Chapter 2 - The Day I wake up.
I woke up in my grand pink room, with the morning light filtering through the delicate curtains. As my eyes fluttered open, I took a deep, loud gasp.
Air.
I was surrounded by it, breathing it in deeply.
Looking around, I found myself inexplicably in my bed. Everything was exactly as I remembered: my custom pink room, the baby pink curtains, and the pink sofa. I was even wearing my favorite pink nightgown. How could this be possible?
I distinctly remembered being in the water, and the sensation of drowning. Water had filled my lungs; survival should have been impossible. I was certain that I had died.
The memory of a bright light after darkness engulfed me and convinced me I had passed into the afterlife.
I recalled... my prayer.
Sitting up slowly, I rubbed my eyes gently.
What was happening?
Could last night have been just a dream?
But it had felt far too real to be merely a dream. It couldn't be.
I touched my bed, the covers—everything felt tangible, as real as I was. My engagement ring was still on my finger, as if I had never angrily thrown it away. I felt it, and it was just as it had always been.
As I grappled with the reality of my existence, someone entered my room.
They were my staff, who worked in the mansion.
One was Mabel, the other Hannah. I recognized them.
"Good morning, Miss Cleo," one chimed in as she drew back the curtains. They began tidying up, picking items off the floor.
I was at a loss for words. My mind was still replaying the events.
I had been in the water. I remembered the wetness, the drowning. It was terrifying, but I remembered.
And now, I was dry.
They exchanged concerned glances but continued their routine.
"Breakfast will be ready in five minutes. Shall we get you ready?" one asked.
I shook my head, finding it difficult to speak.
They left quietly.
Minutes later, I stood up slowly, my legs heavy as I walked out of my room.
What in the world was happening?
I had died. I was certain of it.
Was this the afterlife?
I pondered as I looked around once more. Was I in the afterlife?
I managed to reach the dining table. Mabel brought my phone over, saying it had been ringing. I didn't answer. It was someone from the office.
As I sat at the dining table, going through my phone, I noticed the date—it was strange.
The day before?
Wait...
Was this reality?
Time seemed to have turned back on itself.
Was I dreaming?
"Is everything alright, Miss Cleo?" asked Lisa Selman, my personal assistant. I hadn't even noticed her enter the room, so preoccupied was I with my thoughts.
"The date on my phone—it's incorrect. It's showing an old date," I said, my forehead creasing with confusion. The display read August 12th, but that was impossible; it should have been November 13th. I remembered distinctly because my wedding to Michael was set for the 15th.
"May I have a look?" Lisa asked.
I handed her the device. She examined it and then looked back at me, her expression one of bewilderment.
"Today is the 12th," she stated, passing the phone back to me.
"No, it's the 13th of November," I insisted, shaking my head. Lisa exchanged a glance with Mabel, a look of concern passing between them.
"Ms. Cleo, are you feeling okay? Today's August 12th. It's a Wednesday," Lisa corrected me.
Time reversal? The thought was ludicrous, yet the evidence was compelling.
Then it dawned on me—the prayer I had made while drowning, pleading for salvation, for a chance to rectify my mistakes.
Lisa's voice interrupted my reverie.
"Your schedule for today..."
Hold on.
If it truly was August 12th, that meant my father was still alive. He had been gravely ill around this time and had been hospitalized. My memories of visiting him daily until his death were vivid and painful.
I turned to Mabel urgently.
"Where's my father?" I demanded.
"He's in the hospital, remember? You were there with him all day yesterday," she replied with a gentle, sad smile.
My father was still alive.
Overcome, tears welled up in my eyes.
"Miss Cleo! Are you alright?" Lisa's voice was laced with worry as she came to my side, her hand resting reassuringly on my shoulder.
"I'm fine," I managed to say, dabbing at my tears with a napkin and gently shrugging off her hand.
"I need to see my father. Cancel all my appointments for today," I commanded, rising swiftly from the table and hastening out of the dining room.
Minutes later, I left the house. Dressed hastily and hair hastily combed, I couldn't bear to delay for a bath. Seeing my father was all that mattered.
Entering the sterile environment of the private hospital room, the antiseptic scent was sharp in my nostrils as I approached my father's bed. His frail body lay there, seemingly insulated from the turmoil of the world beyond these walls.
It was surreal—my father, alive before me. I had mourned beside this very bed, feeling the void of his absence, comforted by Michael, lost in my grief.
Now, here he was, alive, though tethered to the machines that monitored his tenuous grip on life. The illness that had claimed him had come without warning; a collapse in a meeting and he had been confined to this bed ever since. Even here, he had been busy, signing papers, reviewing his will with his lawyer and me by his side, tying up loose ends despite my protests.
At the time, I hadn't understood his urgency, pleading with him to focus on recovery instead of what seemed like surrender. But now, after my near-death experience at the hands of my fiancé, I realized he had been preparing, ensuring his estate would be secured for me.
The doctor entered the room quietly, and I barely registered his presence, my gaze fixed on my father.
He stood behind me in silence before speaking.
"His condition remains critical, Ms. Fontana. We're running out of time," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of the inevitable.
"Leave us," I murmured, and the doctor nodded before exiting the room.
Tears welled up as I gazed upon my father, his face pale and drawn. Taking his hand in mine, I wished desperately for him to open his eyes. "Dad, please wake up," I whispered, my voice laced with a crack.
"You can't die on me... not again."
Yet he lay motionless until my entreaties dissolved into sobs. As my tears spilled onto his unresponsive hand, his eyes fluttered open.
Hope surged within me as our eyes met.
"Dad, don't leave me. Please, hold on a little longer. I can't endure losing you again," I implored, my voice shaking.
With a feeble smile and in a faint whisper, he responded, "Cleo, my time is short. I am going to die."
"I don't want you to die, Dad. You're all I have left. Mom's gone, and now you're leaving me, too. Please, don't go."
But he did not heed my plea.
"Cleo, I have but one final wish," he said.
Desperation painted my features as I asked, "What is it, Dad? I'll do anything."
His eyes bore into mine with an urgency I could not ignore. "Promise me, Cleo. Promise that you'll follow my instructions."
"I'll do anything you ask, Dad. Anything at all."
"When I die..."
"Stop that, Dad! Please, don't talk like that!" I protested.
He coughed, yet persisted.
"When I die, Cleo, you must meet with Nicholas Moretti. He will know what to do."
"You're not going to die, Dad. I won't let that happen," I vowed, tears coursing down my cheeks.
"Promise me, Cleo. Promise that you won't marry Michael Pritchett. He is not who you think he is."
Michael. My father had never approved of him. I wondered if he somehow knew what Michael had been up to, the plans he had for me.
Could he have known the kind of man Michael really was?
My father was the sole voice against our union; he never blessed our engagement, never consented to the marriage. I had threatened to estrange myself from him if he prevented me from marrying Michael, which had led him to relent. But now, as I reconsidered everything, it dawned on me that my father had likely seen Michael's true nature.
He had been trying to shield me. And I, the foolish daughter, had not heeded his warnings.
I swallowed hard, my grip on my father's hand tightening ever so slightly.
"I promise, Dad. I will not marry Michael Pritchett."