Page 9 of Never Quite Gone

Paris in the '20s swelled like contraband jazz: Eli at the piano, fingers dancing across ivory like he'd been born making music. That same grace now orchestrating trauma teams instead of preludes.

Ancient Greece rose like fever dream: Battle dust and bronze, Eli's hands steady with needle and thread. He'd been a healer even then, patching up warriors while others made corpses. Now he commanded an ER with that same quiet strength, that same stubborn dedication to keeping death at bay.

“Your coffee's getting cold.”

Marcus's voice yanked me back. He stood in the doorway looking exactly like what he wasn't - just another corporate suit. But few would notice the way he held himself like a weapon barely sheathed, the ancient grace in his movements. We'd both learned to hide in plain sight, wearing wealth and power like designer camouflage.

I ignored the coffee cooling on my desk, letting myself sink into one pure moment of truth.

“He felt it too,” I murmured, remembering how Eli's carefully constructed walls had cracked when our eyes locked. “Even if he doesn't understand it yet.”

Marcus's silence spoke novels. He'd walked this road with me through centuries, bound by an oath older than most civilizations. “The board meeting went as planned,” he finally said, voice carefully blank. “But Vale's presence complicates things.”

“Show me his file again.”

Marcus sighed but pulled up the hospital docs on the big screen. Dr. Eli Monroe's life reduced to bullet points: Chief ofEmergency Medicine, youngest department head in Presbyterian's history, enough publications to wallpaper my office. The photo was fresh PR bullshit, Eli staring back with that perfect professional mask, but I could read the shadows behind his eyes like a book I'd memorized lifetimes ago.

I knew every inch of his face through centuries: that crooked smile that never quite evened out, the skeptical arch of his left eyebrow, that tiny scar near his hairline that somehow made it through every reincarnation. But this version hit different. Grief had hollowed out his cheeks, added weight to his gaze. His late husband. The words burned like acid in my throat, even though I'd known this lifetime would be a clusterfuck of complications.

“The development project's perfect cover,” I said, addressing Marcus's unspoken what-the-fuck-are-you-doing face. “But did you catch Vale during the meeting? He might not remember consciously, but something in him recognizes Eli.”

“Which should scare the shit out of you,” Marcus replied, setting his tablet down like he was placing a sword on a table. In that moment, I saw the nobleman he'd been, the warrior who'd sworn his blade to our protection. “Eli... he's not ready for any of this.”

“He's still grieving,” I forced out the words like broken glass. “I know. But you saw him in that trauma bay, Marcus. Even through his grief, even without his memories, he's still exactly who he's always been. A healer. A protector. A soul that pulls mine across fucking centuries like gravity.”

“And if forcing these memories on him now breaks him?” Marcus's voice carried the weight of centuries watching this play out. “If the weight of past lives shatters him when he's already held together with duct tape and willpower?”

“Then we move slow,” I said finally, turning back to the window. Morning sun painted the city in shades of maybe, of possibility. “The ER tour gives us legitimate contact. Everything else...” I traced the path to Presbyterian, imagining Eli already there, saving lives with those surgeon's hands that had oncepainted masterpieces, played piano, stitched battlefield wounds. “Everything else happens how it happens.”

Marcus nodded once, gathering his shit with ancient grace. He paused at the door, his reflection overlapping with memories of other times, other warnings.

He left without another word. The ER tour loomed tomorrow - hours until I could see him again, start the delicate dance of making him remember without completely destroying the life he'd built from grief and determination.

Every version of Eli burned in my soul like a brand - the battlefield doctor with hands steady as death, the artist who saw beauty in broken things, the musician whose songs still haunted my dreams after centuries of silence.

I adjusted my tie, choosing navy blue that matched those Mediterranean waters where we'd once swam together, lifetimes ago. My fingers brushed the ancient watch at my wrist, its worn face marking time like a faithful witness to this endless fucking dance of remembering and forgetting.

Marcus watched me with those too-knowing eyes as I stepped back into the office. “The board will question your motives for focusing so heavily on this site,” he warned, though we both knew the real shit storm brewing had nothing to do with real estate.

“They'll get their answers,” I said, smiling. Let them obsess over profit margins and market analysis. The truth was written in star paths and blood trails and the cosmic joke of endless rebirth.

The executive floor buzzed like an overpriced beehive - assistants racing around with tablets and coffee orders, department heads circle-jerking over PowerPoints, all the usual corporate theater. I took my spot at the head of the table, pretending to give a shit about the morning agenda.

The air shifted suddenly, molecules rearranging themselves around a presence that set off every ancientalarm bell in my system. Will's entrance commanded attention like the corporate prince he pretended to be, but there was something else - something in his predator's grace that made the warrior in my bones want to reach for a sword that wasn't there.

“Father's concerned about this sudden interest in hospital-adjacent property.” Will's voice dripped careful neutrality as he claimed his throne to my right. His suit probably cost more than most people's cars, his smile calculated down to the millimeter. We played at being Fortune 500 royalty now, but older patterns hummed beneath our designer armor.

I kept writing, pen skating across paper like nothing mattered. “Diversification,” I said, sliding him a market analysis thick enough to choke on. “Healthcare's a growing sector.” The documents were perfect - Marcus had made damn sure every decimal point could withstand nuclear scrutiny.

Will's presence made something ancient in my gut coil tight. Every lifetime, he showed up like a bad penny, never remembering why. Our rivalry now played out in stock options and boardroom coups instead of swords and shields, but it carried the same bloody echo.

“Interesting timing,” Will mused, pulling out a leather folder I hadn't seen before. “Did some digging in the family archives. Found something you might want to see.” He dropped several yellowed pages onto the table like bombs.

My heart tried to crawl up my throat as I recognized the elegant handwriting. A medical journal from the 1890s, describing a doctor who might as well have been Eli's fucking twin. Of course Will would find this - he'd always had a talent for digging up exactly the secrets I needed buried.

“Hell of a resemblance, isn't it?” Will leaned back, watching me with eyes that held shadows of older knowledge. “Almost like history's on repeat. Though that would be crazy, right?”

I kept my poker face while examining the pages. The journal detailed a brilliant young surgeon at the old New York Hospital, saving lives with techniques decades ahead of his time. Same soul,same calling, different century. “Historical coincidences are fascinating,” I said smooth as silk, though my fingers trembled over words written in another lifetime.

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