Eleanor woke with a gasp, the silken sheets tangled around her like a shroud. The last image, the searing pain, the cold indifference in Lord Beaumont’s eyes – it was all so vivid, so immediate, that for a terrifying moment, she thought she was still there, still dying.

She sat bolt upright in the massive four-poster bed, the heavy velvet canopy pressing down on her like a suffocating weight. The opulent bedroom, with its intricately carved furniture, its Aubusson carpets, and the pastoral scenes painted on the walls, swam into focus. Beaumont Manor. Her gilded cage.

But it was different. Lighter. Fresher. The air, though thick with the scent of roses and lavender, wasn’t stale with the musty odor of neglect that had permeated everything in her final days.

Panic clawed at her throat. Disorientation warred with a dawning, impossible realization. She scrambled to the gilded dressing table, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of the heavy silver mirror.

The reflection that stared back was…younger. The harsh lines etched by years of disappointment and heartbreak were gone, replaced by a softer, more innocent visage. The vibrant auburn hair, once dull and lifeless, now shone with a youthful gloss. Even the green of her eyes, usually clouded with sorrow, seemed brighter, more alive.

It couldn't be. It was a cruel trick of the light, a fleeting hallucination born from the lingering trauma of her death. Yet, as she touched her face, tracing the curve of her cheek, the delicate arch of her brow, she knew, with a chilling certainty, that it was real.

She was back.

Years. Years before the crushing humiliation, the agonizing loneliness, the ultimate betrayal. Years before her demise.

The memories flooded her, a torrent of pain and regret. The wedding day, full of naive hope. The awkward silences. The increasingly frequent absences of her husband, Julian, Lord Beaumont. The whispers behind fans, the knowing glances, the blatant affair with Lady Annelise. The despair that had consumed her, turning her into a shadow of her former self. And then, the culmination of it all: the riding accident, conveniently orchestrated, the slow decline, the final, ignominious end.

She had been nothing more than a pawn in Julian’s game, a stepping stone to greater power and a means to legitimize his ambition. He had needed her dowry, her connections, her status. Once he had what he wanted, she was discarded, left to wither and fade in the shadows of his indifference.

A wave of nausea washed over her. The injustice of it all, the sheer, breathtaking cruelty, threatened to overwhelm her.

But this time, it would be different. This time, she knew.

She wouldn't make the same mistakes. She wouldn't pour her heart out to a man who didn't care. She wouldn't waste her energy trying to earn his affection. She wouldn't allow herself to be broken again.

Her first instinct was to flee, to run as far and as fast as she could from Beaumont and everything it represented. But that was impractical. She had no money of her own, no family to turn to. Besides, running would be seen as an admission of guilt, a sign of weakness. It would only fuel the gossip and give Julian more reason to despise her.

No, she would stay. But she would stay on her own terms. She would be a ghost in her own life, a silent observer, a detached spectator. She would fulfill her societal obligations, attend the necessary functions, and maintain a facade of normalcy. But she would not engage. She would not invest. She would not hope.

She would simply exist, quietly and unobtrusively, until Julian inevitably grew tired of the charade and sought a divorce. Then, she would walk away, with her head held high, and build a life for herself, free from the suffocating confines of Beaumont Manor and the poisonous presence of its lord.

It was a cold, pragmatic plan, devoid of passion and romance. But it was the only way to survive. It was the only way to protect herself from the devastating pain she had already endured.

She spent the rest of the day in a state of detached observation. She went through the motions, allowing her maids to dress her in the elaborate gowns and arrange her hair in the intricate styles that were expected of a duchess. She ate a solitary lunch in the formal dining room, the vast space amplifying her loneliness. She even took a stroll through the manicured gardens, breathing in the familiar scents of roses and honeysuckle.

But she felt nothing. She was a hollow shell, a puppet controlled by the strings of societal expectation. She was determined to remain that way, to shield herself from the world and its potential for hurt.

As dusk settled over the estate, casting long shadows across the lawns, she retreated to her private sitting room, a small, cozy space filled with books and needlework. She lit a fire in the hearth and curled up on the window seat, staring out at the darkening landscape.

The Manor, once a symbol of her dreams, now seemed like a prison, its imposing walls a constant reminder of her past failures. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the memories, the regrets, the lingering fear.

Suddenly, a soft knock echoed through the room. Eleanor stiffened. She hadn't expected anyone. Certainly not him.

"Enter," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

The door creaked open, and Julian, Lord Beaumont, stood framed in the doorway. He was as handsome as she remembered, with his dark, brooding eyes, his chiseled features, and his tall, athletic build. He exuded an aura of power and confidence, the kind that drew people to him, like moths to a flame.

In her previous life, she had been mesmerized by that allure, captivated by his charm and his promise of a future filled with love and happiness. Now, she saw only the cold calculation beneath the surface, the ruthless ambition that had driven him to use and discard her.

He stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over her. He was dressed in riding clothes, his boots scuffed with mud, his hair slightly disheveled. He looked tired, but there was also a strange, almost…hesitant quality about him.

"Eleanor," he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble. "I trust you are well?"

The politeness, the formality, was jarring. In her previous life, he had rarely bothered with such niceties. He had treated her more like a piece of furniture than a wife, an object to be admired and displayed, but never truly engaged with.

"I am well, my lord," she replied, her voice carefully neutral. She refused to call him Julian. She refused to allow any intimacy to creep into their interactions.

He paused, as if unsure of what to say next. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words and buried resentments.

"I have just returned from London," he said finally. "The journey was…arduous."

Eleanor merely nodded, offering no further encouragement. She would not engage. She would not ask questions. She would not pretend to care.

He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting around the room. "I trust you found everything to your liking in my absence?"

"Everything was as expected," she replied, her voice flat.

He seemed to deflate slightly, as if her lack of enthusiasm had taken the wind out of his sails. He opened his mouth to speak again, then hesitated.

"Very well," he said, after a moment. "I shall leave you to your reading then. Good night, Eleanor."

He turned and walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Eleanor watched him go, her heart pounding in her chest. That was it? A polite greeting, a perfunctory inquiry, and then…nothing.

It was exactly what she had wanted. To be ignored, to be left alone, to be treated as a nonentity. And yet, as she stared at the closed door, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was different. Something had shifted.

His politeness, his hesitation, his…almost apologetic tone. It was all so out of character.

She knew that Julian was a master of manipulation, capable of twisting words and emotions to suit his own purposes. But she couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that this wasn't an act. That something, somehow, had changed.

Perhaps she was simply projecting her own hopes and fears onto him, reading too much into a simple exchange. Perhaps she was clinging to the foolish idea that he could be different, that he could be the man she had once believed him to be.

But as she stared into the flickering flames of the fire, she knew that she couldn't afford to be naive. She couldn't afford to let her guard down. She couldn't afford to trust him, not even for a moment.

She had made a vow to protect herself, to remain detached and disengaged. And she would keep that vow, no matter how tempting it might be to believe that things could be different this time around. She would remain a ghost, a silent observer, until the moment came when she could finally escape the clutches of Beaumont Manor and the shadow of her past.

Her resolve hardened. Whatever Julian was planning, whatever game he was playing, she would be ready. She would be prepared. She would not be a victim again.