2015.

You stood at the grand entrance of the Hotel Cortez, with luggage in tow, your heels clicking sharply against the marble as the hotel manager, Iris, greeted you in her clipped, and somewhat robotic manner. Her tired eyes flickered over you with a vague familiarity, but she mentioned nothing about it, and guided you towards the reception desk like she did with any other unlucky soul who decided to wander in.

However, above on the mezzanine level, something had shifted. James Patrick March stood there, leaning languidly on the brass railing, with a half-empty glass of absinthe in his hand. His gaze was distant, detached, until he saw you.

It was impossible.

For a moment, he was certain that the green fairy had betrayed him again, but he blinked, and you were still there. Every line of your face, every graceful motion of your hands as you accepted the key from Iris—identical. The delicate arch of your neck, your posture, the poised way of how you thanked her, even your voice, carrying lightly through the lobby, refined and proper as ever.

His heart—what was left of it, pounded. James stood behind the dark slats of an old partition, watching you ascend the staircase. It was you. You. The only woman he had ever truly loved. The one who had softened his murderous heart, who made him feel almost human once.

James wanted to laugh. Or weep. Or kill someone. But he did none of those things. Not yet, at least.

Instead, he straightened his suit, adjusted his cuffs, and smoothed back his slick hair with trembling fingers. his dark eyes burned with something ancient, something hungry, something possessive. You may not remember him, not yet, but you were here. In his hotel. As if fate has finally decided to reward his patience.

James murmured under his breath, voice thick with reverence and menace all at once.

“Welcome home, darling.”

He then smiled. A slow, wicked, wolfish smile.