New Orleans, Louisiana - 11:47 p.m. The first time Isabella Hayes kissed a dead man, she didn't know he was dead. She only knew that his lips were cold, his eyes held a sadness she couldn't explain, and when he whispered her name, it sounded as though he had been waiting a lifetime to say it. But that night was still weeks away. For now, Isabella was running through the rain, clutching her purse against her chest while the heels of her boots splashed through puddles on Bourbon Street. "Perfect," she muttered. "Absolutely perfect." Her phone had died. Her car had broken down three blocks away. And the man she'd caught her boyfriend cheating with had turned out to be his fiancée. Yes, his fiancée. Apparently, Isabella had been the other woman for eleven months without knowing it. She wanted to scream. Instead, she walked into the nearest bar, ordered a glass of water, and tried not to cry in front of strangers. That was when she saw him. He sat alone in the darkest corner of the room, wearing a black shirt beneath an expensive coat. His dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, and his face was so striking that Isabella forgot what she had been thinking. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't drinking. He was staring at her. Not in the ordinary way men stared at women they found attractive. He looked at her as if he recognized her. As if he had seen her before. As if she was someone he had lost. Isabella looked away first. "Don't do it," she whispered to herself. "You've had enough trouble with mysterious men." Five minutes later, she found herself walking toward his table. Apparently, her common sense had gone home without her. "Is this seat taken?" she asked. The stranger glanced at the empty chair opposite him. "No." His voice was deep, smooth, and strangely familiar. She sat down. "I'm Isabella." "I know." Her smile disappeared. "I'm sorry. What?" For the first time, something changed in his expression. He looked almost frightened. "I mean..." He paused. "You look like an Isabella." She narrowed her eyes. "That's the worst excuse I've ever heard." A faint smile touched his lips. "Then I suppose you hear terrible excuses often." "You have no idea." "I'm Damien." "Damien what?" "Cross." "Well, Damien Cross, do you always sit in dark corners staring at women?" "Only when they walk into places they shouldn't be." Isabella raised an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to be a threat?" "No." His gaze moved toward the rain-streaked windows. "It's a warning." Before she could ask what he meant, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then the entire bar went dark. Someone screamed. A glass shattered nearby, followed by the sound of chairs scraping across the floor. Isabella reached for her phone, remembering too late that its battery was dead. "Hello?" she called. "Can someone turn on the lights?" A hand closed around hers. She gasped. "Stay here," Damien whispered. Something about his voice made her obey. She heard footsteps approaching their table. Heavy footsteps. Then a man's voice cut through the darkness. "Damien Cross." Damien went completely still. "You're supposed to be dead." Isabella's stomach tightened. The stranger beside her slowly released her hand. "People keep saying that," Damien replied. There was a sharp sound. A struggle. Someone crashed into a table. Then silence. When the lights returned, the room erupted into frightened conversation. The man who had approached them was gone. Damien stood beside the table, adjusting his coat as though nothing had happened. Isabella stared at him. "What was that?" "Nothing you need to worry about." "Nothing? A man just walked up to you and said you're supposed to be dead!" "And yet," Damien said quietly, "here I am." She should have left. Every sensible thought in her head told her to collect her purse and run straight out of that bar. Instead, she noticed the small cut across his palm. "You're bleeding." Damien looked down. For a moment, he seemed genuinely surprised. Then he closed his hand. "It's nothing." "Let me see." "Isabella." The way he said her name made her stop. "Please," he added. She didn't understand why that single word sounded so desperate. But she let it go. Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle. Damien offered to walk her to her car, and although she knew accepting help from a stranger was probably a terrible idea, she agreed. They walked beneath the streetlights in silence. "So," Isabella finally said, "are you going to explain what happened back there?" "No." "At least you're honest." "I try to be." "Do you have a girlfriend, Damien Cross?" He glanced at her. "Why?" "Just curious." "No." "Boyfriend?" That earned her the smallest laugh. It was a surprisingly beautiful sound. "Neither," he said. "Good." The word escaped before she could stop it. Damien turned toward her. "Good?" Isabella covered her face with one hand. "Oh, my God. Please forget I said that." "I've been trying to forget many things for a very long time." Something in his voice made her lower her hand. For a moment, he looked unbearably lonely. She wanted to ask him what had happened to him, why a stranger had called him dead, and why he looked at her as though she mattered more than she should. But they had reached her car. "Thank you for walking me," she said. "Isabella?" She turned. "Yes?" "Whatever happens, don't trust anyone who tells you they knew me before I died." Her smile faded. "Before you what?" He stepped closer. The streetlight above them flickered, casting shadows across his face. "Good night, Isabella." Then he walked away. She watched him disappear into the mist, her heart beating faster than it should have. Only when she reached for her car keys did she realize something was wrong. She had never told him her surname. She hadn't even told him her first name until they sat down. Yet he had looked at her as though he had known her for years. Shaken, Isabella unlocked her car and climbed inside. Her phone had somehow switched back on. Three notifications appeared on the screen. The first was from her best friend, Emma. EMMA: Girl, please tell me you're home. I just found something online that you need to see. The second was a missed call from an unknown number. The third was a photograph. Isabella frowned and opened it. The picture showed a young man standing outside a grand mansion, dressed in a black suit. His face was unmistakable. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Those same impossible eyes. Damien Cross. Beneath the photograph was a short newspaper headline: LOCAL HEIR DAMIEN CROSS FOUND DEAD AFTER MYSTERIOUS MANSION FIRE. Isabella's fingers went numb. She read the date. Three years ago. "No," she whispered. She zoomed in on the photograph, searching for some explanation. A trick. A coincidence. Anything. Then she noticed the small caption beneath the image. Damien Cross, 27, was pronounced dead at the scene. His body was never recovered. Her phone rang. Unknown number. She answered slowly. "Hello?" For several seconds, nobody spoke. Then a man's voice whispered, "You met him, didn't you?" Isabella's blood ran cold. "Who is this?" "Listen carefully. If Damien Cross has spoken to you, you are already in danger." "How do you know I met him?" "Because he hasn't looked at another woman in three years." Isabella stopped breathing for a moment. "What does that mean?" The stranger's voice dropped to a frightened whisper. "It means he has been waiting for you." The call ended. Isabella sat frozen behind the steering wheel, staring at the photograph. Then another message appeared on her screen. This one came from Damien. DAMIEN: I'm sorry you had to find out this way. A second message followed. DAMIEN: Whatever you do, don't look behind you. Isabella's fingers tightened around her phone. Slowly, she lifted her eyes to the rearview mirror. Someone was sitting in the back seat. A pale face. Dark, hollow eyes. And a smile that stretched far too wide. Before Isabella could scream, the figure leaned forward and whispered- "He told you not to trust the living. But he forgot to tell you what happens when the dead fall in love." END OF CHAPTER ONE

Isabella couldn't scream. She couldn't move. She could barely breathe. The figure sitting in the back seat of her car looked like a man, but something about him was horribly wrong. His skin was pale and stretched, his eyes were sunken, and dark veins spread across his neck like cracks in broken glass. He smiled at her through the rearview mirror. "Beautiful night, isn't it?" Isabella's hand trembled against the steering wheel. "Who are you?" The man tilted his head. "Someone who died a long time ago." "Get out of my car!" He laughed softly. "You're brave. I can see why Damien likes you." The mention of Damien's name sent a chill down her spine. "How do you know Damien?" The man's smile disappeared. "Because I was there when he died." Isabella turned around, but the man moved so quickly that she barely saw him. One moment, he was sitting behind her. The next, his face was inches from hers. She screamed and scrambled toward the passenger door. "Don't touch me!" He raised both hands. "Relax. