CHAPTER 126: COLLISION OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT

Alexia’s POV:

When I remembered... I only remembered the luxury of the kingdom—the good things about my former life. The royalty. The privileges.

In this life, where I was suffering—poor, burdened, raised by a drunken mother—my mind clung to the pleasures of my past life, hiding its thorns behind glitter and gold. I romanticized it.

It wasn’t until I agreed to marry Aiden, convinced he was the one who killed me in that former life, that things began to shift. I wanted revenge. I was so sure he was my murderer.

But after we started getting intimate—after the walls between us began to fall—then the flashes came. The truth. Not just the splendor of my royal life... but the cruelty. The obligations. The weight of being a princess.

And worst of all... how cruel I had been to him.

The hate I once felt for Aiden, the desire for vengeance—it began to fade. All of it did.

Because as the truth of who I was came rushing back... I could no longer deny what I had done.

And I could no longer see him as my enemy.

Aiden’s POV :

She was lying.

I could see it in her eyes when I confronted her. The way her gaze darted just a little too fast, the subtle tightening of her jaw. She remembers. She’s just pretending she doesn’t.

And the moment that realization hit me, my mind yanked me back—like a cruel rewind button—to the first time I saw her.

That fucking diner.

I hadn’t thought about it in so long. But now... it all clicked. The attitude. The fire. The way she exploded at the Black brothers like she had every right to. Like she knew them. Claimed to be their sister. She called herself Princess Alexia of Epheffestus in front of a whole diner full of strangers like it meant something.

Back then, I thought she was insane.

But now I know better.

She wasn’t delusional. She was remembering. Maybe not clearly. Maybe not completely. But that name—Princess Alexia—wasn’t some bizarre fantasy. It was real. She was real.

And in that moment, while she raged at the Black brothers, I’d just stood there, annoyed. Confused. Watching this waitress throw coffee and accusations like grenades, and I hadn’t seen it for what it was.

A warning.

An omen.

The monster from my nightmares had already recognized herself.

I sat back in my seat now, staring out the window of the jet, the sky endless and cold beyond the glass. My fists were clenched so tight my knuckles ached.

She’d known all this time. Maybe not all of it, but enough. And she still let me fall for her.

She still let me hold her. Trust her. Love her.

The slave she used to starve, beat, humiliate.

The man whose sister she murdered.

The one she locked in a dungeon like an animal for daring to show kindness.

My jaw locked as I tried to control the rage clawing up my throat.

She’s not sorry. She just wants to forget. Pretend she’s someone else. And maybe she is, in this life.

But I’m not ready to forgive.

Not when I can still feel the sting of those whips in my dreams.

Not when I still hear my sister screaming, begging, and dying.

Not when I’ve spent my whole life thinking the nightmares were just dreams—until now.

Because now I remember.

And she does too.

I stared at the floor of the jet’s bedroom, barely breathing, my fists clenched so tight my knuckles were white. She was in the bathroom, hiding. Pretending. Still trying to play the innocent one. But I knew now. I remembered everything.

All of it.

And worst of all—I remembered her.

Princess Alexia of Epheffestus.

My captor. My tormentor. My fucking nightmare.

And I... I’d fallen in love with her.

The weight of that truth crushed me. I leaned forward, elbows braced on my knees, struggling to hold in the scream lodged in my chest. How the hell did I let this happen? How could I have been so blind?

She was the woman who had locked me in a dungeon without food for seven days straight. The woman who whipped me five times a day with that cruel, thorn-tipped lash while I begged—not for mercy, but for her to stop hurting the others. She never listened. She never cared.

She called me "filthy." "Nameless." "Slave."

And I love her now.

God, I was such a fool.

My chest heaved as I pushed off the bed, pacing the cramped space like a caged animal. The flashbacks kept coming, relentless and merciless. The way she’d flung food across the hall in a tantrum because her royal hair hadn’t been styled right, and I—stupid, loyal—had snuck back to collect it, saving it to feed the other slaves she’d locked up. I thought I was doing the right thing.

But she hadn’t thought so . When she found out, her rage had been volcanic.

