Chapter 1
Asher Sinclair POV
The leather of the steering wheel was freezing beneath my palms, but it wasn't the kind of cold that mattered. Not the kind that lived inside my marrow, waking me up at three in the morning drenched in cold sweat, tasting the phantom bitterness of poison on my tongue.
Twenty-six years in this world, and I still hadn't figured out why my subconscious was a graveyard dedicated to a girl I couldn't name. Until three months ago.
I killed the engine of the Aston Martin, letting the heavy silence of the underground studio parking lot settle over me. On the passenger seat lay the black, bound script for *The Winter Queen*. It was Hollywood's most anticipated historical biopic of the decade, and I was slated as the tragic male lead.
I picked up the script, my fingers tracing the embossed gold lettering. I hated it. I absolutely despised it.
When the studio had first sent me the draft, I had thrown it across my penthouse office. The writer had somehow managed to pen a script that mirrored the agonizing, visceral nightmares that had plagued my entire life. It was the story of a crown prince who inexplicably turns on his beloved childhood fiancée for a commoner girl, treating her with cruel disdain until she breaks the engagement. It detailed her father's brutal punishment, the forced marriage to a murderous lord, and her final, heartbreaking choice to consume poison inside a carriage rather than face her fate.
The first time I read that script, my chest had tightened so violently I could barely breathe. It was a suffocating sense of *déjà vu*. Every line of the prince's cruelty felt like a sin I had actually committed. The grief in the later pages felt like a madness I had already lived through.
Signing the contract had been a war between my mind and my instincts. My logic told me to burn the pages. But a dark, ancient beast inside me—the side of me that felt like the broken madman from my dreams—screamed that if any other actor dared to look at the actress playing the queen, I would tear the studio down. I had to be here.
*It's just a movie,* I reminded myself, my voice a low, raspy growl in the quiet car. *You are Asher Sinclair. You are an actor, an executive, an heir. You are not a ghost.*
I checked my Patek Philippe watch. 1:45 PM. The chemistry read with the newly cast female lead was in fifteen minutes.
Stepping out of the car, I adjusted the cuffs of my tailored charcoal suit, forcing my billionaire persona into place. As I walked toward the private executive elevator, my manager, Marcus, caught up to me.
"Asher, thank God. The studio heads are already upstairs," Marcus said, matching my long, commanding strides. "The director is ecstatic about the girl they found for the queen. A complete newcomer. No film credits, just raw theater background from London. Alina Rhodes."
"A newcomer," I repeated, my voice devoid of emotion. I preferred it that way. A newcomer would keep her distance, shielding my fractured psyche from whatever bizarre triggers this movie possessed.
We stepped out of the elevator onto the executive floor. The hallway was a minimalist stretch of polished concrete and glass walls. It was strangely quiet, save for a sharp, echoing voice cutting through the air from the holding lounge at the end of the hall.
I paused, my hand hovering over the silver button of my suit jacket.
"Look, sweetie," Marcus Vance, the executive producer, hissed through the half-open door. "You're a fresh face from the theater. You got lucky. If you don't learn how to play nice with the studio executives, we can find a new queen by tomorrow morning. There are a hundred girls outside who would do *anything* for this role."
My jaw clenched. The toxic power trip made my blood boil, reminding me disgustingly of tyrannical courts. I took a step forward to intervene, when a second voice cut through the room.
It wasn't a cry. It wasn't a stutter. It was a light, carefree, almost mocking laugh.
"Replace me?" The' voice was a clear, vibrant bell, dripping with a lethal blend of sarcasm and absolute confidence. "By all means, Mr. Vance, go ahead. Call the agency. Fire me right now. But make sure you tell the director why you're firing the only actress who nailed the dialect in three different languages during the screen test."
I stopped dead in my tracks. My breath hitched in my throat. The tone, the cadence—it shattered something deep inside my ribcage.
