Chapter 2

I woke up early, determined to play the perfect grateful charity case while plotting Blake's downfall.

Blake appeared at breakfast looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine—golden hair perfectly tousled, wearing that deep blue shirt I remembered all too well. He'd worn the exact same outfit when he first approached me in my past life. Even his smile was identical, that practiced expression of warmth that didn't reach his eyes.

"Morning, River," he said, sliding into the chair beside me. His voice dripped with fake concern. "How'd you sleep?"

I wanted to throw up. This was the same act he'd pulled before—the caring older brother routine, all gentle touches and protective gestures. My past self had eaten it up, thinking I was special. Now I could see right through him.

"Great, thanks," I replied, keeping my voice carefully neutral while watching Quinn from the corner of my eye.

She sat across from us, methodically buttering her toast, dark hair falling across her face like a curtain. But I could feel her attention on us, sharp and focused.

"You interested in art?" Blake's fingers grazed my shoulder—the same calculated touch as before. "I've got a studio upstairs with killer natural light. Want to check it out?"

Word for word, exactly what he'd said in my previous life. Back then, I'd practically glowed with excitement, convinced his interest meant something real.

I opened my mouth to give the expected eager response when Quinn cut in.

"He literally just got here yesterday." She didn't even look up from her breakfast. "Maybe let him settle in first?"

Blake's hand went rigid against my shoulder. For a split second, irritation flashed across his features before the smile snapped back into place.

"Right, of course." He pulled away, voice tight. "Plenty of time for that later."

This was all wrong. In my past life, Quinn should've been shooting daggers at me by now, jealous of Blake's attention. Instead, she was... protecting me?

My carefully laid plans suddenly felt shaky.

After Blake left for his morning classes, Quinn and I sat alone in the echoing dining room. She kept glancing at me like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

"Want to see the garden?" she asked finally. "The roses are pretty this time of year."

I followed her outside, my mind spinning. The Ashworth grounds were magazine-perfect—manicured lawns, prize-winning rose beds, stone paths that probably cost more than most people's cars.

Quinn stopped beside a cluster of white roses and turned to face me. Her expression was a mess of emotions I couldn't untangle.

"Blake's playing you," she said quietly, glancing back at the house. "Don't let him fool you with the nice guy act. He's dangerous."

My pulse spiked. How could she possibly know?

"What are you talking about?" I managed.

Quinn's face went pale. She looked like she was wrestling with herself, trying to decide how much to reveal.

"I've been here two years," she said finally. "I've watched him do this before—target new kids, make them feel special. Boys, girls, doesn't matter. They all think they're different, that Blake actually cares."

Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "They all get destroyed."

None of this made sense. In my previous life, Quinn had been cold, distant, jealous. She'd watched me fall into Blake's trap without saying a word. Why was she warning me now?

"Why tell me this?" I asked.

Quinn stared at the roses, avoiding my eyes. "Because you remind me of myself when I first came here. Lost. Vulnerable."

There was something else in her voice, some deeper meaning I couldn't grasp. Before I could push further, Blake's voice carried across the garden.

"River! There you are!"

Quinn immediately stepped back, her expression shuttering closed. "Just remember what I said," she whispered before walking away.

That afternoon played out exactly like my past life—Blake appearing with that same eager smile, insisting on showing me his studio despite Quinn's earlier warning.

"Come on, don't let Quinn scare you off," he said, leading me toward the converted carriage house. "She worries too much. You're tougher than that, right?"

The studio was exactly as I remembered—second floor, floor-to-ceiling windows, expensive easels and canvases scattered around. Blake's paintings covered the walls, mostly portraits that were actually pretty good.

"Impressive, right?" Blake watched me expectantly.

"Yeah, really amazing," I said, playing my part.

But something was off. Blake kept checking the doorway, like he was waiting for someone. In my past life, this was when Quinn would've "accidentally" walked by, seen us together, and stormed off in obvious jealousy.

Minutes passed. No Quinn.

Blake's smile grew strained. He checked the door again, then again.

"Weird," he muttered. "She usually..."

He caught himself, but I understood. His whole game depended on Quinn caring enough to be jealous. Without that reaction, what was the point?

"Maybe she's just busy," I suggested innocently.

Blake's jaw tightened. "No, she should be... she always..."

He didn't finish, but his frustration was obvious. For the first time, I saw cracks in his perfect facade.

Back in my room that night, I couldn't stop thinking about Quinn's warning and her strange behavior. Nothing was going according to my memories. The timeline was the same, but the players were acting completely different.

I was still puzzling it out when soft knocking interrupted my thoughts.

I sat up, checking the clock. Nearly midnight.

"Who is it?" I called softly.

"Quinn." Her voice was muffled but tense. "We need to talk."

My stomach dropped. "Now?"

"Now," she said, and there was something final in her tone. "About Blake. About this family. And about who you really are."

The last words sent ice through my veins. I stared at the door, frozen.

She knew.