The CEO Who Killed Me

Chapter One: The Interview Amara Sinclair adjusted the lapels of her crisp white blouse for the third time, muttering under her breath, “If I trip over these heels one more time, I swear the universe hates me.” Her navy pencil skirt was perfect, her hair neatly pulled back into a low ponytail, and her tan heels clicked against the polished marble floor of Vanguard Media Group’s lobby. The building was modern, all glass panels and steel, reflecting the morning sun in dazzling patterns that made her squint. “First impressions matter,” she reminded herself, flashing a half-smile at her reflection in the lobby’s mirrored wall. A man in a tailored suit hurried past, holding too many folders for one hand, probably thinking she was just another nervous applicant. And she was nervous—okay, maybe terrified. But she tried not to show it. After all, Amara Sinclair was supposed to be a 25-year-old journalist now, with ambition sharper than her high heels. No one needed to know I woke up three days ago in this body, in this life, after— she shook her head. No. Not now. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden collision. Someone—well, a very small, very bubbly someone—ran straight into her, making her coffee slosh dangerously. “Ahh! I’m so sorry! My shoes—my feet—I didn’t see you!” Amara looked down at the girl crouched on the floor, tiny hands frantically trying to save her shoe from a coffee stain. Her hair was a mess of curly auburn strands, bouncing around her face, and her bright green eyes shone with panic and embarrassment. “Do you need a hand, or… a mop?” Amara asked, suppressing a laugh as she crouched beside her. The girl looked up, flustered. “Oh! Thank you! I’m Lily. Lily Thompson. And I—well, I’m clumsy. Always.” She gestured helplessly to her ruined shoes. Amara grinned. “Amara Sinclair. Nice to meet you, Lily. And don’t worry—I think coffee stains are an acceptable accessory on interview day.” Lily laughed, the tension between them dissolving instantly. “You’re funny! Are you… interviewing here too?” “Yes. First day.” “Oh wow. Good luck! You’ll crush it,” Lily said, giving her a playful high-five. Amara returned it, wondering how someone so cheerful could exist on such a hectic morning. --- The interview itself was… memorable, to say the least. Veronica Hale, the CEO’s assistant, was waiting at the door to the conference room. She was tall, blonde, and sharp enough to cut glass with a glance. Designer suit, heels that could probably kill someone if dropped, and an aura of pure intimidation. “Amara Sinclair?” Veronica’s tone was crisp, almost cruelly precise. “Follow me. And try not to embarrass yourself.” Amara bit back a sarcastic retort and followed, secretly impressed by the woman’s confidence. Inside the conference room, Veronica flicked through her notes while giving Amara a look that could stop a heart. “Let’s see if you’re even remotely capable,” Veronica said, leaning back with an air of superiority. “Tell me why you applied to Vanguard Media. And make it quick.” Amara squared her shoulders. “I want to expose the truth. Investigate the untold stories. That’s what makes journalism worth doing—real change.” Veronica raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Cute. We’ll see if your words hold up to action.” Amara’s internal monologue: Action. Right. Step one—survive this room without being shredded alive. --- By the time the interview ended, she was walking back through the lobby, feeling a strange mixture of relief and exhaustion. She smiled to herself thinking about the encounter with Lily—it was a bright little spot in the chaos. --- Back in her apartment, she collapsed onto the bed, kicking off her heels. The apartment was still strange, still unfamiliar, even though she had spent three days living here. Minimalist décor, sunlight pouring through tall windows, the scent of fresh linen… and yet, none of this felt like home. Three days ago, she had woken up on this very bed, in this very room, and everything changed. She had screamed until her throat burned, clawing at the unfamiliar sheets. The last thing she remembered before waking here… was the gunshot. --- Flashback – Her Past Life Fifteen. A cold, dark night. Her parents’ screams. The crash of glass. The smell of smoke and gunpowder. A masked man stepping into the room—too tall, too confident—and pulling the trigger. The world went red. She remembered clutching her chest, gasping, crying, her parents falling beside her. No… no… please! Her voice had echoed in the empty house, desperate and useless. And then… darkness. And now, she was here. Older. Alive. In a life she had never earned. Amara swung her legs off the bed and stumbled to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her: 25, glowing, sharp cheekbones, hazel eyes flecked with gold, long dark brown hair cascading over her shoulders. She was… beautiful. Shockingly so. Too beautiful, almost. She checked the ID in her purse: Amara Sinclair, age 25. Who gave me this life? Why me? Her hands trembled. Her voice barely a whisper: “Where are my parents…? Did they also come back?”