"I didn't get 'lucky' to be here, sir," the voice. continued, stepping closer to the executive, entirely unintimidated. "I earned this room through four rounds of grueling callbacks. So unless you want to explain to the board why production is delayed a month because your fragile ego got bruised by a twenty-one-year-old, I suggest you go find someone else to bully, grab me a bottle of water, and let me prepare my lines in peace."
Leo’s mouth dropped open beside me. "Holy hell. The girl has teeth."
I didn't answer him. I couldn't. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a caged animal. Driven by an overwhelming, magnetic pull, I reached out, pushed the door fully open, and stepped into the room.
The tension in the lounge was thick. Marcus Vance was turning purple, his fists clenched. Standing opposite him was a young woman.
She was beautiful, with a head of glossy hair and a sharp, elegant jawline. She was wearing a simple white linen shirt and wide-legged trousers, holding her script like a shield, but her posture was victorious. She looked entirely carefree, a vibrant spark of life radiating from her that seemed to mock the sterile room around her.
Then, hearing the door open, she turned her head.
Our eyes met.
The modern world violently fractured.
The sleek glass walls vanished. My head spun out of control as twenty-six years of phantom nightmares solidified into a crushing, agonizing reality. A violent rush of memories slammed into my brain—not dreams, but truths.
I remembered the crown. I remembered the childhood spent by her side, the promises we made as fiancé and fiancée. And then, I remembered the sickening, suffocating fog of Evangeline's magic. I remembered the horror of looking at the girl I loved and spitting words of hatred at her, belittling her, completely blind to the enchantment pulling my strings. I remembered the madness that consumed me when the magic finally broke—only for me to find out she had taken poison in a carriage to escape the forced marriage my actions caused. I remembered the blood on my hands when I hunted down everyone responsible, including myself.
*Lina.*
The name screamed in my soul, though my lips remained locked. It was her. The eyes were the exact same shade, holding the same ancient, depthless soul.
But she was so wonderfully, beautifully different.
The Lina I had driven to a tragic death was broken, crushed under the weight of expectations, letting people walk over her until she finally took her own life. This woman—Alina Rhodes—was a wildfire. She was happy, carefree, surrounded by a life that loved her, and she possessed a fierce, independent edge that refused to let anyone lower her worth.
I jammed my hands into my trouser pockets, my fingers curling into tight fists to hide the violent trembling that had overtaken my body.
*She doesn't know me,* I realized, a sharp, stabbing pang of pure agony slicing through my chest as I studied her expression.
Alina was looking at me, but there was no recognition in her eyes. No hatred for the magic-induced cruelty. No memory of the carriage, or the poison, or the boy who had failed her. She just saw Asher Sinclair—the A-list, untouchable billionaire superstar.
A small, slightly amused smile tugged at the corner of her lips, entirely unfazed by my legendary, intimidating aura.
"Mr. Sinclair," Alina said, stepping forward and extending a slender, steady hand toward me. Her voice was modern, light, and completely free of the ghosts that were currently tearing me apart. "I'm Alina Rhodes. I suppose you're the tragic prince I'm supposed to fall in love with today. Let's see if you can keep up with me on set."
I stared at her hand. Every unhinged, possessive instinct I possessed screamed at me to grab her, to pull her into my chest, to protect her from the script, from the industry, from the world.
*No,* I fiercely commanded myself, locking my jaw. *You ruined her life with your blindness last time. She is finally happy. Carefree. Safe. You will hide your possessiveness. You will play the professional. You will earn her back, step by step, without letting her know the horrors of the past.*
Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my hand from my pocket, a masterclass in psychological restraint. I wrapped my fingers around hers. The contact was electric, a sudden jolt of pure life rushing through my veins, melting the frost in my lungs for the very first time.
"Miss Rhodes," I murmured, my voice a deep, velvety baritone that carried a heavy, hidden promise. I let my eyes linger on hers, a small, dark smirk playing on my lips as I took in her fierce, carefree stance. "Trust me. Keeping up with you is going to be my absolute priority."
Alina tilted her head, her smile widening, completely unaware that the second take of our lives had just begun—and this time, no magic in the world would ever make me let her go.
