Pain receded like the tide, only to crash back in again.

Vera Sterling’s last memory was the shrill beeping of a cardiac monitor, doctors’ hurried footsteps, and a nurse shouting, “The patient has no pulse!” Then everything went black.

She had thought she was dead.

But after the darkness, consciousness lingered.

Someone was speaking. A strange voice, dripping with undisguised disgust.

“Awake? Done playing dead?”

Vera tried to open her eyes, yet her eyelids felt as heavy as lead. It took immense effort to pry them open a crack. Light stabbed her eyes, forcing hot tears to stream down her cheeks.

“What trick are you pulling now?”

The voice spoke again. This time Vera made it out: a man’s voice, low and icy, as though ground out between clenched teeth.

At last she opened her eyes fully.

The hospital room was bright, dominated by whites and pale blues. The air reeked of disinfectant, exactly as it had in Vera’s final moments. Still, this ward was far more spacious than the one she had stayed in. A potted green plant sat in the corner, and an abstract, incomprehensible painting hung on the wall.

A man stood beside the bed.

Tall, he wore a well‑tailored dark‑grey suit. The top button of his white shirt was undone, lending him an air both formal and laid‑back. His features were so striking they seemed almost inhuman: high cheekbones, deep‑set eye sockets, a jawline sharp as carved steel. His dark‑brown hair was loosely curled, one lock falling across his forehead.

He was undeniably handsome. Yet the loathing in his eyes was equally real.

Vera parted her lips, but her throat was too parched to make a sound.

“You’ve been in a coma for three days,” the man said. “The doctors say you suffered no critical injuries, only severe blood loss requiring rest. But I think you are acting. You have always been such a good actress, haven’t you?”

Vera struggled to process his words. Her head throbbed, her body felt heavy, as if she were wearing someone else’s skin. She attempted to sit up, but her arms gave way, and she slid off the bed onto the floor.

The tiled floor bit cold against her skin.

“Enough.” He made no move to help her, merely stared down from above. “Put an end to this farce you have staged for yourself. Wrist‑slashing, coma, now feigning weakness. Do you imagine I would feel pity for you?”

Wrist‑slashing?

Vera instinctively glanced at her left hand. Thick white bandages were wrapped around her wrist, faint traces of blood seeping through beneath.

This was not her hand.

Vera stared at it for a long time. Slender fingers, exquisitely manicured nails coated in nude polish. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. None of this belonged to her. Her own hands had been rougher and smaller, knuckles misshapen from years of constant keyboard‑typing.

“I am talking to you.” The man bent down and tossed a stack of photographs onto the floor before her.

Photos scattered everywhere. Bracing herself on the floor, Vera looked through them one by one.

The woman in the pictures was breathtakingly beautiful, with bold, sharp‑edged features radiating aggressive charm. She clinked glasses with strange men in bars; slipped money to an unseen figure down an alley; danced cheek‑to‑cheek with a man at a party. Every photo bore a date in the corner, the most recent one taken five days prior.

“Do you see clearly?” The man straightened. “This is you. Amelia Blackwood. My wife.”

Vera lifted her head and looked at him properly for the very first time.

“What is your name?” she asked.

His expression froze for a split second.

“Are you pretending not to know even my name now?”

“I am asking what you are called.”

“Adrian Sinclair.” He ground the words out between his teeth. “Your husband. The husband you spent ten years scheming to trap.”

Ignoring him, Vera gripped the edge of the bed and pulled herself slowly to her feet. Her legs shook, yet she stood firm. A nightstand sat beside the bed, holding a water glass, a mobile phone, and a compact hand‑mirror.

She picked up the mirror.

Staring back was a completely unfamiliar face — the same woman from the photographs. Bold eyes and brows, a straight elegant nose, full lips. Her lips were drained of colour from blood loss, yet even so, the face possessed a fierce, striking beauty.

Vera gazed into the mirror for a long while. Then she twisted her wrist to examine the skin peeking out from beneath the bandage. A fresh scar ran straight along the line of her pulse.

“Amelia Blackwood,” she murmured softly.

“What are you up to now?” Adrian stood behind her, his tone sharp with impatience. “Slitting your wrists was not enough, so now you feign amnesia? Let me tell you, that trick will not work on me. I know exactly who you are.”

