Chapter 181

Chapter 181

"She's not that woman." Jacob from the previous life cut him off, his voice sharp and cold enough to frost glass. "She is the mother of my son."

Leon stayed silent for a long moment, then finally nodded. "Yeah."

Jacob—the observer, the outsider—stood there watching the former version of himself push the wheelchair out of that room, inch by inch, with the kind of determination that made every step feel heavier than the last.

Then the scene blurred, as if someone had as if someone had smashed water onto an oil painting.

Jacob shut his eyes. His body dropped, as though he'd fallen into a bottomless pit.

Wind rushed past his ears. Birds called somewhere in the distance. And there was faint, drifting laughter, so light he wasn't sure it was real.

He opened his eyes.

Sunlight spilled through the curtains, warm and gold, landing softly across his face.

He lay in bed. Next to him was Elizabeth, fast asleep, her breathing steady, her lashes trembling faintly.

He reached out and brushed her cheek.

Warm. Soft. Real. She was alive.

She was beside him. She hadn't died alone on that old, filthy mattress. She hadn't faded out in pain with no one to hold her hand. She was alive.

His touch stirred her from asleep. She blinked up at him, catching the redness around his eyes. "What happened?"

Jacob didn't answer. He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly it felt as if he wanted to fuse her into his own bones. He buried his face in her hair and breathed her in, her scent warm and steadying in a way that hit him straight in the chest.

"Bad dream?" She asked softly.

He didn't respond. He just held her closer, whispering her name again and again. "Elizabeth… Elizabeth…"

The way he said her name made her heart trip with unease. She slid her hand up and rubbed his back in small, soothing circles. "It's okay. Dreams aren't real."

Jacob closed his eyes.

No. It had been real. It had been a past life. A past where she died alone in a basement. A past where he didn't find her in time, didn't save her, didn't even know she was dying.

But this time was different.

This time, she was alive. This time, she was with him. This time, he would not let her face the world alone.

He held her for a long while.

Long enough for her to wonder if he'd fallen asleep again. Long enough for the morning sun to shift from pale gold to bright white. Long enough for her arm to go numb under his weight.

"Jacob." She tried calling his name gently.

No response.

She tried again. Only then did he finally loosen his grip. His eyes were still red, as if he'd wept in total silence.

Elizabeth stared at him, a knot tightening in her chest.

She had never seen him like this.

The Jacob she knew was always composed, always steady, so controlled he felt untouchable. Even with her—especially when things grew intimate—he carried that air of restrained confidence.

But today, something in his eyes was different. Something she couldn't name. A mix of fear, guilt, and a wild, shaken relief so intense it bordered on desperate.

"What did you dream about?" She cupped his face, her thumb brushing lightly along the corner of his eye. "What what could have scared you so deeply?"

Jacob looked at her. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if words refused to come.

He'd dreamed of everything.

Jack's lifeless body. His own legs were shattered. Vincent's dying breath whispered a name. Elizabeth was lying cold on the basement floor, alone, fading out without anyone to help her. 

And he'd seen the man he used to be—cold, numb, indifferent. 

The man who tossed aside her photo and muttered she was "ungrateful." 

The man who only showed up after her death, too late to do anything but whisper a useless, pathetic "I'm sorry."

"I dreamed you didn't want me anymore," he finally murmured. His voice was so soft it felt like an exhale, something almost involuntary.

But how could it not count?

In their past lives, she'd been terrified of the violent reputation he'd built, running impulsively into Henry's arms. Every time he remembered that, something inside him tore open.

Elizabeth blinked in surprise—then let out a small laugh.

It wasn't mocking. It was warm, bittersweet, threaded with tenderness.

"Silly." She pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "I'm not going anywhere."

Jacob closed his eyes.

'You stay. I stay. We stay right here. In this world with sunlight and flowers and birdsong. We stay.'

After that, Jacob became gentler.

It wasn't that he stopped being the decisive, lethal, sharp‑edged man he'd always been. He simply softened in the places where she existed.

In bed, he was patient—almost reverent. He let her set the pace, let her comfort dictate his every move. His mouth traced slow, attentive paths along her skin; his hands explored her as if learning her all over again, as if memorizing her warmth erased the memory of the broken body he'd found in that other life.

When his tears touched her stomach—hot and sudden—Elizabeth shivered from the shock of it.

He moved with an ease that felt instinctive, like taking a breath. As if pleasing her had been his purpose all along.

At first, Elizabeth didn't quite know what to do with it.

The Jacob she knew didn't serve. He dominated boardrooms. He backed men into corners during negotiations. He pulled triggers in the dark without blinking. He controlled storms without breaking a sweat.

But this? He did it with focus. With intention. With a sincerity that disarmed her more than any gunshot could.

One night, unable to hold back any longer, she finally asked, "What's gotten into you lately?"

They were lying in bed. His arm wrapped around her, his fingers combing slowly through her hair. Moonlight poured through the window, cool and silver, draping over them like water.

Jacob stayed quiet for a long moment.

"Nothing," he said at last, voice barely above a whisper. "Just wanted to treat you better."

Elizabeth turned toward him, studying his face.

Half of him was swallowed in shadow; the other half glowed softly beneath the moon, the edges of his features softened, his eyes tender.

"You always treated me well," she told him.

Jacob shook his head. "Not like this."

"What's different?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned in and kissed her. It was feather‑light, almost hesitant, yet there was something trembling underneath it.

It was not desire, nor possession, but an indescribable, almost humble plea.

It felt like he was asking, quietly, "Can I love you like this?"

And promising, fiercely, "I will love you like this. Always."

Elizabeth felt her heart melt into a pool of warmth.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned the kiss. It deepened gradually—gentle shifting into heat, hesitation blooming into conviction.

His hand slid from her hair to her shoulder, then down to her waist, his touch imbued with a kind of reverence, as though he were approaching something sacred.

He kissed her everywhere he could reach, unhurried, savoring her like a rare aged wine. No rush. No urgency. Just devotion.

Her breath hitched, her fingers curling tight around the sheets as a soft sound slipped from her throat.

The moment he heard it, he stopped. He lifted his head, eyes searching hers.