Reborn at a cost

Liana's POV

I decided to get some food before heading home.

The grocery store was bright, and it smelled like freshly baked bread and antiseptic cleaner that made me wrinkle my nose.

The automatic doors whooshed open with a puff of warm air laced with the sweet, yeasty scent of in-store bakery, fresh loaves cooling under heat lamps, cut by the sharp tang of floor polish and chilled produce mist. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright after the dimming streets, casting long shadows down the wide aisles lined with bright packaging.

I pushed a cart down the narrow aisles, the boxes of cereal tagged with, “Buy one, get one free!” I wanted to throw a box at the nearest shelf. Lies.

The wheels squeaked faintly on the linoleum, still slick from the day's foot traffic and a recent mop. Promotional signs dangled overhead, fluttering slightly in the recycled air from the vents—red banners promising deals that always felt like traps.

I remember when I bought one and was still charged for the other.

I grabbed pasta, tomatoes, eggs, frozen chicken, and some fresh produce.

I noticed the slight stickiness of the floor where someone had spilled juice. My mind wandered: the office, the tension, I shook my head as if to physically knock away the memory.

The spill left a faint orange sheen under the lights, tacky under my shoe soles. A toddler in the next aisle wailed briefly, quickly hushed; the sound echoed off the high ceilings, mixing with the low hum of fridges and distant trolley rattles.

I walked past the lemonade powder box, the brand I liked. It came in strawberry now. My hand hovered. Should I take it? It’s not healthy.

I should take it. I shouldn’t. I argued silently with myself before grabbing two boxes.

The boxes felt lightweight, crinkling under my fingers; the artificial strawberry scent wafted up faintly when I shook one, sweet and chemical, promising comfort.

As I continued shopping, I noticed a couple quietly arguing over bread near the bakery. The man gestured wildly with a baguette; the woman shook her head, a kid chasing a cart, the soft clatter of cans falling in a basket. I focused on the normalcy of it all, trying to anchor myself.

The bakery section glowed warmer, heat lamps humming softly; the argument carried low, tense murmurs—ordinary frustration that felt worlds away from my own secrets.

A man walked past, everything in his cart green, apples, lettuce, broccoli. He was one of those people who’d make you feel guilty for eating a chocolate bar. I shot him a glare that he definitely did not notice.

His cart rattled past, wheels steady; the crisp snap of fresh leaves brushing against each other as he turned the corner. My own cart felt heavier suddenly, loaded with small rebellions.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

The stress from the office clinging to my shoulders.

“Ohhh,” I gasped as I grabbed three boxes of pancake mix. Excitement mingled with relief. The ordinary act of shopping felt like a small victory.

The pancake boxes stacked neatly, cardboard cool against my palms.

My phone rang as I reached for a carton of milk.

Mum.

Of course.

I answered before she could hang up again. “Hi, Mother.”

“Liana,” she said immediately, voice sharp with irritation. “That dog is back.”

I smiled despite myself. “Which dog?”

“You know which dog. That woman two houses down, the one with the awful red hair and no manners. Her dog keeps coming into my garden and doing its business.”

Her words tumbled out familiar, unchanged—like stepping back into a well-worn conversation from before everything shattered. The store noise faded slightly; I could almost smell her kitchen tea brewing on the other end.

I closed my eyes. Same complaint. Different timeline. Different life.

“Mum,” I said gently, "I don't think dogs don’t understand where they are and they're not supposed to go.”

“Well, she does,” Mum snapped. “And yet here I am, cleaning up after an animal that isn’t mine. Again.”

I steered my cart toward the checkout, listening as she vented like someone who was personally wronged.

“You should talk to her,” I suggested.

“I did,” Mum said. “She said it wasn’t her dog.”

“Is it her dog?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is her dog.”

“Exactly!” Mum said triumphantly. “Finally, someone with sense.”

I laughed quietly, earning a curious look from the cashier. For a moment, everything felt better, normal.

The cashier's scanner beeped rhythmically—beep, beep—as items slid across; the plastic bags rustled, and the faint scent of rain clung to my coat from outside.

“How are you, sweetheart?” Mum asked, suspicion creeping in her voice.

“You sound tired.”

“I’m fine,” I lied smoothly. “Just work.”

She hummed. “You always say that. Don’t let them take advantage of you.”

The words landed heavier than she knew.

I promised myself I wouldn’t. I couldn’t afford to.

We hung up shortly after. Mum was still muttering about the woman in her book club whose daughter had come home pregnant. She is in college.

I paid for my groceries and stepped back into the cold London evening, bags cutting into my palms.

The doors whooshed shut behind me; outside air hit sharp and damp, carrying the wet-earth smell of recent rain and distant exhaust. Streetlights reflected in shallow puddles, orange halos shimmering.

The streets glistened from the afternoon rain.

Streetlights flickered one by one. A taxi sped past, drowning out the faint sound of a street musician playing a battered guitar.

Music from nearby apartments drifted down the street.

I forced my mind back to the present, resisting the urge to dwell on last night, on him.

Back in my flat, I unpacked slowly. Put the pasta into the cupboard, placed the tomatoes into the fridge, and arranged everything in their rightful place.

The fridge door sucked shut with a soft pop; cold air brushed my face as I slotted items in neat rows.

I washed my hands after I was done. I noticed the leftover pasta salad and garlic bread in the fridge. I popped it in the microwave and watched a reunion show while I ate, half-listening, half-lost in thought.

Then my mind betrayed me. Raphael.

His name slid into my thoughts uninvited. The way he said mine. The way he watched without making me uncomfortable.

One night doesn’t mean anything.

Still… curiosity got the best of me.

I leaned over to the center table, grabbed my laptop, and opened it, telling myself this was nothing.

I typed into the search bar.

Raphael.

I stared at it, then snorted softly. That’s absurd.

This is pointless.

I hit search anyway.

The results were exactly what I expected. Random profiles. A sculptor in Italy. A dentist in Manchester. A fitness influencer who definitely skips leg day. Lawyers. Men with gym selfies and motivational quotes.

See? Nothing.

Then my eyes caught it.

A small panel on the right side of the screen.

Famous people named Raphael. I frowned. Curiosity pricked at the edge of my thoughts.

I clicked.

The page loaded slowly, and for half a second, I was annoyed at myself for even entertaining this.

Then his face appeared.

Sharp jaw. Jet black hair. Hazel eyes I recognized instantly.

The same calm, controlled expression. The same man who watched me like a piece of art.

My breath left me in a single, stunned exhale.

Raphael Blackthorne.

My jaw dropped. And the bread in my mouth fall out.

The name sank in like ice water.

CEO and Founder of Oraion Technologies.

Industry: Cybersecurity.

Headquarters: London.

Oraion. Blaise Corps’ biggest rival.