Chapter 1
"Divorce Cooling-Off Period" In the heart of Riverhaven, tucked away in a modest but bustling civil registry, the contrast couldn't be sharper. To the left, a lonely office for issuing marriage certificates sat virtually empty, while to the right, a steady stream of customers filled the divorce certificate office, the air thick with tension and unresolved feelings. Eleanor Blackwood stood in line, her striking presence undeniable even behind the oversized hat, dark sunglasses, and mask she wore. She frowned as she spoke to the staff—a long day felt painfully mediocre. Beside her, William Bell, tall and razor-sharp, shared her impatience, both of them eyeing the clock. After what felt like an eternity, they finally reached the front of the line, ready to submit their signed divorce agreement and the necessary paperwork. But then they were hit with an unexpected twist. "I'm sorry, but due to the latest regulations, there’s a thirty-day cooling-off period for divorce applications," the clerk announced, the monotone voice unyielding. Eleanor shot back, “We both want this. Can’t we just finalize it now?” With a conciliatory tilt of her head, the clerk replied, “I understand, but please reconsider. Sometimes, moments of impulse can ruin a lifetime of happiness.” She hesitated, glancing at William, but even that fleeting connection couldn’t sway her. “Thank you, but this is final.” Once outside, Eleanor cast a careful glance around before slipping into a sleek white car parked curbside—William following her in silence. Once inside, a middle-aged woman with short hair sat up straight in the passenger seat, her eyes filled with anticipation. "Did it go well?" Evelyn Bennett, Eleanor’s agent, asked eagerly. Taking off her sunglasses, Eleanor revealed a face often seen gracing the covers of magazines—a radiant beauty worn by fatigue. “The registry said we need to wait thirty days.” Evelyn’s jaw dropped, clearly taken aback. “Thirty days? Really? You've spent three years proving this was a disaster. What’s the point of dragging this out?” An uncomfortable silence settled in the car. Then William unexpectedly spoke up, “I’ll move out today. We can finalize everything in a month.” He opened the door and stepped out, his silhouette immediately striking against the daylight. “William,” Eleanor called out, a slight tremor in her voice. He turned, that once-fiery passion in his gaze replaced with calm detachment. “Are you really not going to take the three million?” Eleanor blurted, recalling how they’d built their life together. They'd dated for four years during college before tying the knot, and though their love once burned bright, the flames had cooled to ashes. William had always been there, her unshakable support while she climbed to fame, transforming from an ordinary college student into a celebrated singer. She had once been pregnant with his child but made the choice to end it, prioritizing her career. Now, as her star continued to rise, she felt his shadow trailing her success, their connection unraveling like a fraying thread. Eleanor’s heart twisted as memories flooded back. So much had changed in their three years of marriage—two lives intertwined now felt worlds apart. They had grown distant, too distant, sharing space but also separate rooms for the better part of six months. As always, William was unbothered by material possessions—a testament to their emotional chasm. He signed the divorce agreement without protest, relinquishing all claims to their shared assets, even dismissing the hush money Evelyn had suggested. “You’ve got your career to think about,” he replied coolly. Watching him, Eleanor felt a wave of regret wash over her. “Don't you want any of it? The house? The car?” With a soft smile, he said, “After all these years, you still don’t get it. It’s a pity,” before turning away, leaving her alone in the car, her heart heavy with the weight of lost dreams. Evelyn turned to Eleanor, concern etched on her face. “What does that mean? He won’t try to cause trouble for you, will he?” Sighing, she shook her head. “No, I know him. He won’t.” Evelyn's mood brightened as she switched gears. “Good news! You’ve been invited to be a lead performer on ‘I, the Bard’ Season Three!” Eleanor’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really? That’s amazing!” A lead performer on such a high-profile show could skyrocket her career, elevating her to the top tier. But just as quickly, her excitement waned at the thought of her competition. “Who else is in the lineup?” she asked, her voice falling. When Evelyn mentioned Isabella Sullivan, excitement turned to dread. Isabella, the untouchable diva of the music scene, was everything Eleanor wanted to be but was currently not. “But she’s been facing a ton of negative press lately,” Evelyn offered optimistically. “You might just seize your shot.” “Replace Isabella Sullivan. Rise to the top.” Eleanor’s eyes lit up. It was time to step out of shadows and let her star shine. Meanwhile, William took a taxi back to their shared home. He felt an odd mix of relief and nostalgia as he packed his belongings, glancing around the place that had once felt like a sanctuary. He stepped outside with his suitcase, the sun blazing down a harsh reminder of the reality he now faced. “Divorced on Earth, and now it feels the same here in Blueford,” he chuckled to himself, the absurdity of his situation not lost on him. For the past twenty-six years, this place had been his home, yet ever since that minor car accident a month ago, fragments of a past life on Earth had begun to flicker in and out of his memory. They were hazy images, but one thing was clear: he had divorced before, in a life long forgotten. As if summoned by his thoughts, a series of lines appeared in the air before him, invisible to all but him, like echoes from a distant past: “‘Alas, Not You’ Earth memory replication in progress, Replication progress 1%. 'The Common Path' Earth memory replication in progress, Replication progress 1%. 'The Fateful Meeting' Earth memory replication in progress, Replication progress 1%. 'The Lone Brave' Earth memory replication in progress, Replication progress 1%.”
