After they picked the wedding ring, they explored the mall even more, their footsteps were echoing against the polished marble floors of the grand atrium. People murmured as they passed, their eyes were drawn to the imposing figures of the bodyguards trailing behind them like silent shadows.
The bodyguards carried Kamilah’s shopping bags, their arms were laden with designer purchases that would have taken most people months to afford. Maeve walked beside Kamilah, her posture was relaxed but her eyes are sharp, the ivory trenchcoat was folded neatly over her arm like a trophy she was proud to display.
The whispers followed them like a tide.
"Isn’t that the Belvedere heiress?"
"Who is the girl with her?"
"She bought the entire jewelry store!"
The words floated around them, but neither woman acknowledged them. Kamilah had learned long ago to tune out the noise of public opinion, and Maeve simply didn’t care what strangers thought. Her focus was entirely on the woman beside her, on the subtle shifts in her expression, on the thoughts that filtered through her mind like radio signals she couldn’t turn off.
They moved through the mall at an unhurried pace, stopping occasionally to admire displays or browse through stores that caught Kamilah’s eye. The atmosphere between them had shifted since the jewelry store.
The playful banter was gone, replaced by something quieter, more contemplative. Kamilah seemed lost in thought, her gaze was distant, and Maeve found herself watching her more closely than ever, trying to read the emotions that flickered across her face like shadows.
Until they stopped in front of a store, and Kamilah saw it.
The dress was displayed in the window like a work of art, an ivory silk gown that caught the light and shimmered with a soft, ethereal glow. It was elegant without being ostentatious, with delicate lace detailing along the bodice and a flowing skirt that would move like water when the wearer walked. It was beautiful. It was timeless. It was the dress.
Kamilah felt her breath catch in her throat, her entire body was going still as she stared at the gown. The world around her faded, the murmurs of the crowd and the distant music of the mall speakers dissolving into white noise. All she could see was the dress, and all she could feel was the crushing weight of memories that threatened to drag her under.
It was the dress in her past life that she wanted so badly. She had worked hard for it, had saved every penny she could scrape together, had denied herself even the smallest luxuries to afford it.
She had bought it with her own money, the first and only thing she had ever truly owned, and she had been so proud of it. She had planned to wear it to her family’s business anniversary, to finally feel beautiful, and to finally feel like she belonged.
But Livia had ruined it.
The memory hit her like a physical blow. She remembered the moment she had discovered the dress, her heart sinked into her stomach as she stared at the ruined fabric.
The bodice had been slashed, the lace ripped, the silk was stained with something dark and irreparable. She had spent hours trying to fix it, her fingers were bleeding as she worked, her tears stained the fabric as she desperately tried to salvage something that was already beyond saving.
She had tried to fix it, but it was never the same again.
She had been humiliated when she wore the damaged dress to the anniversary celebration. She remembered the way her family had looked at her, their expressions were a mixture of disgust and secondhand embarrassment.
She remembered the whispers behind cupped hands, the pitying glances that made her want to disappear. She remembered the way her mother had scolded her, her voice sharp with anger, and the way her father had looked at her as if she were a problem he couldn’t solve.
And she remembered Livia, standing in the corner with that innocent smile, watching it all with barely concealed satisfaction.
All those memories, all those years of being told she was worthless, of being wished away, of being treated like she was less than nothing—they were deeply engraved in her mind.
They had shaped her, scarred her, left wounds that had never fully healed. And now, standing in front of the dress that represented everything she had lost, everything she had never been allowed to have, she felt the weight of that pain pressing down on her chest until she could barely breathe. This chapter is updated first at novelping.com.
I still want you in this lifetime, but I no longer can bring myself to touch you.
The words ran through her mind, a confession she didn’t realize she was making. She wasn’t thinking about Maeve. She was thinking about the dress, about her innocence, and about the girl she had once been before the world had beaten her down. She was mourning a version of herself that no longer existed, a girl who had dared to dream of something as simple as owning a beautiful dress.
Maeve heard it.
She heard the sadness in the thought, the grief that seemed to radiate from Kamilah like heat from a dying fire. She didn’t understand what the words meant, didn’t understand why Kamilah kept referencing a past life, but she didn’t need to understand to feel the weight of it.
