I spent the first night of my second life alternating between tears and laughter, caught in the surreal space between grief and opportunity. By morning, shock had given way to determination. I had five years of future knowledge—I'd be damned if I didn't use it.

My tiny studio apartment felt both foreign and achingly familiar. The IKEA furniture I'd eventually replace with designer pieces, the vision board covered with magazine cutouts of events I'd someday plan, the cheap coffee maker that would break in exactly three months. All remnants of a life I'd already lived.


I studied my reflection as I dressed. This younger body hadn't yet developed the confident posture or the polished style I'd cultivated over years in the industry. My hair was longer, my face softer, my eyes still holding that naive sparkle that life—and death—had extinguished.

"Time to make some changes," I murmured to myself.

First on my agenda: Mia. I couldn't avoid her completely—that would raise suspicions—but I needed to establish boundaries immediately. In my previous life, I'd made her my business partner out of friendship and gratitude for her early support. This time, she would never get close to my company.


My phone buzzed with her incoming call right on schedule.

"Hey, where are you?" Mia's voice was exactly as I remembered—warm, slightly breathless, perpetually excited. "I've been waiting at Café Luca for twenty minutes. Did you forget our breakfast meeting?"


The breakfast where she'd first suggested becoming my business partner. The first domino in my eventual downfall.

"Sorry," I replied, keeping my tone casual. "Something came up with a potential client. Actually, I need to cancel our plans for the next few days. I'm pursuing a new opportunity."

"What? What opportunity? You didn't mention anything yesterday." Her confusion was genuine—this wasn't part of our established pattern.

"It came up suddenly. I'll fill you in later." Before she could protest, I added, "I've got to run. Talk soon."

I ended the call and blocked her number—temporarily. I'd unblock it later, but today I needed space to think without her constant texts and calls.

My next step was financial. In my previous life, I'd struggled for the first two years before landing the Henderson anniversary party—the event that had put Reed Events on the map. This time, I knew exactly which investments would pay off and which clients would be worth pursuing.

I withdrew my entire savings—a meager $12,000—and headed to a brokerage firm. The broker looked skeptical when I, a young woman in modest clothing, requested to invest in specific tech stocks that were currently undervalued but would skyrocket within months.

"These are risky choices," he warned. "Perhaps a more balanced portfolio—"

"I'm aware of the risks," I interrupted, channeling the confidence of my future self. "I've done my research. These are the investments I want."

By lunch, I'd set up my investment portfolio and was headed to my next destination: the Blackwood Hotel. In my previous life, James Blackwood had been a peripheral figure—a successful hotelier whose path occasionally crossed mine at industry events. We'd been cordial competitors, nothing more. But I'd always admired his integrity and business acumen from afar, especially when contrasted with Ethan's underhanded tactics.

The Blackwood was still his only property at this point—a boutique hotel that would eventually become the flagship for an international chain. I walked through the elegant lobby, noting details I'd use in my pitch. Unlike my previous life, I wouldn't wait for clients to find me. This time, I was going hunting.

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Blackwood," I told the receptionist confidently.

She gave me a practiced smile. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but I believe he'll want to hear what I have to offer." I handed her my business card—simple, understated, nothing like the embossed cards I'd eventually have. "I'm Olivia Reed, founder of Reed Events. I specialize in creating memorable experiences."

"Mr. Blackwood is very busy—"

"Tell him I have a concept for hotel events that will increase his revenue by at least 30% within six months." A bold claim, but one I knew I could deliver on. In my previous life, I'd developed similar programs for competing hotels—programs that had been wildly successful.

The receptionist looked skeptical but made the call. To her evident surprise, Blackwood agreed to give me five minutes.

His office was exactly as I'd imagined—tasteful, minimalist, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. James Blackwood himself was younger than I remembered from our later encounters—early thirties, tall, with dark hair and intense blue eyes that assessed me carefully as I entered. He didn't rise from behind his desk.

"Five minutes, Ms. Reed," he said, glancing at his watch. "That's a bold claim you made."

I didn't waste time with pleasantries. "The hospitality industry is changing. Guests don't just want a place to sleep—they want experiences, stories they can share. Your hotel has the perfect foundation for curated events that would attract both guests and locals."