"You dare defy my will?" she’d screamed before calling the guards to have me stripped, chained, and dragged below.

No food. No light. Just cold porridge and the whip.

And the worst part... the very worst part was her eyes as she looked down on me, as if I were nothing more than a stain beneath her shoes.

Now she lay in my bed. In my life. In my heart.

You fucking idiot.

I slammed a fist into the wall, the sharp sting grounding me for a moment.

She had known. I was sure of it now. Back in that diner—how she’d stared at the Black brothers, called them by name. Her expression when she dropped that bowl of ice. That wasn’t confusion. That was recognition. She remembered. She knew who they were, and she remembered who she was.

And when she called herself "Princess Alexia of Epheffestus" in front of the whole diner? I thought she was insane. Delusional. But now I saw it for what it was—a slip, a crack in her mask.

She remembered me.

Even then.

But she let me fall anyway.

Let me love her.

Let me believe that she didn’t know.

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw ached. I hated her. I wanted to hate her. But my body betrayed me—craved her touch, her laugh, the warmth she gave me during our quiet moments. How the hell do you stop loving someone who made you feel like you were home?

But that was the trick, wasn’t it?

She made me feel like I was home so I’d let my guard down again.

Just like before.

Just like when she let me feed the other slaves behind her back, when I thought I’d earned an inch of her favor. And just like before, she crushed me.

Because that’s what she did. She broke people.

She broke me.

My stomach twisted at the memory of her ordering the execution. My sister. My sister. Not my lover. Not some thief trying to seduce me to steal from her palace.

She was innocent.

I told her that.

I begged her.

And she didn’t care.

"Useless emotions," she’d said.

And now... she was mine.

My wife.

Even if only on paper.

Even if by some contract forged in desperation and convenience, she’d wormed her way into my bed, into my arms, and I—goddammit—I let her in.

I pressed a trembling hand to my face. I needed to breathe. I needed to think. But every breath tasted like ash, like betrayal, like her.

What if this was all a game?

What if she was playing the long con—just like back then?

Pretending to care. Pretending to change. And once I gave her everything... she’d throw it away.

Just like she threw my sister to the executioner.

My knees buckled, and I sat on the edge of the bed again, overwhelmed. My thoughts spiraled.

How could I love her?

How could I still love her?

She cried in my arms. She kissed me like I was the only man that had ever mattered. She whispered "I love you" in the dark with her body pressed to mine like we were one soul.

Was that all fake?

Was she laughing at me inside that bathroom?

I stared at the closed door, fury bubbling in my gut.

And beneath it... pain.

Because a part of me—god help me—didn’t believe it was fake.

I’d seen her soft, scared, vulnerable. She hadn’t known I was awake when she whispered that she loved me. Her voice had trembled like she was terrified of the words.

That hadn’t been a game.

Had it?

But maybe that’s the trick. Maybe the devil wears your lover’s face and cries just enough to keep you close.

And maybe I’m just too broken to walk away.

I ran my fingers through my hair, yanking at the strands as if the pain could silence the echo of her voice in my head.

"I love you."

No.

No, she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Not after everything.

I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow in my throat.

"You’re a fucking idiot," I muttered to myself. "You fell for your executioner."

And worst of all?

You still want her to love you back.

That was the curse, wasn’t it?

The cruel twist of fate.

I didn’t just remember the pain.

I remembered the way I’d looked at her, even back then. The way my chest tightened when I saw her crying after one of her royal outbursts. The way I wanted to understand her even when she hurt me.

Maybe I’d always been doomed.

Maybe my soul had always belonged to her—even when she didn’t deserve it.

Even now.

I leaned back, eyes closing, exhaustion sweeping through me.

She was a spoiled, cruel princess reborn in a battered, broken world.

And I was the slave who never stopped loving her.

Even when I should’ve.

Even when I hated her.

The bathroom door creaked faintly, a whisper of sound that shattered the silence.

I didn’t move.

Let her come out.

Let her lie.

Let her pretend she didn’t remember.

Because I’d play along for now.

But I would never forget again.