She could see it in the way Kamilah’s eyes had lost their focus, in the way her hands were trembling at her sides, in the way her entire body seemed to be curling inward as if trying to protect herself from something invisible.
Maeve didn’t understand the mechanics of past lives or the concept of reincarnation. It was too far outside her realm of experience, too fantastical for a woman who had built her life on logic and pragmatism. But she understood pain.
She understood the way old wounds could reopen at the most unexpected moments, the way a single object or a familiar scent could transport a person back to the worst moments of their life. And she understood, with a sudden, bone-deep certainty, that the dress in that window was a trigger.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. The playful energy of the jewelry store evaporated, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence that seemed to emanate from Kamilah. The air between them grew thick and charged, and Maeve felt the change like a cold wind slicing through her bones.
She watched Kamilah’s posture stiffen, not with confidence, but with a fragile, haunting grief that made her look breakable in a way Maeve had never seen before.
Kamilah looked at the ivory dress, and Maeve looked at Kamilah. She watched the way her eyes glazed over, staring at the fabric as if it were a ghost that only she could see. She watched the way her jaw tightened, the way her fingers curled into fists at her sides, the way she seemed to be fighting a battle against something invisible. The sight of it stirred something in Maeve, something protective and fierce that she hadn’t known she possessed.
Then the thoughts flooded in, and Maeve understood.
The memories of humiliation, the echoes of a family’s cruelty, the visceral pain of something beautiful being intentionally ruined—it all poured into Maeve’s mind like a waterfall, overwhelming in its intensity.
She felt the sharp sting of a mother’s scolding, the cold weight of a father’s disapproval, the burning shame of being laughed at and pitied. She saw flashes of a life that had never truly been lived, moments of joy that had always been taken away, and she felt the deep, gnawing ache of a girl who had been told over and over again that she didn’t matter.
Maeve’s grip on the folded trenchcoat tightened, her knuckles are turning white. She didn’t understand the mechanics of a "past life," but she understood the wreckage it had left behind. Seeing Kamilah this vulnerable—not the calculating strategist who had negotiated with her mother, not the confident heiress who had demanded unlimited wishes, not the flirtatious woman who had teased her in the jewelry store—stirred something feral and protective in Maeve.
This was the real Kamilah. This was the girl beneath the masks, the one who had been hurt so many times that she had forgotten how to do anything but hide.
The anger Maeve felt wasn’t directed at Kamilah. It was directed at whoever had made her feel that a piece of clothing was a bridge too far. It was directed at the family who had failed her, the sister who had tormented her, and the world that had taught her that she didn’t deserve to want anything for herself.
Maeve had always prided herself on her coldness, her detachment, her ability to keep people at arm’s length. But in this moment, watching Kamilah struggle to breathe through the weight of her memories, she felt something crack inside her.
Without a word, Maeve stepped forward, closing the distance between them. She didn’t touch Kamilah—not yet, sensing the fragility of her current state—but she stood close enough to shield her from the gaze of the public, her presence a solid, intimidating wall between Kamilah and the rest of the world. The bodyguards, sensing the shift in atmosphere, moved to block the view of the shop window, their broad shoulders are creating a barrier against prying eyes.
"It’s a beautiful dress," Maeve said, her voice was devoid of its usual sharp edge, replaced by a low, grounding steadiness. She wasn’t offering empty compliments or trying to distract Kamilah from her pain. She was simply stating a fact, acknowledging the beauty of the thing that had caused such a visceral reaction. This chapter was copied from novelping dot com without permission.
"Do you want to buy it?" Maeve continued, her eyes are scanning the dress with a cold, dismissive flick. It was beautiful, yes, but it was also a weapon. It was a symbol of everything that had been taken from Kamilah, and Maeve felt a sudden, irrational urge to destroy it. "Or we can buy every single one in this store and burn the ones that don’t make you feel powerful. Your choice, Kamilah."
The words were absurd, a dramatic gesture that would have seemed ridiculous in any other context. But Maeve meant every syllable. She would have bought every dress in the store if it meant erasing the pain from Kamilah’s eyes. She would have set them all on fire if it meant giving Kamilah even a moment of relief.
