Ashes of A Broken Vow

The Funeral That Should Never Be

The scent of white lilies and incense filled the air, thick and suffocating like the lies that surrounded the room. People whispered. Faces she once called “family” wore painted grief. It was her funeral.

But Aria Alvene was still alive.

Not in the way they thought. Not in the way they hoped.

She stood at the back of the crowd, invisible, her soul disjointed from the world around her. Her body, pale and stiff, lay in an open casket, adorned with her favorite blue dress—something she remembered her fiancé, Damien, had picked out with a smile.

The same Damien now standing beside her casket, holding her younger sister Lily’s hand, stroking her hair as she sobbed theatrically.

Aria stared, unmoving. Her mind screamed, but her lips could form no sound. Her family. Her fiancé. Her sister.

All of them… murderers in elegant suits.

They had orchestrated it perfectly—poisoned tea served with soft smiles, signed papers forged in her name, assets transferred, and blame twisted until even the public believed she had gone mad. A “suicide” brought on by “mental instability.”

She tried to reach out, to claw at her sister’s lying face—but her hand passed right through her.

This wasn’t a dream.

It was her end.

And yet…

The world grew dark, voices faded, and the scent of lilies burned away into something metallic and hot.

⸻

She woke up choking on air.

Her lungs seized. Her throat ached. Her fingers clutched at her chest.

Was she alive?

Aria’s eyes flew open. She sat bolt upright, gasping.

This wasn’t the hospital bed from her final days. This was…

Her room.

Her old room. Pale lavender walls. Shelves stacked with untouched books. A desk with her unfinished painting. A phone—her old phone—buzzed softly with a familiar ringtone.

June 12, 20XX.

Her breath caught. This… this was five years before she died.

Tears pricked her eyes, not from fear—but fury.

She had been reborn.

⸻

Hours passed before she could fully process it. Her room was just as it was before the storm began. The engagement hadn’t happened yet. She hadn’t signed over her shares. Damien hadn’t begun the slow poisoning. Her parents hadn’t yet disowned her. Lily still pretended to be sweet.

She had time.

She had a second chance.

And this time, she wouldn’t beg for love.

⸻

Later that day, her mother’s voice called from downstairs.

“Aria, Damien’s here!”

Her blood froze.

It was too soon.

But she smoothed her dress, tied her hair, and descended the staircase with measured grace.

There he was—Damien Vellmont. Rich. Refined. Charming. Dressed in a tailored gray suit with a silver watch on his wrist. His smile was gentle, hand extended.

“Aria,” he said softly, “you look beautiful.”

So did the snake before it bit.

She smiled sweetly. “So do you, Damien.”

She allowed him to hug her, even let his hand linger against her lower back.

She’d memorized his scent in the past—cedar and deception.

Now she only saw the bloodstained hands that held the glass of wine she last drank.

“Come, we’re going out for dinner,” he said. “Your parents and Lily are joining us.”

Of course they were.

She followed, heart pounding, but this time she wasn’t afraid. She had already died once.

⸻

At the restaurant, Lily arrived late, fluttering her lashes at Damien. Aria remembered the game they played—Lily, the innocent baby sister always in distress, and Damien, the protective knight. The two who would share a bed behind her back while plotting her death.

Her mother whispered, “Wear something more flattering next time, dear. You’re looking tired lately.”

Her father nodded. “You should focus less on painting and more on Damien. He’s your future.”

Lies were so effortless for them.

So she played along. For now.

“I’ll try harder,” she said softly.

Lily smirked into her glass.

Damien kissed her knuckles.

Her mother beamed.

And Aria’s heart went quiet.

⸻

That night, alone in her room, Aria stared into the mirror.

“You’ll regret ever hurting me,” she whispered.

⸻

Three days later, she visited her grandfather’s old law firm—the only man who had loved her unconditionally and died mysteriously just before her assets were handed over.

To her surprise, the receptionist looked startled.

“You… Miss Alvene? We thought you wouldn’t be returning so soon after your grandfather’s passing.”

“I have a right to his will.”

The woman hesitated. “Your father said you were mentally unwell, and you… weren’t capable of managing assets…”

Aria smiled. Cold. Sharp. “Then let’s test my capability. Bring the documents.”

⸻

She left with copies, passwords, and a fire burning in her chest.

Her grandfather had left her everything—his shares, his estate, his private accounts. And yet, her father had hidden the will and declared her “unfit.”

Not this time.

⸻

The next step was protection.

Real protection.

The kind that didn’t come in police uniforms or with family names.

She contacted a private security agency her grandfather once mentioned. Elite. Discreet. Expensive.

And within a day, they sent him.

⸻

Lucien Virello.

He was nothing like Damien.

Towering, dressed in black, eyes colder than the Arctic, with a voice deep enough to silence chaos.

“You requested protection?” he asked.