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't still be talking." "That is not helping!" For the first time, he seemed amused. "You're right. My apologies." He leaned back. "My name is Vincent. And if you want to survive the next few days, you need to forget you ever met Damien Cross." Isabella stared at him. "Why?" "Because the man you're falling for isn't what you think he is." "I'm not falling for anybody!" Vincent looked at her for a long moment. Then he laughed. "Of course not." Before Isabella could respond, every light inside the car went out. A cold breeze swept through the vehicle. When the lights returned, Vincent was gone. Isabella didn't wait to investigate. She threw the car into reverse, drove out of the parking space, and headed straight home. She didn't stop at a red light until a furious driver honked behind her. By the time she reached her apartment in the French Quarter, her hands were shaking so badly that she dropped her keys twice. She locked the door, checked the windows, and dragged a chair beneath the doorknob. Then she called her best friend. Emma answered on the fourth ring. "Isabella Hayes, if you're calling me to complain about that useless boyfriend again, I swear-" "Emma." Something in Isabella's voice silenced her. "What happened?" "I think I'm losing my mind." "Okay. That's not new. What happened?" "There's a dead man following me." Silence. Then Emma said, "I'm coming over." Twenty minutes later, Emma arrived wearing pajama pants, an oversized sweatshirt, and the expression of someone prepared to fight an entire army for her best friend. She carried a bag of snacks. "All right," she announced, dropping onto the couch. "Start talking." Isabella told her everything. The mysterious man in the bar. The stranger who called Damien dead. The photograph. The phone call. And Vincent. Emma listened without interrupting, which was unusual enough to make Isabella even more nervous. When Isabella finished, Emma slowly set down her drink. "Let me get this straight. You met a handsome man, discovered he supposedly died three years ago, and now a creepy stranger is appearing in your car?" "Yes." Emma stared at her. "Girl, you need a vacation." "Emma!" "I'm serious! Have you considered that someone might be playing a very elaborate prank on you?" "Have you considered that I might actually be in danger?" Emma's expression softened. "Okay. I'm sorry." She reached for Isabella's hand. "We'll figure this out. But first, show me the photograph." Isabella unlocked her phone and handed it over. Emma studied the picture. Then she went completely still. "What?" Isabella asked. Emma enlarged the image. "Isabella, look at this." She pointed to the background. Behind Damien stood a woman wearing a white dress. Her face was partially hidden by shadows, but there was something familiar about her. "Do you recognize her?" Emma asked. "No." Emma swallowed. "I do." Isabella sat up. "Who is she?" Emma looked toward the window before answering. "Victoria Blackwood." The name meant nothing to Isabella. "Should I know her?" "She's the daughter of one of the richest families in Louisiana. Her father owns hotels, real estate companies, and half the businesses people in this city pretend they don't know about." "And?" "And she was supposed to marry Damien Cross." Isabella felt something tighten in her chest. "Marry him?" Emma nodded. "Three years ago, their engagement was announced in every major society magazine. Then Damien died in that mansion fire, and Victoria disappeared from public life for almost a year." Isabella looked back at the photograph. "Why was she standing behind him?" "That's what we're going to find out." Emma reached for her laptop. "Let's see what the internet knows." For the next hour, they searched through old newspaper articles, archived interviews, and photographs. Most of the reports said the same thing. Damien Cross had been found inside his family's mansion after a devastating fire. He was twenty-seven. His fiancée, Victoria Blackwood, had been questioned but never charged with anything. His body had never been recovered. And the case had eventually gone cold. Then Emma found something that made both women stop talking. An article published two days before Damien's death carried a headline that read: CROSS FAMILY HEIR CANCELS WEDDING AMID SHOCKING FAMILY DISPUTE. The article was short, but one sentence stood out. Sources close to the family claim Damien Cross had recently threatened to expose a secret that could destroy several powerful families. "That's strange," Emma murmured. "What secret?" "I don't know." Isabella stared at the screen. For reasons she couldn't explain, she felt a deep sadness. She