Rewind_ I Don't Love You Anymore

I jolted awake with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs as if trying to escape. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't process where I was or what had happened. My eyes darted frantically around the small, familiar room—the peeling wallpaper, the narrow bed, the worn wooden dresser with its cracked mirror.

This was... my room. At the Rothschild estate. The servant's quarters.

With trembling hands, I pushed myself upright, my coarse cotton sheets a stark contrast to the silk I'd grown accustomed to in my previous life. I stumbled toward the mirror, hardly daring to look.

The face that stared back at me wasn't the haggard, broken woman of twenty-seven who had taken her own life at her son's grave. This was me at eighteen—young, innocent, untouched by the horrors that would come.

"Impossible," I whispered, touching my smooth cheek with fingers that no longer bore the calluses of hard labor and desperate struggle. "This can't be real."

But the memories crashed over me like a tidal wave—every moment of pain, every betrayal, every loss. Damien Rothschild's false promises of love. The cruel way he'd cast me out when I became pregnant. My beautiful son Michael, his tiny hand in mine as he slipped away from an illness I couldn't afford to treat. And finally, the cold earth of his grave against my cheek as I ended my own life.

I gripped the edge of the dresser, my knuckles white with strain. "No," I said, my voice stronger now. "Never again."

I straightened my simple gray dress—the uniform of a Rothschild maid—and stared at my reflection with new eyes. This time would be different. This time, I knew what was coming.

"This time," I vowed to my younger self in the mirror, "I will destroy them before they can destroy me."

---

Hours later, I moved silently among the glittering guests at the Rothschild dinner party, a bottle of wine in my hand. The grand dining room was a symphony of crystal and silver, candlelight dancing across the faces of London's elite as they laughed and schemed behind polite smiles.

"Elena, more wine for Lord Harrington," Mrs. Winters, the housekeeper, whispered as she passed.

I nodded curtly and moved toward the head of the table where the elderly lord sat engrossed in conversation with Matilda Rothschild, Damien's mother.

"More wine, my lord?" I kept my eyes downcast as I poured, my movements precise and mechanical.

"Yes, thank—" He paused, studying me with unexpected interest. "Haven't seen you before. New girl?"

"Just started last week, my lord," I replied evenly.

He frowned slightly. "Odd. You don't seem like the usual type they hire here."

I didn't respond, moving on to the next guest with practiced efficiency. Inside, I seethed at the dismissal in his tone—the assumption that I was just another ambitious girl hoping to catch a wealthy man's eye.

Mary, another maid who had been kind to me in my previous life, glanced at me with surprise as I passed her. "Elena? Are you feeling alright? You seem different tonight."

I offered her a thin smile. "Just tired."

In truth, I felt anything but tired. I felt alive with purpose, with rage, with determination. Every movement was calculated now, every interaction measured against the knowledge I carried from my past life.

I was no longer the shy, eager-to-please girl who had first walked through these doors. That girl had died alongside her son three years ago.

---

"You there," a familiar voice called from behind me. "The pretty maid with the dark hair."

My spine stiffened as I turned slowly toward Damien Rothschild. He stood by the fireplace, one arm casually propped against the mantel, his golden hair catching the firelight. Even now, after everything, I could see why I had fallen for him—his handsome features, his easy smile, the careless confidence of old money and privilege.

"Hey pretty maid," he said, approaching me with that predatory grace I remembered all too well. "What's your name?"

In my past life, those words had made my heart race with naive hope. Now, they filled me with cold fury.

"Need something?" I asked, my voice deliberately flat and professional.

He blinked, clearly surprised by my lack of reaction. "I asked what your name was."

"Elena Ashford," I replied coolly. "If you need service, please ring the bell. I have work to do."

His smile faltered slightly, his ego visibly bruised by my dismissal. Before he could respond, I turned and walked away, leaving him staring after me with a mixture of confusion and irritation.

I had taken only a few steps when I felt it—a powerful gaze from across the room. I glanced up and froze.

Sebastian Sterling stood near one of the tall windows, his wine glass halfway to his lips. Our eyes met, and for a moment, something electric passed between us—a recognition that transcended this lifetime.

His hand trembled visibly, causing drops of red wine to spill onto his pristine white shirt cuff. He didn't seem to notice.

"Sebastian?" A woman beside him touched his arm concernedly. "Are you quite all right?"

He didn't answer her. He couldn't take his eyes off me.

And in that moment, I knew. He remembered too.