Reborn to Give Him up

The mahogany desk stretched before me like a battlefield, scattered with photographs and dossiers of potential husbands.

Twenty years old today, and this was my birthday gift—a marriage lottery disguised as choice.

I picked up the first photograph. Marcus Wellington, heir to a shipping fortune. Handsome enough, with kind eyes that reminded me of a golden retriever. The accompanying file detailed his charitable work and golf handicap.

Then my fingers found the next one.

Dominic Hawthorne.

The moment I saw his face, the world tilted sideways. Pain exploded behind my eyes like a dam bursting, and suddenly I wasn't sitting in my father's study anymore. I was somewhere else—somewhere that reeked of smoke and death.

*The flames licked at the curtains, orange tongues devouring everything I'd ever known. My mother's scream cut through the roar of the fire, high and desperate. "Theo! Where's Theo?"*

*I tried to move, tried to call out, but my body wouldn't obey. The smoke was too thick, the heat too intense. Through the haze, I saw him—Dominic, standing in the doorway with that woman beside him. Shay Rivers, her red lips curved in a smile as she watched my world burn.*

*"Did you really think she'd fight for you?" Shay's voice was silk over steel. "Poor little Theo. So desperate for love she handed over everything."*

*Dominic laughed, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "She made it almost too easy. All those years of her following me around like a lost puppy, begging for scraps of attention. When she finally got what she wanted, she couldn't see the trap until it was too late."*

*The flames grew higher. My father's voice, weak and fading: "The company... the accounts... how did they...?"*

*"Simple," Dominic said, his eyes reflecting the fire. "She signed everything over willingly. Love makes people so beautifully stupid."*

*My mother's screams stopped. The silence was worse than the sound.*

*"Goodbye, Theo," Shay whispered, and then there was only fire and darkness and the taste of my own blood.*

I gasped, my hand crushing Dominic's photograph. The study snapped back into focus—the leather-bound books, the crystal decanter catching afternoon light, my father's concerned voice calling my name.

"Theodora? Are you alright?"

Robert Bennett stood behind his desk, his silver hair perfectly styled despite the worry creasing his brow. The family representatives—three men in identical dark suits—watched me with the patience of vultures.

"I'm fine," I said, though my voice sounded strange to my own ears. The memories were so vivid, so real. But they couldn't be real. I was twenty, not dead. My parents were alive, the company intact.

Unless...

I looked down at Dominic's photograph again. Those same dark eyes that had watched me burn. The same cruel mouth that had mocked my love before destroying everything I held dear.

"Theodora, we need to make a decision," my father said gently. "The board is expecting an announcement by evening."

I knew what he expected. Everyone knew. For the past five years, I'd made a public fool of myself chasing Dominic Hawthorne. Following him to parties where he barely acknowledged my existence. Sending flowers to his office. Once, memorably, showing up at his apartment building in a wedding dress I'd bought myself.

The society pages had dubbed me "Manhattan's Most Pathetic Heiress." Even now, I could see the expectation in my father's eyes—that I would choose Dom, that this arranged marriage would finally give me what I'd always wanted.

But I remembered the fire. I remembered their laughter.

I stood slowly, Dominic's photograph still clutched in my hand. The three representatives leaned forward, anticipating my choice.

"No," I said.

The word hung in the air like a gunshot.

"I'm sorry?" My father's eyebrows rose.

I walked to the fireplace, where logs crackled behind an ornate iron screen. Without hesitation, I opened the screen and tossed Dominic's photograph into the flames. The expensive paper curled and blackened, his handsome face disappearing into ash.

"No," I repeated, turning back to face the room. "Not him."

The silence was deafening. One of the representatives—Mr. Caldwell, I think—cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Miss Bennett, perhaps you need more time to consider—"

"I don't need more time." My voice was steady now, cold as winter steel. "Bring out the lottery."

My father stared at me as if I'd grown a second head. "Theodora, everyone knows you've had feelings for young Hawthorne. This is your chance to—"

"To what? To continue making a fool of myself?" I met his gaze directly. "I said no, Father. I meant it."

For a moment, I thought he might argue. Then something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to what might have been respect.

"Very well." He nodded to Caldwell. "Bring the box."

The lottery box was an antique thing, mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It had been used for three generations of Bennett family marriages when negotiations failed. Inside were the names of every eligible heir who'd expressed interest in an alliance.

Caldwell placed it on the desk with ceremonial gravity. "Miss Bennett, if you would."

I reached inside without hesitation. My fingers closed around a folded slip of paper. I pulled it out and opened it, reading the name written in elegant script.

Charles Easton.

I knew the name, of course.

Everyone in our circle did, though few had actually met him. The Easton family was old money—so old they made the Astors look like newcomers. They owned half of the Eastern seaboard through shell companies and trusts so complex that even the IRS had given up trying to untangle them.

Charles himself was something of a mystery. He rarely appeared at social functions, and when he did, he stood in corners nursing a single drink and speaking to no one.

The society magazines called him "The Ice Prince of the East Coast." Rumors swirled—that he was gay, that he was autistic, that he was simply too arrogant to bother with lesser mortals.

I looked up at my father. "Charles Easton."

His eyes widened. Even the representatives looked stunned.

"The Easton heir?" Caldwell stammered. "But he's... that is to say, he's never shown interest in any social alliance. His family is notoriously private."

"Then it's fortunate he put his name in the box," I said calmly.

My father recovered first. "The Easton alliance would be... significant. Their holdings, combined with ours..." He trailed off, clearly running calculations in his head.

"Shall I make the call?" I asked.

He nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I believe you should."

As my father reached for his phone to contact the Easton family lawyers, I felt something I hadn't experienced in what felt like lifetimes—hope. Not the desperate, clinging hope I'd once felt for Dominic's love, but something cleaner. Stronger.

I had been given a second chance. I wouldn't waste it.

The announcement would be in tomorrow's papers. By evening, all of New York would know that Theodora Bennett had chosen Charles Easton over Dominic Hawthorne.

I wondered what Dom would think when he heard.

I wondered if he would remember to be afraid.