had known Damien for less than an hour, yet the thought of him dying alone in a burning mansion made her chest ache. It was ridiculous. She didn't know him. She didn't even know whether he was human. But something about his eyes had stayed with her. The loneliness. The fear. The way he'd looked at her as if she were the only person in the world who mattered. Her phone vibrated. A new message appeared. DAMIEN: Are you home? Isabella stared at it. Emma leaned over her shoulder. "Oh, absolutely not. Don't answer that." Another message arrived. DAMIEN: Please, Isabella. I need to know you're safe. Emma shook her head. "Nope. That's how horror movies start." Isabella typed a reply. ISABELLA: Who are you? Really? The response came almost immediately. DAMIEN: Someone who should have stayed dead. Her throat tightened. She typed again. ISABELLA: Then why are you here? This time, the reply took longer. When it finally arrived, she wished she hadn't asked. DAMIEN: Because three years ago, before I died, I saw your face in a dream. Isabella's fingers went cold. Another message followed. DAMIEN: And last night was the first time I saw you awake. She read the words twice. Then a third message appeared. DAMIEN: I'm coming to see you. There's something I need to tell you before Victoria finds you. Emma jumped to her feet. "Absolutely not!" Isabella looked up. "What?" "You're not meeting a potentially undead billionaire in the middle of the night because he sent you a mysterious text!" "He said Victoria is looking for me." "Then we call the police!" "And tell them what? That a dead man is texting me?" Emma opened her mouth, then closed it. "Fine. But if he comes here, I'm staying." Ten minutes later, someone knocked on the door. Three slow knocks. Isabella and Emma exchanged a look. "Don't move," Emma whispered. The knock came again. Then a familiar voice spoke from the other side. "Isabella. It's Damien." Emma grabbed a heavy decorative lamp from the table. "If he turns into a monster, I'm hitting him with this." Despite everything, Isabella almost laughed. She approached the door cautiously. "How do I know it's really you?" "Because you told me my excuse for knowing your name was terrible." She hesitated. Then she unlocked the door. Damien stood in the hallway wearing a black coat, his dark hair damp from the rain. He looked exhausted. But the moment his eyes met hers, something softened in his expression. "You're safe," he whispered. Isabella folded her arms. "You have a lot of explaining to do." "I know." "Start with the part where you're supposed to be dead." Damien glanced at Emma, who was still holding the lamp. "Your friend doesn't like me." "She's considering hitting you with a lamp." "That's fair." Emma blinked. "Did he just agree with me?" "Can we please focus?" Isabella snapped. Damien stepped inside. The moment he crossed the threshold, Isabella noticed something strange. He didn't cast a shadow beneath the hallway light. She looked down. Nothing. Her stomach twisted. "Damien?" He followed her gaze. For the first time since she'd met him, genuine fear crossed his face. "Isabella, listen to me carefully." He closed the door behind him. "What I'm about to tell you will change everything you believe about life, death, and the people you trust." Emma slowly lowered the lamp. "That sounds reassuring." Damien ignored her. "Three years ago, I was murdered. The people responsible believed they had destroyed every trace of me. They were wrong." Isabella swallowed. "What happened to you?" "I woke up in a place where no one should ever wake up." His voice became quieter. "I couldn't feel my heartbeat. I couldn't remember how long I'd been there. And when I finally escaped, I discovered that the world had moved on without me." He looked at his hands. "I was dead, Isabella. But somehow, I was still here." Emma took a step backward. "Okay. I'm officially uncomfortable." Isabella barely heard her. "Why did you come looking for me?" Damien raised his eyes. "Because my death wasn't an accident. It was part of something much bigger. And now that you've met me, the people who killed me believe you know something you shouldn't." "I don't know anything!" "I know." "Then why would they come after me?" "Because they don't believe you." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, silver pendant. Isabella's breath caught. She recognized it immediately. It was identical to the pendant her mother had worn for as long as she could remember. The same intricate design. The same tiny black stone at its center. The same unusual symbol engraved on the back. But Isabella's mother had died when she was twelve. And she'd taken the pendant with her to the grave. "Where did you get that?" Isabella whispered. Damien's expression changed. "I found it the night I died." He placed the pendant in her palm. "Your mother was there, Isabella." The room seemed to tilt. "My mother was dead long before you died." "Then someone lied to you." Isabella shook her head. "No. That's impossible." Damien looked at her with an expression that frightened her more than anything else that had happened that night. "I wish it were." Suddenly, his entire body stiffened. He turned toward the window. "What is it?" Emma asked. Damien didn't answer. Outside, a black car had pulled up beside the building. A woman stepped out, holding a white umbrella. Even through the rain, Isabella recognized the face from the photograph. Victoria Blackwood. She looked directly up at Isabella's apartment. Then she smiled. Damien grabbed Isabella's hand. "Whatever happens," he whispered, "don't let her touch that pendant." A loud crash came from downstairs. Someone had broken through the building's entrance. Footsteps began climbing the stairs. Slowly. Deliberately. Victoria's voice drifted through the hallway. "Damien, darling. You should have stayed buried." Damien moved in front of Isabella. His eyes darkened, and the veins beneath his skin began turning black. For the first time, Isabella saw what he had been hiding. Not the handsome man she'd met in the bar. Not the mysterious stranger who made her heart race. But something that had crawled back from death itself. Something powerful. Something terrifying. And something that looked ready to kill to keep her alive. END OF CHAPTER TWO

The footsteps stopped outside Isabella's apartment. Nobody moved. Damien stood between Isabella and the door, his entire body tense. The veins beneath his skin had darkened, and his eyes, which had been a deep shade of brown, were slowly turning black. Isabella stared at him in disbelief. "What is happening to you?" she whispered. "Stay behind me." "Damien, your eyes-" "I said stay behind me!" His voice was so sharp that she flinched. Immediately, his expression changed. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I would never hurt you." Before Isabella could respond, someone knocked on the door. Three times. Then a woman's voice floated through the wood. "Damien, darling. I know you're in there." Victoria Blackwood. Her voice was sweet, almost playful, but something about it made Isabella's skin crawl. "Open the door," Victoria continued. "We have so much to discuss." Damien clenched his fists. "Go away, Victoria." A soft laugh came from the hallway. "Three years, Damien. Three years since I watched them bury an empty coffin in your name, and you still haven't learned when to stop fighting." Isabella looked at him. "She knows you're alive." Damien didn't answer. Victoria knocked again. "Or should I say, not entirely alive?" Emma whispered a word Isabella had never heard her use before. Then she tightened her grip on the lamp. "Okay," Emma muttered. "I officially hate this woman." Damien reached for the door. "Don't!" Isabella grabbed his arm. He looked down at her hand. For one brief moment, the darkness in his eyes faded. "Trust me," he said. "That's exactly what people say before everything goes wrong." A faint smile touched his lips. "You're learning." He opened the door. Victoria stood in the hallway wearing a white designer dress beneath a long black coat. Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves around her shoulders, and diamonds glittered at her ears. She looked like someone who belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine, not outside an apartment where a dead man was preparing for a fight. Her eyes moved over Damien's face. Then she smiled. "Look at you. Still handsome. Still stubborn. Still refusing to stay dead." Damien's expression remained cold. "What do you want?" Victoria stepped inside without waiting for permission. "Your attention, obviously." Her gaze shifted to Isabella. "And you must be Isabella Hayes." Isabella straightened. "Have we met?" "No. But I've heard so much about you." "From whom?" Victoria smiled. "Your mother." The room went silent. Isabella felt as though the floor had disappeared beneath her feet. "My mother is dead." "Is she?" "Stop saying that!" Victoria raised her eyebrows. "Touchy subject?" Damien moved between them. "Leave her out of this." "Oh, Damien." Victoria sighed. "You always were sentimental. Even when you were alive." She reached into her purse and produced a photograph. Then she handed it to Isabella. The picture showed a younger woman standing beside a man outside a large white mansion. Isabella recognized the woman immediately. Her mother. She looked younger than Isabella remembered, with long brown hair and a bright smile. But it was the man standing beside her who made Isabella's heart stop. Damien. Not the Damien standing in the room. The Damien in the photograph looked exactly the same. Same face. Same dark hair. Same eyes. Isabella stared at the date printed on the back. October 14, 1998. Her hands began to tremble. "That's impossible," she whispered. Damien closed his eyes. Victoria watched her carefully. "Your mother was a beautiful woman. Clever, too. