pleasantly in places I'd forgotten could feel anything but tension.

I reached for my phone. I froze. I have to go if I want to get to work on time.

I dressed quickly, leaving a note I knew he probably wouldn't see: Thanks. I thought of writing something else, but I would probably never see him again.

Outside, London moved on. The rain had stopped.

Pigeons pecked at crumbs in the square. Runners and yoga practitioners moved in the park.

I walked away from the hotel, resisting the temptation to look back, reconsider, to stay.

My steps felt heavier, the city louder. Something important gnawed at the edge of my mind, what had I planned to do today? but the detail slipped away like smoke.

Back in my apartment, I sank onto the edge of my bed, staring at the ceiling. Fingers flexed, I picked up my phone. Stopped. I wanted to do something yesterday... but I couldn't remember what.

I sat up, trying to pull back the details that had vanished. I couldn't.

It was probably stress. I'd think about it later.

The day at Blaise Corps had been normal on the surface. It was quiet and normal, it was controlled.

And the night, last night reminded me how easily control could slip through my fingers. I had to be careful not to fall for guys with contagious smiles.

I had a month. One month to untangle the lies, uncover the traitor, and stay alive.

And I thought about the man I left at the hotel. As much as I hated it... I wanted him.

But I couldn't. Not yet.

Not if I wanted to survive.

Because every choice I make in this second chance must be precise.

I can't be framed and killed again. I cannot afford distractions. Especially when it's tall and sexy.