Kamilah turned to Maeve, her expression was unreadable. For a long moment, she simply looked at her, searching her face for something—sincerity, perhaps, or understanding. Then she shook her head, a small, almost imperceptible movement.
"No need. I don’t need a dress that makes me powerful."
She turned back to the ivory dress, her gaze are lingering on it for one last, aching moment. Then she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"I just want something I can call mine."
The words that ran through her head were a confirmation of everything Maeve had suspected. Kamilah didn’t want power. She didn’t want luxury or status or the ability to dominate others.
She wanted something far simpler and far more precious: something that belonged to her and no one else. Something that couldn’t be taken away, couldn’t be ruined, and couldn’t be used against her. Something that was hers.
She walked away, her steps were measured but heavy, the weight of her memories was dragging at her heels. Maeve didn’t know why she felt bad for Kamilah knowing that’s what she felt about the dress. It was a feeling she didn’t have a name for, a stirring in her chest that she couldn’t quite explain.
She had always seen herself as a predator, someone who took what she wanted without regard for the cost. But seeing the way Kamilah walked away—not with her usual poise, but with a subtle, lingering heaviness in her shoulders—made Maeve’s heart tighten in a way that felt almost physical.
Maeve stayed rooted to the spot for a moment, her gaze lingered on the ivory dress that had caused such a visceral reaction. The simplicity of the thought—’I just want something I can call mine’—hit her with an unexpected weight. It was a devastating admission.
To most people in their circle, "owning" things was about status, power, and luxury. But for Kamilah, it was about existence. It was a plea for a shred of autonomy, a desperate wish for a singular object that didn’t belong to her family, her marriage, or her social obligations.
The feeling that blossomed in Maeve’s chest was unfamiliar and unwelcome. It was a raw, aching empathy that felt like a weakness, yet she couldn’t shake it. She had always seen herself as a predator, someone who took what she wanted without regard for the cost. But seeing the way Kamilah walked away made Maeve’s heart tighten in a way that felt almost physical.
She began to walk, catching up to Kamilah’s stride. She didn’t try to offer empty comforts or platitudes. She knew Kamilah would see right through them. Instead, she simply walked beside her, her shoulder was occasionally brushing against Kamilah’s, a silent acknowledgment of her presence. It was a small gesture, barely noticeable to anyone watching, but it was the only thing Maeve could think to do.
As they moved further into the mall, Maeve’s mind began to pivot. If Kamilah felt she had nothing that truly belonged to her, then Maeve would give her everything. Not as a transaction, not as a way to buy her love, but as a way to anchor her to this life. She wanted Kamilah to have things that were hers alone—secrets, treasures, a sanctuary—and she wanted to be the one who provided the key to it all.
She didn’t know why she cared so much. She didn’t understand the depth of the emotion that had taken root in her chest, the fierce protectiveness that made her want to shield Kamilah from every pain, every memory, every ghost of a past that had hurt her. But she knew, with a certainty that surprised her, that she would do anything to make Kamilah feel like she mattered.
Even if Kamilah never loved her back.
They continued walking through the mall, their steps were synchronized while their silence become comfortable. The bodyguards followed at a respectful distance, their arms were still laden with shopping bags. The whispers of the crowd had faded to a dull background hum, irrelevant and easily ignored. The world around them continued to spin, but for Maeve, everything had narrowed to the woman beside her.
She glanced at Kamilah, taking in the way her eyes had cleared, the way the tension in her shoulders had eased just slightly. She was still sad—Maeve could feel it radiating from her like a faint, melancholy melody—but she was also stronger. She was pulling herself back together, brick by brick, rebuilding the walls that had crumbled for just a moment.
Maeve admired that. She admired the strength it took to keep going, to keep fighting, to keep living even when the world had given you every reason to give up. She admired the way Kamilah refused to break, even when she was falling apart inside.
And she wanted to be the one to catch her when she finally did.
They passed by more stores, more displays of luxury and excess. Kamilah’s eyes flickered over them, but she didn’t stop. She seemed lost in thought, her mind was somewhere far away, and Maeve didn’t try to pull her back. She simply walked beside her, a silent presence that asked for nothing and offered everything.