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of falling in love with someone she couldn't save." Isabella turned toward Damien. "What is she talking about?" He didn't answer. "Damien!" His jaw tightened. "Your mother knew my family." "How?" "Because she was involved in the experiment that brought me back." Isabella shook her head. "No. My mother was a nurse. She worked at a hospital in Baton Rouge. She had nothing to do with experiments." Victoria laughed softly. "That's what she wanted you to believe." Isabella felt sick. Every memory of her mother suddenly seemed uncertain. The late-night phone calls. The locked drawer in her bedroom. The nightmares that had sometimes woken her mother screaming. When Isabella was little, she'd asked about them. Her mother had always given the same answer. Some memories are better left buried, sweetheart. Isabella had thought it was a figure of speech. Now she wasn't so sure. "What experiment?" she asked. Victoria's smile disappeared. "Ask Damien." He looked at Isabella, and for the first time, she saw genuine shame in his eyes. "Three years ago, my father discovered a way to bring the dead back to life. He called it the Lazarus Project." Emma stared at him. "You're telling me someone invented a zombie machine?" "That's one way of describing it." "That's a terrible way of describing it!" "Emma," Isabella whispered. "Sorry. I'm processing." Damien continued. "The project was supposed to help people who had died unexpectedly. Victims of accidents. Patients who couldn't be saved. My father believed death was a problem that science could solve." "And did he succeed?" Isabella asked. Damien looked at her. "Not the way he intended." He explained that the first experiments had failed. Bodies had been restored, but the people inside them never truly returned. Some were violent. Others couldn't remember who they had been. Then his father discovered something unusual. A rare condition made certain people compatible with the process. Their bodies could return to life, but only if a mysterious symbol was used during the experiment. The same symbol engraved on Isabella's pendant. "My mother had that symbol," Isabella whispered. Damien nodded. "She helped create it." "Why?" "Because she believed the project could save lives." Victoria folded her arms. "Until she discovered what it was really doing." Damien's gaze hardened. "My father wasn't trying to save people anymore. He was trying to control death. He wanted an army of people who couldn't die, couldn't age, and couldn't disobey him." "And you?" Isabella asked. "I was his first successful experiment." The words settled over the room like a funeral shroud. Isabella looked at the man she had met only hours earlier. The man who had walked beside her in the rain. The man who had warned her to stay away from him. The man who had died three years ago and somehow returned. "Why you?" she whispered. Damien looked away. "Because I was his son." Victoria's expression hardened. "And because Damien made the mistake of trying to destroy his father's work." She stepped closer. "Your beloved Damien discovered that the project required more than scientific knowledge. It required a living person with a very specific bloodline." Her eyes settled on Isabella. "Your mother was the last person who possessed it." Isabella's blood ran cold. "No." "Yes." "No, my mother had nothing to do with this!" Victoria's voice softened. "She tried to stop the experiment. That's why she disappeared." Isabella shook her head violently. "My mother died in a car accident." "That's what the police were told." Damien suddenly grabbed Victoria's wrist. "Enough!" For a moment, the room seemed to tremble. Victoria looked down at his hand. Then she looked back at his face. "You can't protect her forever." "I don't need forever." His eyes darkened again. "I only need enough time to end this." Victoria pulled her hand free. "You're becoming unstable, Damien. You can feel it, can't you? The