Chapter 2
In the bustling city of Linjiang, nestled in the heart of Skyfall Guild’s headquarters, there was an office that often felt like a glass cage. A woman stood by the expansive floor-to-ceiling window, staring down at the chaotic rhythm of traffic below, lost in her thoughts. Her face was delicately shaped like an almond, with brows that arched like distant mountains and eyes shimmering like autumn waters. She had a figure that could stop traffic, and even though she wore a simple white blouse and faded jeans, she outshone even the glitziest of starlets—who were decked out in designer threads and heavy makeup. But the woman’s undeniable beauty was overshadowed by her frosty demeanor, akin to Isolde the Solitary in a winter’s night; stunning, yet exuding an aura that kept others at bay. The recent swirl of gossip had twisted her into something unrecognizable—a ruthless gold-digger, shamelessly climbing the social ladder, or so the whispers claimed. And just to add salt to the wound, she had recently battled a severe illness that had left her voice raspy, and now even more vultures were circling, eager to witness her fall from grace. Isabella Sullivan had skyrocketed to fame in just three short years. From Best New Artist to a nominee for Album of the Year, she was now dubbed the little queen of the music scene. But swift success often leaves casualties, and many were miffed that she had occupied their spotlight. What truly gnawed at Isabella, however, wasn’t merely the rumors swirling around her. It was the ominous package sitting squarely on her desk. The box had already been opened, revealing a photo of her—Isabella Sullivan—boldly adorned with three crimson words scrawled across it: *Wait for me.* “Isabella, Laura, that’s the third one we’ve received in a month!” Ethan Helper, a chubby guy with a freckled face, fretted, his usual bravado replaced with a note of panic. These days, Isabella couldn’t catch a break. In addition to the constant stream of slander, she was awash in envelopes that reeked of threat. The company had reported the incidents to the authorities, but scarily, the packages appeared to be left anonymously outside the Skyfall doors rather than sent through the mail. The police were still at a standstill, unable to identify who had dispatched the items. The culprits could range from competitive rivals to dangerously obsessed fans. And if it were the latter? That could spell trouble, for many artists had faced harassment or even worse at the hands of delusional fans. The agency had initially considered hiring a bodyguard for Isabella, but given the drama surrounding her, it would only add fuel to the fire—she’d be seen as yet another diva flaunting her status. Eventually, Isabella’s assistant, Laura, proposed bringing in a “personal assistant” under the guise of a mere helper to act as her protector. Though, given Isabella’s reticent nature, she had been cold to the idea of having strangers shadow her. So far, the interviews had resulted in one rejection after another. With a sinking heart, Laura glanced at Isabella, who now stood with her back turned, absorbing the bustle of life below, her silhouette striking against the world outside. Examining her phone, Laura’s attention shifted when a call came through from an unknown number. “Hello, is this Laura?” a suave voice asked on the line. “Yeah, this is she,” Laura replied, all professionalism. “I saw the job listing online. I’m interested in the personal assistant role,” he explained smoothly. “Great. If you send me your resume to this email, I’ll review it and let you know if we’d like to schedule an interview,” Laura responded, ticking through her checklist. “Sure, thanks.” The voice dissipated from the line. “Laura, another one’s applied!” Ethan said, his face lighting up as he peered over her shoulder. Before long, Laura received an email. “Whoa, he’s a total hottie!” Emma, the office intern, gasped, eyes wide. “William Greenwood, age 26, has experience as both an assistant and a bodyguard—he’s a solid match! Isabella, you really need to check this out,” Ethan urged, practically bouncing. Isabella slowly turned to face them, her stunning visage betraying no emotion. “You guys can decide,” she said, her voice slightly husky, a remnant from her illness—a note of concern for both Laura and Emma. Next week, Isabella had to gear up for the first episode of *I, the Bard.