The first time I saw him again, I forgot how to breathe.
Not because he was handsome—although he was in a way that made the air feel heavier—but because he looked at me as if he already knew me. Not the way strangers exchange polite curiosity. Not the way businessmen scan for advantage.
It was something else.
Something impossibly familiar.
As if he remembered a version of me that no longer existed.
The conference hall of the Mirado Hotel was filled with noise—voices layered over the clinking of glasses, the shifting of suits, the faint buzz of photographers outside. Start-up founders, CEOs, investors, and opportunists moved around like colorful pieces on a financial chessboard. The annual "New Horizons Summit" was supposed to be a celebration of innovation. For me, it was supposed to be work. Nothing more.
I had come to interview a rising tech figure for my magazine. That was it. I had prepared my questions, checked my equipment twice, rehearsed my tone in my head. Everything was controlled. Predictable.
Until he walked in.
Ethan Hale—the billionaire youngest to ever build a global fintech empire—entered the room with the quiet authority of someone who had long stopped needing attention. Dark suit tailored perfectly, tie slightly loosened as if he didn't care to impress, expression neutral but sharp. He held no entourage, no assistant behind him, no swarm of flashing cameras. Yet people moved aside instinctively, making space without being asked.
I had seen him in articles and interviews before. A public figure, yes. But not someone you could easily misunderstand for someone else.
And yet…
My heart stumbled.
Because I had seen him somewhere else.
Somewhere impossible.
Somewhere in a past life.
Of course, that was ridiculous. And yet, the moment his gaze found mine across the room, the world seemed to mute itself. As if someone had lowered the volume of reality.
His eyes froze.
A flicker.
Recognition?
Then something more unsettling—relief.
He whispered something I couldn't hear, and for a moment I wasn't standing in a crowded hall. I was kneeling beside someone on a blood-soaked road, cold rain pouring over us, the iron scent of metal in the air. A man's voice had trembled as he cupped my face with shaking hands.
"I'll find you again… even if I have to cross lifetimes."
A warmth spread across my palm—something warm and wet.
His blood.
But whose voice?
Whose eyes had looked into mine in that moment between life and death?
I blinked hard.
The memory—if it even was a memory—vanished like breath on glass.
"Excuse me?" a voice snapped me back.
One of the event staff brushed past me, bowing slightly as she apologized.
I shook myself.
Right.
I was here to work.
I was not someone who hallucinated romance scenes on the job.
By the time I refocused, Ethan Hale had already crossed half the room—and was walking straight toward me.
My stomach tightened.
No, not toward me. Toward the registration desk behind me. Of course. Why would a billionaire CEO be interested in a junior journalist who didn't even get her own office?
I moved aside—too abruptly. My shoulder brushed the edge of a tray carried by a passing waiter. The glasses rattled dangerously.
Smooth, Avery.
Very professional.
I took a breath to regain composure—but before I could step away fully, someone caught my wrist gently but firmly.
"Careful."
The voice was calm, low, steady.
My spine locked.
Because the man holding my wrist was Ethan Hale.
I looked up—slowly—and found his eyes on mine again. Up close, they were a deep shade of gray, not cold but sharp enough to cut through excuses.
His touch wasn't intrusive; it was grounding. As if he'd done this before—caught me, steadied me, kept me from falling.
My throat tightened for reasons I absolutely did not want to analyze.
"Thank you," I managed, trying to pull my hand back discreetly.
He didn't let go immediately.
Not in a controlling way—but as if confirming something. Testing a memory that only he seemed to have. His thumb brushed lightly over my pulse point, as though counting a rhythm.
Then, softly, he asked, "Does this still scare you?"
My breath vanished.
Still?
What did he mean still?
I took a step back—too fast—and his hand fell away.
"I'm sorry?" I forced a professional tone. "Have we met?"
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Not irritation. Something like… pain.
"I suppose you'd say no." His voice softened. "But I remember."
The way he said it made my skin prickle.
I cleared my throat, lifting my recording badge slightly as a reminder to myself that I was here for work, not for… whatever this was.
"I'm Avery Lane," I introduced myself. "I'm supposed to—"
"I know who you are."
That shouldn't have made my stomach flip. Plenty of people at this event would know the press list.
But he didn't say it like a businessman who had done background checks.
He said it like someone who had whispered my name before. Someone who had spoken it with affection, fear, grief.
Someone who had died saying it.
I shook my head, forcing rationality into my thoughts. This was absurd. Past lives? Destiny? No. I was a journalist. Facts were my profession. Logic was my backbone.
