Chapter 1: The Name On My Lips
London never slept. But at 3:13 AM, it felt like even the city was holding its breath.
I woke up gasping.
Rain hit the window of my tiny flat in Camden. My notebook was on the floor. My heart was pounding like I’d run a mile.
And on my tongue, a name I’d never said out loud:
Damien.
I don’t believe in fate. I believe in due dates. In coffee. In structural loads and steel beams.
I’m Aria Bennett, 21, final-year architecture student. My life is floor plans, not fairytales.
But for the last 3 weeks, I’ve been dreaming of the same place.
A stone cottage. Purple heather. A storm over the cliffs.
And him. A man with storm-gray eyes, holding my hand like if he let go, I’d disappear.
Every night, the dream ends the same way.
Shouting. A blade. Cold water.
And his voice, breaking: “Find me. Promise me. No matter the century.”
Then I wake up.
I told myself it was stress. Thesis + part-time job + rent in London = bad dreams. That’s all.
The next morning
King’s College lecture hall. 9 AM
.
Professor Hale clapped his hands. “We have a guest today. Damien Cole, CEO of Cole Estates. He’s funding the new campus wing. Try not to drool on your blueprints.”
The doors opened.
Tall. Black coat. Early 30s. The kind of face that looked carved from marble and bad decisions.
Damien Cole.
The room exhaled. Half the girls sat up straighter.
He didn’t look at anyone. Until his eyes swept the room... and stopped on me.
Something in my chest pulled. Like a string tied around my ribs.
For 2 seconds, the whole lecture hall disappeared. It was just him. And rain. And heather.
Then he blinked, and it was gone.
After class, I was packing up when a voice said, “Miss Bennett.”
I turned. Damien.
Up close, he was worse. Taller. Colder. And he smelled like rain and old books.
“Mr. Cole,” I said, trying to sound professional. “Nice talk.”
He wasn’t smiling. “Walk with me.”
We ended up on the rooftop garden. London was gray below us.
He pulled something from his coat pocket. A locket. Silver. Old.
He opened it.
Inside was a miniature painting. A girl in an 1800s dress, standing in front of cliffs and heather.
She had my face.
My stomach dropped. “That’s... that’s not me.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s Eleanor Vance. 1824. Scottish Highlands.”
He turned the locket over. Engraved on the back:
To my moon. Until we meet again.
“I’ve been having your dreams, Aria,” he said.
I laughed. Too loud. Too fast. “That’s creepy. I don’t know you.”
“You screamed my name last night. At 3:13 AM.”
I went cold.
How could he know that?
“I don’t know what game this is,” I whispered. “But I’m not part of it.”
He stepped closer. His voice dropped. “Two hundred years ago, a woman made me a vow. She said death wouldn’t be the end. That I’d find her again.”
His eyes searched mine. “I think it was you.”
The wind picked up. The locket felt warm in my hand, like it recognized me.
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Text: Stay away from him. Some vows should stay broken.
I looked up. Damien was already walking away, like he knew what the message said.
And I was left on a rooftop, holding a 200-year-old locket, with a name on my lips that I never learned.
Damien.
To be continued.......