* Weighing down on her mind were the relentless rumors and the uncertainty concerning her recovering voice. Laura’s hopes had shifted—the only thing she wished for now was to navigate this tumultuous period unscathed. “Okay, I’ll call him in for an interview,” she confirmed, knowing that despite the numerous candidates they’d sifted through—none had met Isabella’s expectations. After calling William and giving him directions to the office, Laura noticed Isabella had retreated back to the window, gazing down at the swarm of people, lost in her private thoughts. Half an hour later, William Greenwood stepped into the expansive lobby of Skyfall Guild, pulling a suitcase along behind him. “Didn’t think I’d be back here again,” he said, glancing up at the towering building. His memories flickered to his time as Eleanor Blackwood’s assistant, where he’d watched the building from the shadows, keeping his presence unnoticed. Now, freshly divorced from Eleanor, here he was again—only this time with fresh scars and a burning determination to rebuild. His mind echoed with two unfinished songs, their progress still locked at a mere one percent.
Chapter 3
William needed a place to land. Sure, he had some cash, but he couldn't just keep living in a hotel indefinitely. If he could snag a job that included housing, that would be ideal. Scrolling through a job portal, he spotted something that fit the bill—personal assistant. After all, he had worked as an assistant to Eleanor for three years, so he definitely had the experience. He wasn’t too concerned about which celebrity at Skyfall Guild needed an assistant; the entertainment industry left a sour note in his mouth. Once, he had admired the naiveté of youthful actresses, only to see them morph into sharp-edged businesspeople, their innocence drowned in ambition. It was just a big cesspool—what good could there be among them? Entering Skyfall Guild, William called Henry from reception, and shortly after, a plump woman with a round face appeared to lead him. “Hi, Mr. William. Right this way, please.” Margaret smiled at him, thinking to herself, wow, he looks even better in person than in his photos. None of those male stars could hold a candle to him. “Thanks,” William replied, following Margaret into an office. As he stepped inside, his eyes immediately caught a stunning scene. A long-haired figure stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at the bustling street below. Sunlight poured in, casting a soft golden hue across her graceful form, highlighting her stunning curves. Yet, even with the sun blazing, it couldn't melt the chill that radiated from her. She felt like a lonely plum blossom blooming in the cold of winter, untouched by warmth and destined to bloom only against the night’s harsh chill. “That’s Isabella, isn’t it? She’s the one looking for a personal assistant.” After spending three years in the industry, William recognized Isabella instantly. Dubbed the "Songbird of the Year," she had two notable traits—her legs and her icy demeanor. Her long legs were legendary in the industry—toned and shapely, the ideal model’s legs. But it was her frostiness that set her apart; aside from her singing, she hardly spoke, and rarely smiled at anyone. So why would this ice queen need a personal assistant? Just then, a middle-aged woman sitting on the couch broke the silence. “Mr. William, have a seat.” William diverted his gaze and took a seat across from her. “Mr. William, we’re on a tight schedule, so let’s jump right into the interview,” Henry said, sizing him up with interest. She noted he had the looks to make it as a star himself, although he was here for a different purpose. “I trust you’ve seen the job requirements in the listing? This position is quite unique. You’ll be doing some assistant work, but your primary role will also be that of a bodyguard. Your main responsibility is to ensure the safety of our boss. What do you think qualifies you for this job?” Without hesitation, William replied, “I worked as an assistant and bodyguard for three years. Is that an advantage?” Henry exchanged glances with Margaret before asking, “Mr. William, can you reveal who your previous employer was, and why you left?” “Sorry, I promised to maintain confidentiality,” William said, trying to sound polite. “As for why I quit, I guess we both just lost interest after a while.” Although that last comment sounded a bit off, Henry didn’t press further about his previous employer. Instead, she asked William a series of professional questions related to being an assistant and the duties of a bodyguard. William answered each one with ease. Henry was impressed, and Margaret thought this handsome William guy was a real catch. However, in the end, it would be Isabella's call. At that moment, Isabella finally turned from the window. Her breathtakingly beautiful yet aloof face was enough to leave previous