hunger. The rage. The memories returning." Damien said nothing. "How long before you lose control again? A month? A week? A single bad night?" She smiled at Isabella. "Ask him what happened to the last person who tried to help him." Isabella looked at Damien. "What happened?" He stared at the floor. "Damien," she whispered. "I hurt someone." The confession came so quietly that she almost didn't hear it. "Who?" "My brother." Victoria's expression turned triumphant. "He was the only person who tried to bring Damien home after the experiment. Damien didn't recognize him. He thought he was being attacked." She leaned toward Isabella. "By the time he understood what he'd done, it was too late." Damien's hands trembled. "Get out," he said. Victoria's smile faded. "What?" "Get out of my apartment." She studied him for a moment. Then she turned toward Isabella. "One last piece of advice, darling. When Damien starts dreaming about the night he died, don't let him sleep beside you." Isabella's stomach twisted. "Why?" Victoria walked toward the door. "Because the curse doesn't just bring the dead back to life." She paused. "Sometimes, it chooses someone else to die in their place." Then she left. The door clicked shut. For several seconds, nobody spoke. Emma slowly placed the lamp on the table. "I'm going to need a therapist," she announced. "Possibly three." Isabella barely heard her. She was staring at Damien. "Is any of it true?" He looked exhausted. "Yes." "Did my mother help bring you back?" "Yes." "Did she die because of it?" "I don't know." "And were you really responsible for your brother's death?" Damien closed his eyes. "I was responsible for what happened to him." Isabella took a step backward. He noticed immediately. "Isabella-" "Don't." He stopped. She pressed a hand against her chest, trying to steady her breathing. "I met you last night. Less than twenty-four hours ago. And now you're telling me that my dead mother was involved in bringing you back from the dead, that some woman wants me, and that there's a curse connected to my family." "I know how it sounds." "No, you don't!" Her voice cracked. "You don't know what it feels like to discover that everything you believed about your own life might be a lie!" Damien stood perfectly still. Then he said something that made her anger falter. "You're right. I don't know what it's like to discover that your life was a lie." He looked at her with haunted eyes. "But I know what it's like to discover that your death was." For a moment, Isabella couldn't speak. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to tell him to leave and never come back. But she remembered the sadness in his eyes when he'd spoken about his brother. She remembered how carefully he'd held her hand in the dark. And she remembered the way he had stood between her and Victoria without hesitation. "Why did you say you'd seen my face in a dream?" she asked. Damien slowly reached into his coat. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, worn at the edges as though he'd carried it for years. When he opened it, Isabella saw a drawing. A young woman stood beneath a large oak tree, wearing a white dress. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulders, and a small pendant rested against her chest. The drawing was dated twenty-seven years earlier. But the woman in it wasn't Isabella's mother. It was Isabella herself. Her exact face. Her exact eyes. Even the small beauty mark beside her left eyebrow. Isabella staggered backward. "That's me." Damien nodded. "I found it in my father's study the night I died." "How is that possible?" "I don't know." He handed her the paper. On the back, written in faded ink, were seven words. WHEN SHE RETURNS, THE CURSE WILL END. Isabella read them again. Then again. A sudden pain shot through her head. She gasped and grabbed the edge of the table. Images flashed through her mind. A burning room. A woman's voice screaming her name. A man lying motionless beneath a white sheet. And a whisper that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her memory. Find him before the tenth night. Then everything disappeared. Isabella collapsed. "Isabella!" Damien caught her before she hit the floor. For one terrifying second, his cold hand pressed against her cheek. Then Isabella opened her eyes. She looked directly at him. And spoke in a voice that wasn't hers. "Damien Cross, you have nine nights left before you die again." His face went completely pale. Because he recognized the voice. It belonged to the woman who had cursed him three years ago. His mother. And she had been dead for twenty-seven years.