EPISODE 2 AWAKENING AS SEREN HARTWELL
1642 Words
Aria expected death to feel like nothing.
A fading.
A falling.
A vanishing.
But instead… she woke up drowning in breath.
Her lungs heaved violently, as if someone had dumped her into her body after leaving it empty far too long. Her eyes snapped open to a dim room smelling faintly of antiseptic, lavender, and something warm—like someone had been sleeping beside her not long ago.
She tried to sit up, only to collapse with a strangled gasp.
Her limbs didn’t feel right.
Her skin didn’t feel right.
Even her heartbeat—she could sense it too sharply, like her veins were whispering secrets she wasn’t ready to hear.
Where am I?
Her throat burned when she tried to speak. Not from dehydration—though she was thirsty—but because the voice that emerged wasn’t hers.
“Help…”
The sound was soft. Breathier. More melodic. Nothing like Aria Hale’s huskier tone.
Panic rose, icy and electric.
She shoved herself upright again, ignoring the screaming protest of her muscles. The room came into focus—slowly, painfully.
It was luxurious.
Old-world in style.
Four-poster bed. Velvet drapes. Crystal lamps. A marble balcony door left open, letting in a breeze that carried the scent of rain.
Nothing like any hospital she knew.
Aria clutched the silk sheets, grounding herself. Memories surged—her sister’s accusation, the bodyguards, Damian’s smirk, the syringe filled with glowing serum.
I should be dead.
I should be gone.
But she wasn’t.
She was… here.
And when she lifted her trembling hands in front of her, she froze.
These weren’t her hands.
Her nails were longer, shaped into perfect almond curves. Her fingers were slender, elegant—more like a pianist’s or a noblewoman’s.
Definitely not Aria Hale’s bitten, anxious nails.
Her stomach plummeted.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no—”
She stumbled off the bed, nearly crashing into a dresser. Her reflection in the mirror hit her like a physical blow.
A stranger stared back.
White-blonde hair spilling in soft waves.
A heart-shaped face.
Large, silver-gray eyes framed by long lashes.
Lips naturally tinted rose.
Skin pale and luminous, almost unreal.
This isn’t me.
She touched her cheek; the reflection did the same.
Her voice broke into a sob. “What happened to me?”
A knock sounded at the door.
She spun toward it, heart hammering hard enough she feared the sound would summon whoever waited outside.
“Seren?” a gentle voice called. “Sweetheart, are you awake?”
Seren.
The name sliced through Aria like a jolt.
Seren Hartwell.
The woman they said fell into a coma.
The woman who lived in this estate.
The woman Damian and Celeste visited often…
Her pulse pounded.
Am I Seren? Did they put me into Seren’s body?
She stumbled backward as the doorknob turned.
A woman entered—mid-thirties, soft brown eyes, and a face lined with worry. She wore a nurse’s uniform, but her demeanor was more like an aunt or a caretaker who’d known her patient for years.
“Seren!” she gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my goodness—oh dear saints—you’re awake!”
Aria opened her mouth, but words died on her tongue. She didn’t know what Seren sounded like. She didn’t know what Seren would say. Panic clutched her throat.
The nurse rushed forward, tears already streaming down her cheeks.
“I—I have to call Damian,” she stammered. “And Mr. Blackwell—and—oh! Mira will cry herself to death when she hears—”
“Wait!” Aria blurted.
The nurse stopped, blinking. “Seren?”
Aria swallowed hard.
“I… don’t…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t know what happened.”
The nurse softened immediately. “Shh. Don’t force yourself. You hit your head, sweetheart. You’ve been asleep for weeks.”
Weeks?
Her mind reeled. She had been dead—or whatever had happened—for weeks?
The nurse helped her sit on the bed and tried to check her pulse, but Aria jerked away instinctively.
The woman paused. “Seren, it’s all right. It’s just me. I’ve been caring for you since your accident.”
Aria’s breath hitched.
Accident.
But the way the word lingered on the nurse’s tongue…
Aria sensed something darker beneath it.
“What… exactly happened to me?” she asked softly.
The nurse hesitated.
“You fell,” she said carefully. “Or… that’s what they told everyone.”
Aria stiffened. “What do you mean?”
Before the nurse could answer, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.
The nurse paled. “They’re coming.”
They?
The door burst open.
Damian Hartwell entered first.
Aria’s blood iced.
He looked perfectly composed—tailored suit, slick black hair, that same cold smile that haunted her last moments as Aria Hale.
Behind him stood Celeste.
Aria nearly retched.