interviewees either breathless or stunned. Yet William remained unruffled. Having been Eleanor's assistant and bodyguard, he had been around beautiful stars plenty. Underneath those glamorous exteriors lay souls often riddled with greed and superficiality. Even though Isabella was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, he knew from experience that looks could be deceiving in this industry. She studied William, intrigued to find someone so calm in her presence. Most candidates had visibly displayed their excitement, their desires evident the moment they realized they’d be working alongside Isabella. What she needed was someone who wouldn’t be dazzled by her beauty, someone who could do the job without any complications. This man, who was clearly unaffected by her looks, seemed to tick all the right boxes. Isabella walked toward him, her long legs moving with a grace that belied her chilly demeanor, accentuating her figure effortlessly. She arrived at his side, extending her hand, “Mr. William, you’re hired.” William stood up, delaying the handshake to ask the question uppermost in his mind. “Does this job come with housing?” A hush fell over the room, and Margaret quickly interjected, “It includes food and lodging.” William nodded, extending his hand to Isabella for a brief, gentle shake. “Thanks for the opportunity, Boss.” In that moment, a strange feeling washed over him. As their hands touched, a rush of text flickered through his mind: “Alas, Not You” Earth Memory Reconstruction Progress: 20%. “The Common Path” Earth Memory Reconstruction Progress: 15%. “The Fateful Meeting” Earth Memory Reconstruction Progress: 10%. “The Lone Brave” Earth Memory Reconstruction Progress: 5%.
Chapter 4
“Mr. Greenwood, here’s the contract. Please review it and sign if everything looks good.” Inside a sleek, white Whitestone Carriage, Margaret Morgan was at the wheel while Henry Johnson sat in the passenger seat. In the back, Isabella Sullivan and William Greenwood occupied the second row. Isabella sat stiffly, her posture impeccable, her left side pressed against the window as she gazed out with eyes as deep and reflecting as water. She kept as much distance from William Greenwood as possible. William couldn't help but wonder. If she disliked interacting with strange men so much, why hire a male assistant like James? Just then, Henry turned to pass the contract back to him. “Alright.” William took the paper, its contents echoing the conversation he had just had in Isabella’s office. Isabella Sullivan was the employer, and he was the hired help. A promising monthly salary of ten grand, plus bonuses, meals included, and housing provided. The initial commitment was three months, with renewal dependent solely on the employer’s discretion. More troubling was the confidentiality clause, which mandated that he not disclose anything about his work or the people he worked with—essentially, he was a spy. William chuckled softly. This wasn’t a typical job for James; it felt like something out of a spy novel. Still, he brushed it off—after all, three months was just a transitional phase for him, a way to clear his head after the divorce. Plus, it offered a chance to delve into the mystery behind Earth’s memories. Earlier, when he had briefly held Isabella’s hand, he felt a surge in the reproduction of those elusive Earth songs he had been trying to unearth for months. Could engaging with the singer unlock some hidden potential? But he had been close to Eleanor Blackwood too, and that hadn’t yielded any progress on those songs stuck at a dismal one percent. The question loomed unanswered, but it didn’t deter him. He quickly signed the contract and pushed it back toward Henry, who was now watching Isabella. “Isabella, now we can discuss the details, right?” he asked. Isabella turned her gaze from the window, nodding subtly. Henry's demeanor shifted, turning serious as he retrieved three photographs from his bag and handed them to William. William’s brow furrowed as he looked at the images—each one featured Isabella, and it appeared they had been taken without her knowledge. Scrawled on each photo in jagged, red letters were the words: “Wait for me.” The unsettling message sent a chill down his spine. William's expression hardened as he met Henry’s gaze. “Someone wants to harm Miss Sullivan. Who is it?” Henry’s face was grim. “The police are investigating, but given Isabella’s public persona, this isn’t something we can broadcast. We just have to hope they figure it out soon.” Understanding dawned on William. “So my job is to protect her until then.” Henry nodded, while Margaret smirked, glancing back from the