When I opened my eyes again, I was pinned against the floor-to-ceiling window of the skyscraper by my stepbrother, Rocco. The man I had been infatuated with for a decade.

He panted, his hot lips and tongue trailing along my collarbone as he murmured, "Don't go."

In my past life, on the night I received my acceptance letter from London Business School, Rocco got blind drunk.

Late that night, I gave in to his pleas for me to stay. I willingly gave myself to him.

After a debauched night, his cherished fiancée, Clara, caught me walking out of his room the next morning, my clothes in disarray.

She ran out in tears, her parting words ringing in the air, "I'll let you have each other."

A month after she disappeared, the family search party found her engagement ring at the edge of a cliff.

At the bottom of the cliff lay mangled remains, battered by the waves until they were unrecognizable.

Rocco clutched that ring and didn't sleep all night.

On the surface, he acted as if nothing had happened, even arranging a trip for me to Sicily, telling me to go and relax.

The night I landed, I was kidnapped by assassins from a rival family.

I screamed for him to pay the ransom, only to hear him give the order himself over the phone:

"Don't make her death a quick one. The Costello princess? She's nothing but a damn liability. Torture her. Break every bone in her body. "

"This is what she owes Clara."

You like playing games, Rocco.

But in this life, I refuse to play along.

When I opened my eyes again, I was pinned against the floor-to-ceiling window of the skyscraper by my stepbrother, Rocco. The man I had been infatuated with for a decade.

He panted, his hot lips and tongue trailing along my collarbone as he murmured, "Don't go."

In my past life, on the night I received my acceptance letter from London Business School, Rocco got blind drunk.

Late that night, I gave in to his pleas for me to stay. I willingly gave myself to him.

After a debauched night, his cherished fiancée, Clara, caught me walking out of his room the next morning, my clothes in disarray.

She ran out in tears, her parting words ringing in the air, "I'll let you have each other."

A month after she disappeared, the family search party found her engagement ring at the edge of a cliff.

At the bottom of the cliff lay mangled remains, battered by the waves until they were unrecognizable.

Rocco clutched that ring and didn't sleep all night.

On the surface, he acted as if nothing had happened, even arranging a trip for me to Sicily, telling me to go and relax.

The night I landed, I was kidnapped by assassins from a rival family.

I screamed for him to pay the ransom, only to hear him give the order himself over the phone:

"Don't make her death a quick one. The Costello princess? She's nothing but a damn liability. Torture her. Break every bone in her body. "

"This is what she owes Clara."

You like playing games, Rocco.

But in this life, I refuse to play along.

...

"Harper, be good..."

"Don't leave me. You're all I have..."

The first thing I felt in my new life was Rocco's hard chest trapping me against the bookshelf.

His large hand slid roughly under my silk nightgown, his fingertips calloused from years of holding a gun, tracing a line up my waist.

A sickening shiver ran down my spine.

In my past life, I had fallen completely for his performance as a devoted rogue, willing to lose myself in the forbidden pleasure.

I even believed that he truly loved me.

Until, in the throes of passion, he gasped another woman's name:

"Clara..."

This time, I snatched the heavy crystal whiskey glass from the desk and, without hesitation, threw its contents in Rocco's face.

Ice and liquor splashed against his handsome, yet repulsive, face.

"Wake up."

Rocco froze, the amber liquid dripping from his sharp jawline. The lust in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by confusion.

Before he could react, I shoved him away, smoothed my disheveled nightgown, and pressed the security button under the desk.

"Are you sober now, my brother?"

Our family's Capo was at the door almost instantly.

Seeing Rocco's state and smelling the reek of alcohol in the room, the Capo immediately lowered his head, not daring to meet my gaze. "Principessa, what are your orders?"

"Tie him up."

"Take him to the Bellini estate. Deliver him to Miss Clara. Now."

The Capo hesitated, instinctively wanting to object. After all, Rocco was the Don's most valued enforcer.

But when his gaze met my own, cold as steel, he nodded at once. "Yes, Principessa."

Twenty minutes later, I received a text from Clara. The text message radiated disbelief and anger.

[Harper Costello, are you insane? What is the meaning of this, sending Rocco to me in this state!]

Calmly, I typed my reply.

[Miss Bellini, I heard it's your birthday. Since you want him so much, consider him a gift. You're welcome.]

The phone screen went dark, reflecting my face. Memories of my past life flooded back like a tide.

Rocco and I share no blood.

