Palimpsest Hearts
In his previous life, Lucian Sinclair had pursued the truth behind his fiancé Malcolm Fitzgerald's fatal car accident with relentless determination - only to meet the same grim fate beneath the twisted metal of his Bentley on a rain-lashed M25 motorway.
When consciousness returned, the industrialist found himself thrust back to his 24-year-old self, the digital clock on his Mayfair bedside table blinking December 16th, 2016. Malcolm's Alpine skiing accident had already occurred three days prior.
He promptly took legal guardianship of the brooding 15-year-old left in the wreckage - Finn Fitzgerald, Malcolm's half-brother through their father's second marriage. The boy Lucian remembered from charity galas had grown feral-eyed, all scraped knuckles and boarding school blazers gone threadbare at the elbows.
This time, Lucian vowed, the boy would receive proper upbringing. Not out of affection, but as penance for never deciphering Malcolm's last encrypted text: "Tell Luce the Range Rover's brakes—"
Finn initially regarded his guardian with wary deference, this icy aristocrat who wore his brother's signet ring on a platinum chain. "Malcolm said you collect Renaissance maps," the teen offered during tense dinners, pushing peas across Wedgwood china. "Malcolm told me you hate tulips." Each invocation of the dead man's name hung between them like altar smoke.
Yet gradually, the dynamic shifted. Lucian caught Finn glaring when he traced the Fitzgerald jawline they shared. The boy began arriving late from Eton weekends, reeking of stolen whiskey and defiance. During one particularly vicious row over a shredded Oxford acceptance letter, Finn slammed Lucian's wheelchair against the study wall.
"Why must I be his ghost?" The teen's breath fogged the cold glass of Malcolm's portrait. "You look at me like I'm some...some flawed taxidermy of your perfect banker boy!"
Lucian's cane clattered to the hardwood. Perfect? Malcolm had been laundering funds through their engagement - a truth he'd discovered two lifetimes too late. Now this living, breathing Fitzgerald heir stood before him, all cracked leather satchel and mismatched socks, demanding to be seen.
Outside, the Thames glittered with secrets. In the cellar vault, a dossier gathered dust - crime scene photos, offshore account records, and the Range Rover's brake lines sliced clean through. Lucian's fingers twitched toward the whisky decanter. Let the dead keep their mysteries. This Fitzgerald needed saving more.