front seat. “That means you’ll be on twenty-four-hour watch. Definitely need to stay close." Half an hour later, the Whitestone Carriage rolled into the underground garage of a charming little complex. William’s eyes scanned the name: Clara’s Grove. After Margaret parked, they took the elevator up to the sixth floor. Stepping into Isabella’s apartment, William was surprised by the understated elegance of the decor. The predominantly white furniture radiated a serene, albeit cold, ambiance. The apartment had two stories. The first floor boasted a living room, dining area, kitchen, and two rooms. A staircase connected downstairs to a second floor. “Mr. Greenwood, you’ll be living here from now on,” Henry said, echoing the unusual nature of the situation. “Isn’t this Miss Sullivan’s home? I'm staying here?” William was taken aback, his eyes flitting to Isabella, who had already moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, her back to him. She had an odd way of keeping to herself but often seemed drawn to looking outside, a contradiction in her demeanor. Margaret grinned, her tone light. “Exactly! If you’re going to protect Isabella around the clock, it makes sense to be right here with her.” “Thank you both, but you should head home now.” Isabella turned from the window, addressing Henry and Margaret with a calm authority. “Isabella…” Henry hesitated, wanting to say more, but a glance at Isabella’s cool demeanor silenced him. She exhaled gently. “Tomorrow, I have to go to Starford to record ‘I, the Bard.’ We’ll be here by eight in the morning.” William nodded in agreement. As they prepared to leave, Margaret winked at William, giving him a playful fist pump. “Mr. Greenwood, go get ‘em!” William chuckled softly, watching as they exited, leaving him alone with Isabella in the large, silent space. Clearing his throat, he realized he felt awkward, unsure of how to bridge the ice between them. Isabella stretched her hand toward the sofa, her voice slightly hoarse as she invited, “Please, have a seat.” William sat down and noticed her handing him a document from her bag. As he took it, the header read, “Private Assistant Living Agreement,” listing several stipulations: “Living spaces for the assistant include the first-floor living room, kitchen, and bathroom, but access to the second floor is strictly prohibited.” “Except for necessary work-related interactions, the assistant cannot intrude on Isabella Sullivan’s private life for any reason.” “No guests allowed at any time.” Each clause was deliberately constraining. William could appreciate her perspective; after all, sharing a space with a man she'd just met for three months would be unsettling for anyone.
Chapter 5
James had a hunch that the whole personal assistant and bodyguard gig was something Henry Johnson had pushed for, while Isabella Sullivan was probably reluctant about the whole arrangement. After Laura Secretary and James had left, Isabella pulled out the “cohabitation agreement,” looking a bit frazzled. James didn’t mind much; if Isabella wanted to avoid dealing with a strange guy like him, that was fine. He didn’t have that high of an opinion about people in the entertainment industry, anyway. Besides, with her reputation taking a hit lately—rumors about scandals and being a mistress floating around online—he wasn’t inclined to think about her in any way other than professional. For him, this was just a temporary job to tide him over. He signed the agreement without a second thought. Isabella took it back, gesturing toward a room to the left in the living room. “You’ll stay in there.” With that, she headed up the stairs. “Do you have any food in the house? What do you want for dinner?” Being a personal assistant included cooking, and Henry had specifically asked about James’s culinary skills during the interview. In today’s world, it seemed men often cooked better than women. James knew this from experience; whenever he was with Eleanor Blackwood, he usually ended up behind the stove. “I’m not hungry. There are ingredients in the fridge. You can make something for yourself,” Isabella called over her shoulder as she disappeared up the stairs. James shrugged. He had heard about Isabella being sick, and from what he could see, her complexion was still off—definitely not fully recovered yet. Not eating? A little too keen on the whole ‘fairy’ act, if you asked him. But then again, she was the boss, and he didn’t want to overstep. He opened the fridge to find it stocked with groceries, probably bought earlier by Margaret Morgan. It was already evening, so James decided to whip up a steaming bowl of beef over rice. After