My father, Giovanni Costello, is the most powerful Don in this city. Years after my mother's death, he fell for Rocco's mother at first sight.

And Rocco was merely the outsider who came with his mother, becoming my stepbrother in name only.

In my previous life, I was deeply in love with Rocco.

A decade of secret admiration culminated in one reckless night, where I willingly surrendered myself to him.

But after our night together, his one true love, Clara, walked in on us.

She cried, putting on a pitiful show of stepping aside for us.

Then she ran away from home and vanished.

A month later, the family found a blood-stained ring and a mangled corpse at the cliffside. She was declared dead.

Rocco showed no signs of distress. He even comforted me in my panic.

He said, "Harper, don't be afraid. Your brother is here for you."

He even meticulously planned a trip to Europe for me, saying it was to celebrate my birthday.

Until the day of my departure, when I found myself tied up in a musty warehouse.

I heard him myself, laughing coldly as he gave the order to the tattooed thugs:

"She's Costello's daughter. Beat her until she can't scream anymore, and when you're done, kill her. Make sure to record it."

"Afterward, dump her in the East River. Make it clean."

"This is what she owes Clara!"

I begged him through my tears. "Rocco! I'm your sister! How could you do this to me?"

Rocco's laughter echoed through the phone, as cruel as a blade. "Sister? Ever since Clara jumped off that cliff because of you, I've wanted to tear you limb from limb."

"And I bet you don't know, when the old man heard you'd been kidnapped, the shock nearly killed him. He's in the ICU right now, on his deathbed."

"There's no one left in this world to protect you, my little princess."

My heart turned to ash.

In the rival family's warehouse, I endured hours of brutal beatings before they broke all my fingers and both of my legs.

Finally, I was thrown into a filthy gutter.

All of it, at the hands of Rocco.

There was no peace for me in death.

In this second life, I just want to stay as far away from Rocco as possible.

The next morning, my father was browsing the financial section of the newspaper and casually asked about my day.

My stepmother, Elena, elegantly directed the maids to serve coffee.

I had just cut into my eggs Benedict when Rocco stormed in with Clara.

Rocco's shirt collar was slightly open, revealing several fresh love bites on his neck, clear evidence of a passionate night.

He held Clara's hand and strode directly to the dining table with a defiant air.

My stepmother greeted them with a beaming smile.

My father merely glanced up from behind his paper, his expression indifferent, and instructed the butler to set two more places.

After a few bites, my father excused himself, citing urgent business with the organization.

At the table, my stepmother fussed over Clara, already treating her like a member of the family.

Rocco cut his steak, the knife scraping harshly against the porcelain.

He suddenly stopped and turned to me with a playful smile.

"Harper, why so quiet?"

"It's Clara's first time having breakfast with us. Don't make her feel unwelcome."

My expression remained unchanged as I nodded lightly. "Rocco, you've misunderstood."

I raised my wine glass, my voice calm and gentle.

"Your future wife. I wouldn't dream of slighting her."

The crimson liquid swirling in the glass looked too much like the blood I had lost in my past life. My fingers trembled slightly, but I forced myself to remain composed.

Hearing my detached tone, Rocco's hand, holding his fork and knife, froze mid-air.

A muscle in his brow twitched. He was about to speak.

Clara gently touched his arm. "Rocco, it's alright. Harper is the family's Principessa. It's normal for her to be a little proud. I'll do my best to win her over."

She clearly didn't understand the power dynamics at play.

Rocco ignored her, setting down his utensils to continue staring at me.

"Don't say that, Clara," he said, his voice indulgent. "Harper is just shy. She's actually very sweet. You two will get along once you spend more time together."

The way he framed it, I was the one at fault.

My stepmother tried to smooth things over. "Alright, now, it's so rare for the whole family to be together..."

This was Rocco's specialty. That lethal gentleness.

In my last life, I drowned in the illusion of his deep affection, right until he personally pushed me into the abyss, his face still wearing that same "I'm doing this for your own good" expression.

I set down my silverware, my appetite gone.

The memory of being starved to skin and bones in that rival family's warehouse stole my appetite. I had been looking forward to a hot meal.

I should have just gone with my father to deal with the family business.

I couldn't stand another second of this meal.

"I'm finished. Please, enjoy yourselves."

I dabbed my lips with my napkin and rose from the table.

Half an hour later, I was about to leave for my father's legitimate enterprise in an armored sedan.

