Penelope felt a sudden, sickening swirl of vertigo.

It all transpired too quickly.

Her eyes snapped open. The ceiling above was not the dark canopy of the forest, but the familiar, intricate moldings of her bedchamber in her father’s estate.

She lay paralyzed upon the silk coverlet, the room draped in a heavy, oppressive silence. Beneath her palms, she felt the unmistakable texture of stiff lace and heavy satin. Looking down, her breath caught. She was draped in her ceremonial bridal white. Her hands lifted, trembling, as she traced the beautiful, intricate beadwork of the gown.

This was the very dress she had worn on the day she wed the Marquis.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. As if to confirm the impossible reality of her own skin, her hands flew to her chest, searching for any jagged entry point where the arrow had been lodged mere moments ago.

There was nothing.

She lunged from the bed, stumbling as a wave of disorientation crashed over her. When she finally steadied herself against the bedpost, she crossed the room to the looking glass. She stopped short, staring at the reflection that haunted the silvered depths.It was the face of a woman who had not yet been broken, dressed for a wedding she had once considered a funeral.

"I... I am alive."

Penelope could not believe the evidence of her own senses.

Had it been some fevered, horrific dream? A nightmare born of pre-wedding anxieties?

She shook her head, her fingers clutching the cold marble of the vanity.

No.

The phantom ache in her chest, the metallic tang of blood she could still taste at the back of her throat, and the raw, staggering betrayal mixed with regret that lived in her marrow were too real to be figments of sleep.

She had died— she was certain of it. She had felt her life drain into the forest floor.

But... somehow, by some impossible mercy, or twist of fate, she was back. She had been returned to the very hour her ruin began, standing at the precipice of the same altar. This was her second chance.

If she remembered correctly, it was during these frantic hours that she had been held prisoner within her own chamber. After her first desperate attempt to flee, her father had seen fit to bolt the doors, ensuring she would not escape her union with the Marquis. She was to remain locked away until the very moment she was to be led to the altar like a lamb to the slaughter.

Yet in that former life, William had managed the impossible. He had snuck into the manor, appearing like a hero from a penny-dreadful to "rescue" her. It was then that they eloped,setting the first stone of her ruin in motion.

Driven by a sudden, sharp need for certainty, she hurried to the oak door and gripped the handle. She pulled with all her might. As she expected, the latch held firm, the door unyielding.

A cold realization washed over her, grounding her to the present. She was truly back. The stage was set exactly as before, but this time, the player knew the ending of the script.

"Okay, let’s calm down," she breathed, making her way back to the vanity table and sinking into the velvet-cushioned chair, her legs suddenly as weak as water.

Penelope stared at her reflection in the silvered glass. There was a luminous quality to her skin, a clarity in her eyes that had not been extinguished by months of sorrow in that other life. She had missed this version of herself, whilst she promised herself that she would never let this woman die again.

This time, she would seize the hand of fate and wrench it in her direction. This time, she would marry the Marquis.

She needed to look pretty for her wedding.

Reaching for the velvet-lined cases of jewelry she had previously cast aside in a fit of pique, Penelope began to adorn herself. She pinned the shimmering gems into her hair, fingers, neck and her wrists. She applied the paint and powders to her face with trembling but purposeful fingers. She would not go to Vincent as a prisoner being led to a cage, but as a queen reclaiming her throne.

If she were to be his wife, she would be the vision he could never forget.

When she was satisfied with her appearance, she rose to her feet, the heavy satin of her skirt whispering against the floor. At that moment, a sharp click echoed through the room, as though someone was busy turning a key in the lock.

The door swung inward, and Penelope turned, her heart hardening into a diamond as her gaze landed on William.

He stood at the threshold, breathless and windblown, looking every bit like the romantic rogue she once adored. He was handsome in a conventional, polished way, with fair hair that caught the candlelight, and a practiced, earnest intensity in his blue eyes. He wore the sturdy leather of a traveler, a stark contrast to the opulence of her chamber, designed to make him appear as her humble savior.

He barged in just as before, his eyes searching the shadows of the room until they locked on her. In her previous life, she had seen a hero; but now, she saw only the glib mask of a predator.

"Penelope," he breathed, crossing the room with a sense of practiced urgency. The blue intensity in his eyes softened into a look of feigned devotion as he reached her. "I have come for you, my love. We can finally flee from this place and be free of the Marquis. Come, we have but a moment before the guards return."

He seized her wrist, his grip firm. In her former life, that touch had sent butterflies fluttering in her chest. But now, it sparked a cold, sickening dread that curdled in her stomach. She stared at him, momentarily paralyzed by the sheer audacity of his performance, but William remained blissfully oblivious to the storm gathering behind her eyes.

"Let us go, Pen–"

SLAP!

The crack of her palm against his cheek echoed like a pistol shot in the vaulted chamber. She struck him with the full weight of her fury, the force of the blow whipping his head to the side.

William stood frozen, the silence in the room deafening. He raised a trembling hand to his face, his fingers grazing the reddening skin as if he could not fathom the reality of the strike. In all the time he had spent molding her to his will, she had never once raised a hand against him.

He turned back to her, his mouth agape, but the words died in his throat when he saw her. The soft, malleable girl he had manipulated was gone.

The adoration he had greedily feasted upon had vanished, replaced by a seething incandescent hatred that seemed to radiate from her very skin. In fact, he had never seen this level of venom in her eyes before, not even for the Marquis, whom she supposedly detested.

"You... hit me?" His voice was thin with disbelief and wounded pride.

"And I’ll do it again," Penny replied, her voice low and dangerously sharp as she leveled a trembling finger at his face. "...If you ever... ever in your miserable life touch me with those disgusting fingers again."

"Penelope?" He stammered, his polished mask finally beginning to crack.

"Get out." She turned her hand, pointing toward the open door with the authority of the noblewoman that she was. "I am to be wed to the Marquis. Chasing after an engaged woman would do the reputation of a Count’s son no good. Have you no shame?"

William stood rooted to the spot, his head spinning. The script had been rewritten in his absence, and he was stumbling over his lines.

"What... what are you saying? What happened?" he asked, his hands hovering mid-air as if trying to grasp the situation. "We spoke about eloping only last night. Everything was fine between us! You told me you loved me, Penelope. What changed in a few hours? Is the Marquis threatening you? Has he done something to you?"

He took a step forward, his face twisting into a mask of false solicitousness. He caught her by the shoulders, his fingers sinking into the fabric of her gown as he forced her gaze to meet his.

"Tell me the truth," he murmured, his voice thick with honeyed manipulation. "You know you can trust me. This... it is not your nature. Is he compelling you? Is he forcing your hand? I can take you away from his cruelty, you know I can."

Penelope immediately recoiled, but unfortunately, his strength outmatched her own. "What is the meaning of this?" she cried, her voice trembling with mixture of fear and indignation.

"Everything will be fine, my love," he countered, his eyes gleaming with a frantic sort of certainty. "I don’t know what’s going on, or why you’re acting like this, but I know the heart that beats within you. You still love me. You have always loved me. Let’s go."

"No!"

He seized her wrist, the bone grinding beneath his grip as he began to hale her toward the door, heedless of her resistance. Penelope struggled against him, her bare feet skidding across the polished floor, but the frantic rhythm of the struggle was severed by a voice from the threshold– a voice so cold and commanding it seemed to leach the very warmth from the air.

"And where exactly" the voice rang out, sharp as a winter frost, "are you taking my bride?"