Vera set the mirror down and turned to face him.

At last she understood what had happened. Impossible as it seemed, in her past life she had witnessed far too many bizarre occurrences. She had long ago learned: when confronted with the inexplicable, accept first, then analyse.

She had died. And now she had woken up inside the body of a woman named Amelia Blackwood.

“Earlier you said I spent ten years plotting to deceive you.” Vera’s voice was still hoarse, yet her composure had steadied. “What exactly was the deception?”

Adrian let out a cold laugh.

“Now you pretend you cannot remember even that? Very well, I shall remind you. Ten years ago, at a dinner party, you pretended to be the girl I met in my childhood. I believed you. I believed you for ten whole years. Half a year ago I finally learned that girl was never you. You stole your elder sister’s life.”

Hatred practically poured from his voice as he spoke. Looking into his eyes, Vera saw rage — and something else. A stubbornness born of betrayal, like a child robbed of candy who, though fully grown, still clung desperately to the crumpled wrapper.

“And so you wanted a divorce,” Vera said.

“Yes.”

“Then I cut my wrists.”

“You cut your own wrists. No one forced you.”

Vera glanced down at the bandages on her wrist. Why had Amelia slit her wrists? Because she could not bear to lose this man? Because the exposure of her ten‑year lie had left her desperate and cornered?

“If I agree to the divorce,” Vera raised her head, “what will you give me?”

Adrian was visibly taken aback. He had clearly not expected this question.

“What did you say?”

“I said, if I consent to divorce, how will you handle the division of assets?”

Adrian stared at her for a long moment, trying to judge whether she was playing another trick.

“You once swore you would never divorce me, not even in death.”

“That was then.” Leaning against the nightstand, for she could barely remain standing, Vera said, “I have come to my senses. There is no point clinging to a man who does not love me. But after ten years of marriage, I cannot leave with absolutely nothing.”

Adrian’s brows drew together. He was plainly unaccustomed to this version of Amelia. The old Amelia would weep, throw tantrums, make threats, beg him. This woman merely leaned calmly against the cabinet, watching him with eyes he had never seen before.

“What do you want?”

“We can discuss that once I am discharged from hospital.” Vera closed her eyes. “I feel dizzy. Could you leave me to rest?”

“You are ordering me to leave?”

“I need to rest.” She cracked one eye open to look at him. “Did you not say I lost a great deal of blood? People who have lost blood need rest. Is that not obvious?”

Adrian remained rooted to the spot. He studied her face for a long time, searching for some hint of pretence. But Vera was exhausted; she had no energy left for acting.

At last he turned and departed.

The instant the door clicked shut, Vera slid down the cabinet onto the floor. She buried her face in her knees, her shoulders beginning to shake. This was not her body. This was not her life. She had died. She was supposed to be dead.

Yet here she was, alive, trapped inside Amelia’s body.

She had no idea how much time passed until her phone’s vibration pulled her back to reality. Reaching for the mobile on the nightstand, she saw seventeen missed calls and twenty‑three unread messages. Most of the callers were labelled “Mother”, “Father”, “Evelyn”. She did not open the messages.

Scrolling through her contacts, she found a name listed under “Lawyer”: Clara Constantine.

After a moment’s hesitation, Vera dialled the number.

It rang three times before being answered.

“Amelia? You’re finally calling! I heard what happened to you —”

“Clara.” Vera cut her off. “I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it?”

“Look up the laws governing asset division in divorce cases.”

There was several seconds of silence on the other end of the line.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want a divorce. And I intend to claim what is rightfully mine.”

Another pause, then Clara’s voice turned serious.

“Are you quite serious?”

“I am serious.”

“Very well.” Clara said. “I shall come to the hospital to see you tomorrow. Amelia… you have finally woken up.”

Vera ended the call and tossed the phone back onto the nightstand. Staring up at the ceiling, she drew a deep breath.

The original owner of this body was Amelia Blackwood. She had married a man named Adrian Sinclair. She had deceived him for ten years. She had attempted suicide by cutting her wrists.

Now Vera Sterling would go on living in her place.

Very well.

Reborn Talent Agent — Chapter 8 Signing the Papers

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