I had just opened the door and settled into the back seat when the door on the other side was pulled open.

Rocco leaned in, his eyes full of concern and confusion.

The dim back seat instantly became an intimate, enclosed space for just the two of us.

"Harper, what's wrong with you today? You wouldn't even respond to me."

Rocco's long fingers reached out, his fingertips gently stroking my cheek.

"You're never this quiet. You didn't say a word at the table. I was worried about you."

"Tell me, is this about Clara? Are you jealous?"

His warm touch made my stomach churn, reminding me of that dark warehouse from my past life. Faced with endless humiliation, all I could do was cry and scream until I became numb and hopeless.

I quietly clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms, using the sharp pain to suppress the turmoil rising within me.

I turned my head slightly to avoid his touch, "Brother, you're mistaken."

I didn't look at him. "You and Clara are a perfect match. I'm truly happy for you."

Rocco let out a low chuckle.

He didn't pull back. Instead, he moved closer, his warm breath fanning across my ear.

His hand slid down from my cheek, stopping at the nape of my neck.

He knew my body intimately, knew that was one of my most sensitive spots.

His fingertips drew slow circles, his voice low and husky. "Is that so?"

"But Harper, if I recall correctly, when I was teaching you how to hold a gun, your heart was pounding louder than the gunshots."

"Harper, you don't have to pretend to be strong in front of me."

"I still remember how you cried and tripped down the stairs when you saw me writing love letters to Clara."

He lowered his head, his nose almost brushing my neck, as if greedily inhaling my scent.

"I know your secret, good girl."

"You love me. You're crazy about me."

Those words were like a rusty, sugar-coated knife, stabbing into my heart all over again.

Yes, I had loved him once.

I was young when my stepmother, Elena, married my father. The family business was just starting to take off.

My father was busy expanding his empire in both legitimate business and the underworld, while my stepmother was busy managing her social calendar among the city's elite.

It was Rocco, this brother with no blood relation, who wove a giant cocoon around me with his meticulous "care."

He would stay up all night by my side when I was hurt and gently defend me when I was scolded.

He seemed to have an endless supply of patience and gentleness for me. "Don't cry, little princess. Your tears are too precious to be wasted on small things."

Exquisite toys from his drawer, limited-edition desserts, surprises at my birthday parties, Rocco took care of everything for me.

He would say softly, "No matter what, you'll always be my little princess. All the beautiful things others have, you must have them too."

Later, as a teenager, I was sensitive and my feelings were just beginning to bloom.

Rocco was still with me every day.

He patiently taught me how to shoot, how to read people, and then, intentionally or not, drove away every suitor who came near me.

His men would joke, "Rocco, you treat Harper so well, taking her everywhere. You raising a future wife or something?"

Rocco would just smile faintly. "She's my most precious treasure."

To this day, I remember when the youngest Moretti son stood outside our estate with roses for three days straight, Rocco dragged him out with a stern face.

"Harper is my family. Please stay away from her."

How could a young girl's fragile heart have resisted?

But the pain of my past life taught me just how wrong I was.

Seeing my silence, Rocco assumed I had given in once more.

He cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. "Harper, don't look at me like that."

"You know it's impossible between us."

The atmosphere was intimate and his voice was full of deep affection, yet every word was like a shard of ice.

"I can't give you what you want, so don't force me to hurt you."

He paused, leaning closer to my lips.

"If you and I... last night... of course I would have taken responsibility. But for you to do what you did, it only makes me feel,"

"like you've cheapened the special bond between us."

My heart felt as if it had been crushed by an invisible hand, followed by a cold, numb silence.

I watched Rocco's black Maybach disappear into the night.

Straightening the collar he had messed up, I didn't go home. Instead, I drove to the private art studio I rented in the East District.

It was my sanctuary, a place that held all my secrets and the foolish love of my girlhood.

While waiting at a red light, my phone screen lit up.

Clara had just posted a new Instagram story.

In the photo, her hand, adorned with a diamond engagement ring, was intertwined with Rocco's. The background was blurry, but I recognized it instantly as the neighborhood near my studio.

The caption was so glaring it was impossible to ignore: "Walking the paths he once walked, as if it would let me possess his entire past."

The light turned green. I slammed on the gas.

A sense of foreboding wrapped tightly around my heart.

When I arrived at the studio, I found the reinforced metal door pried open, its high-security lock smashed.

The air was thick with the acrid smell of oil paints and solvents.