Her sister looked radiant, as if she hadn’t accused Aria of drugging her and left her to die. She wore a designer jumpsuit, diamonds glittering at her throat, blonde curls pinned into a flawless chignon.
Their eyes met.
Celeste went pale.
Damian’s breath hitched, but his expression sharpened into something unreadable—dangerous.
“So,” he murmured. “Seren has returned to us.”
Aria forced her face into blank innocence, fearing what they’d do if they suspected the truth.
Damian approached slowly, calculatingly, like a man appraising a weapon to see if it still worked.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Disoriented,” Aria answered truthfully.
Celeste swallowed hard, studying her with a look Aria knew well—envy. Fear. And something darker.
“Seren,” Celeste whispered. “You’re… alive.”
“You sound disappointed,” Aria replied before thinking.
Celeste flinched. Damian’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
Aria’s pulse spiked. Careful. She needed to act like Seren—quiet, gentle, easily manipulated. Not like Aria, who had been bristling with suspicion her whole life.
She lowered her gaze. “Sorry. My… head still hurts.”
Damian’s stare lingered too long, lingering as if searching her soul for cracks.
She held her breath.
At last, he smiled.
“Well. This is wonderful news,” he said. “Lysander will want to see you immediately.”
Aria’s breath stopped.
Lysander Blackwell.
Celeste’s intended husband.
The man she had nearly been forced to marry by mistake.
The cursed heir, the one Damian manipulated through business and promises.
The nurse stepped protectively beside Aria. “She just woke up. Let her rest before—”
“No,” Damian snapped, mask cracking. “She sees Lysander now.”
Aria’s pulse rattled.
She wasn’t ready.
She didn’t know how Seren spoke, walked, reacted, lived. She didn’t know what relationship Seren had with Lysander. Friends? Lovers? Strangers?
The door opened again with quiet force.
Everyone fell silent.
A tall man entered—broad-shouldered, dressed in black, hair dark as midnight, and eyes that burned like storms trapped in crystal.
Lysander Blackwell.
Aria’s breath caught painfully.
He was striking. Ethereal. And dangerous in a way that wasn’t violent—but fated. As if the world bent slightly toward him whenever he moved.
He didn’t greet Damian or Celeste.
His gaze went straight to her.
To Seren.
To Aria inside Seren.
The room disappeared.
Everything disappeared.
His expression shifted from shock… to relief… to something deeper, heavier, almost holy.
“Seren,” he breathed.
Her heart stuttered.
He walked toward her slowly, as if approaching a miracle he feared would vanish if he blinked.
Aria’s body responded strangely—her skin tingled, her pulse quickened, her breath turned shallow.
Why am I reacting like this?
When he reached her bedside, he lowered to one knee.
Not dramatically.
Not theatrically.
But as if it was instinctive.
Natural.
His voice was raw. “I felt you.”
She blinked. “What?”
He exhaled shakily, looking at her like she was a sunrise after years of darkness.
“I felt you wake,” he said quietly. “Like a pull on my soul.”
Celeste stiffened. Damian’s jaw clenched.
Aria’s blood roared in her ears.
Lysander took her hand.
The moment his skin touched hers, a jolt shot up her arm—not electricity, not magic, but something older, deeper. Her veins hummed as if Seren’s body recognized him. Welcomed him.
Her voice trembled. “That’s impossible.”
He looked almost pained. “Not for us.”
She didn’t know what that meant.
She didn’t know anything.
But before Aria could speak again, a sudden sharp pain stabbed through her chest—like fire blooming beneath her ribs.
She gasped.
Lysander immediately cupped her face. “Seren? What’s wrong?”
Aria couldn’t breathe. The pain spread—shoulders, spine, wrists—burning lines tracing beneath her skin like invisible marks.
Her vision blurred. The nurse panicked. Celeste backed away. Damian watched, eyes calculating.
Lysander’s voice broke.
“She’s rejecting the bond—no, this doesn’t make sense—Seren, listen to me—”
Bond?
What bond?
Aria’s knees buckled. Lysander caught her, lifting her into his arms effortlessly.
“We’re leaving,” he growled.
Damian stepped in front of him. “You can’t take her. Not without medical clearance—”
Lysander’s voice turned lethal. “Move.”
Damian stepped aside.
Celeste looked shocked—afraid—and furious all at once.
Lysander carried Aria out of the room like she was the most fragile, precious thing in the world.
Aria’s head lay against his chest—steady, strong, protective.
She didn’t know what Seren meant to him.
She didn’t know what she herself meant to him.
But she knew one thing with chilling clarity:
Nothing about Seren’s ‘accident’ was an accident.
And whatever she had woken into…
…this was only the beginning.
- Writer