I outlined my vision rapidly—exclusive pop-up dining experiences featuring rotating chefs, themed weekend packages tied to local events, intimate concert series with emerging artists. All concepts I'd successfully executed in my previous life, all tailored specifically to his brand.

"These aren't just events," I concluded. "They're marketing tools that generate revenue on their own while building your brand and creating loyal customers."

Blackwood studied me with narrowed eyes. "Interesting ideas, but not particularly revolutionary. What makes you think you can execute them successfully? Your company doesn't seem to have much of a track record."

"I don't have a portfolio of past successes to show you," I admitted. "What I have is vision, determination, and an understanding of where this industry is heading. Take a chance on one event—the spring equinox is in two weeks. Let me create a dining experience that will be the talk of the city."

He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "And if it fails?"

"I'll work for free," I said without hesitation. "But it won't fail."

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Confidence. I appreciate that." He stood and extended his hand. "One event, Ms. Reed. Impress me, and we can discuss the rest of your ideas."

As we shook hands, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu—not from my previous life, but something new. A connection I hadn't anticipated. I pushed the feeling aside. This was business, nothing more.

"Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Blackwood. You won't regret it."

"James," he corrected. "And we'll see about regrets."

Over the next two weeks, I worked tirelessly, leveraging every contact and calling in favors that, in this timeline, I hadn't yet earned. I secured an up-and-coming chef who would later become a celebrity, convinced a local florist to provide arrangements at cost in exchange for exposure, and personally designed an immersive dining experience that transformed the hotel's restaurant into an enchanted spring garden.

The night of the event, I stood in the transformed space, checking final details. The lighting cast dappled patterns like sunshine through leaves, fresh flowers and living plants created natural dividers between tables, and custom-designed menu items told a story from first bite to last. It was beautiful, but more importantly, it was memorable.

"Impressive," came a voice from behind me. James Blackwood surveyed the space with appreciative eyes. "You've exceeded my expectations, Olivia."

"The real test is the guests' reaction," I replied, though I already knew it would be a success. I'd done this before, after all—just not in this timeline.

The event sold out completely. As guests dined, I watched their reactions, the way they took photos, the excited conversations. Several approached me for business cards. By the end of the night, I'd booked two new clients and received inquiries from three more.

James found me as the last guests were leaving. "I think we need to discuss the rest of your ideas," he said, his earlier skepticism replaced with genuine interest. "Are you free for lunch tomorrow?"

"I am," I replied, allowing myself a moment of satisfaction. This was just the beginning.

As I left the hotel that night, my phone buzzed with notifications—Mia had been calling and texting all day. I'd unblocked her number that morning, knowing I couldn't avoid her forever without raising suspicions. With a deep breath, I called her back.

"Finally!" she answered immediately. "Where have you been? I've been worried sick!"

The concern in her voice sounded genuine, and for a moment, I felt a pang of confusion. This Mia hadn't betrayed me yet. This Mia was still my friend, or at least pretending to be. The lines between past and future, between what had happened and what might happen, suddenly blurred.

"I've been working," I said carefully. "I landed a client. A big one."

"That's amazing! Who? Tell me everything!"

I hesitated. In my previous life, I'd shared every detail with her—every success, every setback, every hope and fear. That openness had eventually given her all the ammunition she needed to destroy me.

"The Blackwood Hotel," I said finally. "I created an event for them tonight. It went well."

"The Blackwood? How did you even get that meeting? This is huge, Liv! We should celebrate! I'll bring wine and you can tell me all about it."

"Not tonight," I said firmly. "I'm exhausted. Let's meet for coffee tomorrow afternoon."

After we hung up, I stood in my tiny apartment, surrounded by the remnants of my old life and the seeds of my new one. Meeting Mia would be a test—could I look into the eyes of the woman who had watched me die and pretend nothing had changed? Could I play the long game, keeping her close enough to monitor but far enough to protect myself?

I had to. Because in this new timeline, I wasn't just building a business. I was constructing the perfect trap—one that would take five years to spring, but when it did, it would destroy those who had destroyed me.

As I prepared for bed, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:

"Dinner next week to discuss a regular event series? Your ideas have potential. – JB"

I smiled to myself. New beginnings indeed.