polishing off his meal, he headed to his designated room to unpack his clean clothes and personal items. The room was spacious and well-lit, with a television and a computer—it felt more like a five-star hotel than a rental. James nodded in satisfaction; a job with food and lodging was definitely a sweet deal. Except for the fact that his boss was a total ice queen. With the first floor free for him to roam, he figured he might as well familiarize himself with the layout of the house. You never knew when an emergency might strike. As he made his way down the stairs, he faintly heard music and singing coming from upstairs. Isabella must be practicing. Curious, James realized he had heard her sing before; she had a nice voice, but this time, it was a little rough. Probably due to her illness. Suddenly, he froze. The familiar tunes played through his mind—“Alas, Not You,” “The Common Path,” “The Fateful Meeting,” and “The Lone Brave”—each one slowly registering its progress as his memories from Earth flickered back to life. With Isabella’s singing filtering through the house, the progress of those songs surged ahead, inching up with each note. Minutes passed, and when one song ended, he noted that the revival progress for “Alas, Not You” had leapt to 35%. “The Lone Brave” had trudged to 15%, the slowest of them all. James couldn’t help but feel exhilarated. Could it be that just being near Isabella was enhancing the recovery of his memories? At that moment, he heard the sound of footsteps and a door creaking open upstairs. Must be Isabella leaving her practice space. “Isabella, I made extra beef over rice. Want some?” he called up the stairs. A moment later, a beautiful but pale face appeared, glancing down at him. “I’m not hungry,” she replied. Then, her expression shifted. “I’m going to take a shower now. Don’t come upstairs.” James nodded, “Don’t worry, I’ll stick to the agreement.” Isabella looked him over for a split second before retreating back inside. He heard her footsteps fade, followed by the sound of water running. James decided not to eavesdrop any longer. Instead, he plopped down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling and getting lost in thought about his future. Both he and Eleanor had studied vocal performance in college, but in terms of talent, he’d always felt he was a cut above her. Eleanor craved the spotlight, while he was much more comfortable being the one behind it, supporting her instead. But now, with his past memories reigniting, he believed he’d tap into the artistic spirit that once lived inside him. It was time to test just how far those abilities would take him. He had no intention of signing with a big agency; they tended to treat artists as nothing more than profit machines. Just look at Isabella. Despite the heavy criticism she faced online, the Skyfall Guild didn’t seem interested in helping her—they just kept hustling to line up gigs and endorsements. That’s when the idea struck him. He’d be a professional outsider. In Blueford, most artists had to sign with management agencies to break into the entertainment industry. However, there was also room for talented amateurs, who could publish their work on a platform known as “Commoner's Stand.” If you made a mark, your talent could earn you a living. “Commoner's Stand,” or “Sovereign Station” as it was also called, was akin to Earth’s Bilibili or TikTok—an easily accessible platform where anyone could share their art. James’s first big goal? To become a major player in the Sovereign Station music section. That would be his launchpad into the entertainment world. Lost in thought, James was jolted back to reality when he realized it had grown dark outside, and there was still no sign of movement from the second floor. That seemed off. She’d been in the shower for over an hour. “Isabella, Isabella!” he called, stepping to the foot of the stairs. Silence echoed in response. Suddenly, a trickle of water caught his eye as it streamed down the steps. Without a second thought, he darted up the stairs, panic surging through him. The light from the bathroom was on, and water was rushing out from under the door. “Isabella! Isabella!” he shouted, pounding on the door. Still no response. The door was locked—he couldn’t get it open. In crisis mode, James didn’t pause to think. He backed up a few paces and slammed his foot against the door, kicking it in. The bathroom was spacious, complete with a wet/dry separation. The bathtub was overflowing, water streaming everywhere. And there, lying motionless in the tub, was Isabella Sullivan, completely undressed.
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