I stepped inside. The studio looked like it had been ransacked after a gang war.

Easels were knocked to the ground.

The portrait of Rocco, a piece I had spent three months on, even mixing in my own blood as pigment, was now lying on the filthy floor.

The canvas had been slashed to ribbons, the eyes in particular viciously stabbed through.

I rushed to the safe in the corner.

The door was wide open.

The velvet box inside, which once held the first bullet casing Rocco ever gave me, was empty.

Rage boiled in my veins for a moment, only for me to take a few deep breaths, struggling to keep myself composed.

The sound of high heels clicking on the floor came from behind me.

Clara appeared in the doorway, clinging to Rocco's arm, her face a mask of a frightened little rabbit.

"Oh, Harper, what are you doing here?"

She shrank into Rocco's embrace, her voice trembling. "Rocco, I told you she would be angry if we accidentally broke something..."

Rocco frowned, his gaze sweeping over the mess on the floor before settling on my expressionless face.

He stroked Clara's back to comfort her, then turned to me with an apologetic look. "Harper, I'm really sorry."

His voice was as gentle as if he were soothing an injured child.

"Clara just wanted to get to know you better and accidentally knocked over the easel. You know she's always wanted to be close to you. Please don't be mad at her."

"My dear sister, I know you might be unhappy, but you can't keep wearing that expression that tells everyone to stay away."

He approached me cautiously, the pity and affection in his eyes only deepening.

"I know how much you cherish these paintings. Tell me what was damaged, and I'll replace everything."

I stared quietly at the ruins on the floor: the paintings that had once held all my girlish dreams, and finally, I just shook my head gently.

"That won't be necessary."

My voice was so calm it surprised even me.

Rocco froze, the words he had prepared catching in his throat.

He took an uneasy step forward. "Harper? You're really not angry?"

"Brother."

I cut him off, bending down to pick up the ruined portrait.

"I'm not angry."

I looked up, my eyes vacant, as though I were looking at two strangers.

"If Clara wants to look at things, or do whatever she wants, she's welcome to. But now that it's broken, there's no reason to keep it."

I dragged the large canvas, grabbed the thick stack of love letter drafts from a drawer, and headed for the burn barrel in the alley behind the studio.

The December night wind in New York was biting.

I struck a match and watched the flame lick at the shattered image of Rocco's face on the canvas.

The oil paint sizzled, sending up plumes of black smoke.

Rocco rushed out after me, his voice sharp with alarm when he saw what I was doing. "Harper, what are you doing?"

I tossed the letters, filled with a young girl's unsent confessions, into the barrel one by one.

"Taking out the trash."

As I watched the flames consume the words "I love you, Rocco,"my eyes felt hot, but I gritted my teeth and refused to let a single tear fall.

It didn't matter that the bullet casing was gone.

The painting was destroyed, and with it, my idealized image of him, shattered beyond repair.

My memories of Rocco had all been tainted. There was no point in keeping these things anymore.

Rocco watched my indifferent profile, illuminated by the firelight, his brow furrowed. It seemed, for the first time, that things were slipping from his control.

"Weren't these your most precious things? Why are you burning them?"

"You said it yourself. That was the past. People always have to grow up."

I dusted off my hands and turned away, not sparing another glance at the barrel of ashes, or at him.

"I'll buy you new ones..."

I pulled open the car door and got in, his voice fading behind me.

All of his false affection was shut out by the bulletproof glass.

In the days that followed, Rocco didn't speak a single word to me.

He was busy parading his love for Clara throughout our family's social circles.

Everyone could see he was utterly besotted with her, doting on her to the point of obsession.

I stumbled upon them several times in the estate, being openly affectionate, Rocco holding Clara tenderly in his arms or placing a light kiss on her forehead.

He seemed... truly devoted to Clara.

Rocco convinced my father and stepmother, Elena, to hold a grand wedding in two weeks' time.

Clara was the moon and stars to him.

Of course he couldn't tolerate his woman being questioned or wronged in any way.

Clara even smugly posted a photo on Instagram: she was wearing a six-figure custom evening gown, with Rocco embracing her from behind.

The caption read: "A decade of familiarity can't compare to the passion ignited by love at first sight."

But none of this could stir the slightest ripple in my heart anymore.

Rocco, you still think this is just a little tantrum to get your attention.

You still think that all you have to do is call my name gently, and you'll come running back to his arms like a tamed kitten.

But this time, my plans are already set.

I am leaving New York.