The soft morning light filtered through the thick curtains, enveloping the room in a warm glow. She slowly opened her eyes, waking to the sound of a masculine voice floating in the air.
"Always so beautiful when you sleep," he said, a smile in his voice.
She turned her head towards the source of the compliment, showing no trace of surprise on her face.
There, in the shadows, stood a man in his thirties, elegantly dressed, a sly smile on his lips. His eyes shone with a mixture of curiosity and mischief. His deep brown hair was impeccably slicked back. His piercing, icy blue eyes seemed to scrutinize the world with an almost scientific curiosity. Behind thin-framed glasses, his pupils sparkled with sharp intelligence.
A slight, almost imperceptible smile floated on his thin lips, as if he knew something others did not. His pale, flawless skin added an almost ethereal quality to his appearance.
He was dressed with timeless elegance. His three-piece suit, custom-tailored, was a deep black and perfectly fitted to his slender silhouette. The white shirt he wore underneath contrasted with the midnight blue silk tie, carefully knotted. On his vest, a silver pocket watch was attached by a discreet chain.
"What are you doing here?" she asked calmly, ignoring the strangeness of the situation.
The man burst into light laughter, as if her reaction amused him. "I expected more surprise at seeing me, but I forget how unflappable you are," he said, a mocking gleam in his eyes. "I have business to settle with you."
She did not reply immediately, preferring to take in her surroundings.
The room she was in was sumptuous, but with a discreet elegance. The walls were covered with dark wood paneling, adorned with paintings of landscapes. A thick, plush carpet with intricate patterns covered the floor. A marble fireplace stood at the center of the opposite wall, unlit but carefully maintained. On a solid wood coffee table, a vase of fresh flowers added a touch of color to the ensemble.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with books whose cracked leather covers bore the marks of time. The furniture, though classic, was undeniably of high quality. Richly embroidered fabric armchairs, a chaise longue near the window, and a small table with a silver tea service set out as if awaiting guests.
The man settled into one of the armchairs, adjusted his thin glasses, and took a book from his inner pocket. He opened it without another word, immediately diving into his reading. Even seated, he exuded impeccable posture, with his back straight and legs elegantly crossed.
The woman, still lying down, sensed a strange tension in the air, but she remained motionless, her gaze continuing to wander.
Then, a detail suddenly caught her attention. Her hair. She instinctively brought her hand to her hair, her fingers gliding over the silky strands. But something was wrong. It wasn't the same color as usual. She knew her jet-black hair well. But now, it was… silver?
Her eyes widened, a slight flicker of surprise passing through them.
She slowly sat up, her movements measured. Her eyes fell again on the man, still absorbed in his reading.
The woman stared intently at the man, her eyes probing every detail of his face, searching for an answer to the enigma he represented. But he remained unperturbed, his icy blue eyes fixed on the pages of the book. The seconds stretched into minutes, and the silence in the room became almost palpable.
Finally, she grew tired and broke the silence. "Does this situation amuse you?" she asked, her voice tinged with slight irritation.
The man let out a laugh, as if he had been holding back this reaction for a while. "You will never change," he said with a nostalgic smile. "I missed that look you have when you're intrigued." He slowly closed the book, his expression changing. The mocking smile disappeared for the first time, replaced by a serious look.
The woman remained impassive, but a glimmer of frustration pierced her eyes. "Are you finally going to explain what's happening here? And this body..." She gestured toward herself.
The woman was lying on a bed with immaculate white sheets, the only protection between her bare skin and the air of the room. The thin, light sheet wrapped around her body, revealing more than it concealed. It draped her form with an almost ethereal delicacy, unveiling every curve and hollow of her silhouette.
Under the soft light that bathed the room, her skin seemed almost luminescent, with a pale and perfect hue, like precious porcelain. Her shoulders were delicately sculpted, gracefully leading to slender, elegant arms. The sheet casually fell from one of her shoulders, revealing a graceful, prominent collarbone and a part of her décolletage.
Her chest, partially concealed by the fabric, hinted at a gentle and harmonious bosom, subtly accentuated by the slight pressure of the sheet. The fabric continued its course down her torso, hugging her slender waist before flaring slightly over her full hips. Her long, slender legs were almost entirely covered, except for a delicate foot peeking out from under the sheet.
Her face, half-framed by a cascade of silver hair, remained strikingly beautiful. The strands, an unusual shade of silver, contrasted sharply with the whiteness of her skin.
The man took a deep breath, his eyes momentarily lost in a distant memory. Then he looked directly at her, and his words fell like a guillotine: "You are dead."
The silence that followed this statement was heavy, almost suffocating. Time seemed to stop, as if the entire universe were holding its breath. The woman blinked, her face remaining strangely calm, but a storm seemed to rage behind her eyes.
"Dead?" she repeated, as if testing the reality of the word. "Explain yourself better, Galaad?" Her voice was steady.
The man nodded slowly, placing the book on his lap. "It's quite simple. Damaris Zahad is no more. It's a difficult reality to grasp, even for me. But it's the truth. And as for this body you see…" He indicated his own body with a certain sadness. "It is not yours."
The woman didn't respond immediately. She lowered her eyes to her hands, examining their appearance. She slowly flexed them, testing their mobility.
"So, this body..." she murmured, looking back up to meet Galaad's gaze. "Whose is it?"
Galaad, still seated in the armchair, let out a sigh. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the gift of your dear husband. This is my work. What happened to you is a sort of soul transfer, if you will."
Damaris narrowed her eyes. "A soul transfer? Galaad, I see you still love long explanations."
Galaad shrugged slightly, a deliberately nonchalant gesture. "What's wrong with wanting to talk to one's wife?"
Galaad fixed Damaris with his piercing eyes, a sigh escaping his lips. Finally, he straightened slightly in the armchair, letting his hands rest on the armrests, his fingers gently tapping on the leather.
"You know, Damaris, I never intended to intervene in your affairs," he began, his tone more serious than before. "I always kept my distance, observing from afar. That was our agreement, wasn't it? But you always surprised me with your ability to weather the worst storms. This time, though, things went too far."
He paused, his gaze hardening. "I must admit you were very clear the last time you... chastised me," he added with a hint of bitterness. "I never forgot."
Damaris narrowed her eyes, a shadow of anger crossing her face. Her voice, initially calm, rose a notch. "I don't need your reminders of our past disputes, Galaad. Who dared?"
Galaad sighed again, this time with a mix of frustration and resignation. He leaned slightly forward, his eyes capturing Damaris' with an icy intensity. "Valeria," he finally said, his voice sharp. "Valeria Drakos."