And yet his gaze didn't waver. He studied me quietly, like a man staring at a lighthouse he'd crossed oceans to find.
"You look exactly the same," he murmured.
My pulse stumbled.
I stepped back again. "Mr. Hale, I think you might be confusing me with someone else."
"Not possible," he replied immediately—too quickly, as if the words escaped before he could control them. He inhaled slowly, regaining composure. "But I apologize if I'm making you uncomfortable. That's not my intention."
His manners were immaculate. His tone warm but reserved. Controlled. He wasn't arrogant, nor dramatic. No theatrics. Just quiet certainty.
"Would you allow me a minute?" he asked. "I think we will understand each other better if we talk."
The rational part of me screamed: No. Absolutely not. Red flag. Danger. Leave.
But the deeper part—the one that had reacted to his presence before I even understood why—whispered:
Listen. Just once.
"I have an interview request with you," I said carefully. "If you're agreeing to it, then sure—we can talk."
He nodded once. "Let's go somewhere quieter."
We stepped away from the bustling hall toward a smaller lounge area reserved for private meetings. The lighting there was softer, the music lower. A few executives chatted quietly in the far corner, but otherwise the room felt secluded.
Ethan gestured to a small table.
I sat.
He took the seat across from me, but leaned slightly forward, his attention sharp and unwavering.
He didn't touch his phone.
He didn't glance around.
He didn't perform for image or reputation.
He simply watched me, as if memorizing me all over again.
"What do you remember?" I asked carefully, not sure why I was entertaining this.
His fingertips touched the table lightly. "Everything."
"That's… not possible."
His lips curved—not into a smile, but something like understanding. "I know how it sounds. I'm not asking you to believe it right away. But when I saw you just now, I felt something I've only felt once before."
He paused.
"The moment I died."
The air stilled.
A shiver ran down my arms.
My throat went dry.
He didn't blink. "In my last life."
I swallowed, struggling to keep my skepticism from turning into laughter or panic. "You're saying you remember a past life?"
"I do."
"Is this some sort of spiritual belief or—"
"No. It isn't belief." His eyes darkened. "It is memory."
It should have sounded insane.
It should have made me end the interview and walk away.
But something inside me clenched painfully at his words. That blurred flash from earlier—the dying man in the rain—it struck again, sharper this time.
I gripped the edge of the chair.
"Why tell me something so… extreme?" I asked softly.
His gaze softened. "Because you asked if we had met."
My pulse raced.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low. "Avery… you asked me that same question the night I died."
My breath stilled.
He continued gently, "And I told you: 'I'll find you again.'"
A tremor ran through me.
I didn't want to believe him.
I couldn't.
But the certainty in his voice… it felt like truth.
A truth I wasn't ready for.
I pressed my palms together under the table. "I'm sorry. I don't remember any of that."
"I know." His voice softened with a sadness too specific to be an act. "You weren't meant to."
"Why would you remember but not me?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. "All I know is that I woke up on my eighteenth birthday with memories that didn't belong to this life. Memories of a life where I wasn't Ethan Hale, and you weren't Avery Lane."
My chest tightened.
He watched my reaction quietly—not pushing, not insisting.
"But I didn't come to you today because of the past," he added gently. "I came because I want to know who you are in this life. The real you. Not the woman from my memories."
His sincerity unnerved me even more than the rest.
"So…" I exhaled slowly. "What do you expect from me?"
"For now? Nothing."
"Nothing?"
He offered the faintest, almost shy smile. "Except a chance to talk again."
I stared at him, struggling to make sense of everything. He was powerful, wealthy, influential—yet he sat across from me with the quiet patience of a man who wasn't chasing a business deal or a romantic fantasy.
Just something real.
He stood slowly. "Your interview time with me is approved. My assistant will schedule you for tomorrow morning. No restrictions."
"No restrictions?" I echoed, stunned. His interviews were known to be impossible to get.
"For you," he said simply, "none."
He turned to leave—then paused.
"Avery," he said softly without looking back, "if anything feels familiar… even for a second… tell me."
My pulse pounded in my ears.
"And if it doesn't," he added, "I'll still wait."
He walked away before I could respond.
I stared at the empty seat across from me, trying to steady my breathing, my thoughts, my reality.
Because even if I wanted to dismiss everything he said…
Even if I insisted on logic…
Even if I told myself I didn't believe him…
There was one thing I couldn't deny.
When he held my wrist—
For just a moment—
I felt like I had held his hand before.