In a grand manor tucked away in the quiet hills of the city's most exclusive district, a boy slept soundly, his breathing slow and steady. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
Knock, knock.
"Young Master, it's morning. Please wake up," came a soft, respectful voice from behind the carved wooden door.
The door opened gently, and a maid stepped inside, her footsteps light as feathers across the marble floor. When her eyes landed on the boy's sleeping face, she paused.
There he was—his silver hair tousled across the silk pillow, features serene and impossibly handsome. Even after years of serving him, she still found herself momentarily breathless.
How can someone be this beautiful? she thought, walking closer. It's unfair to the rest of us.
She knelt beside the bed, reached out her hand, and gently shook him. "Young Master… it's time to wake up."
The boy stirred slightly, a soft hum escaping his lips.
"Mm…"
But then—
Wait.
That wasn't his voice.
That wasn't his bed.
He cracked his eyes open, slowly at first, and then all at once.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
A high ceiling with ornate molding. Velvet curtains spilling sunlight into a room filled with art, antiques, and books. The bed beneath him was massive—fit for royalty. He looked down at his hands. Pale, refined, elegant. These weren't his hands.
What the hell…?
"Young Master, are you alright?" the maid asked, blinking at him. "Did you not sleep well?"
He sat up, the covers falling from his shoulders, revealing a toned chest and soft silk sleepwear. His heart was racing, and his mind was a storm.
"This… This isn't my room."
"Young Master?" the maid repeated.
He stared at her blankly, the pieces clicking together in slow motion.
This is real. I'm not in my old apartment. I'm not me anymore. I've… transmigrated.
Suddenly, like a floodgate bursting open, memories that weren't his began to pour into his mind—overwhelming and vivid. The name of the body he now inhabited:
Allen Campbell.
Heir to the Campbell Conglomerate. Rich. Brilliant. Tragic.
A boy who died quietly in his sleep after a lifetime of emotional neglect and a broken heart.
The reason? His childhood sweetheart, Emma, had refused to marry him—and everything shattered after that.
Allen's parents—Sophia and William—had raised him like an heir, not a son. Groomed him, measured him, compared him. Never once held him when he cried. And now, here Alex was, in Allen's body, facing that cold world… but with a very different soul.
Well… not anymore.
"Good morning, Young Master," the maid said again, this time with a nervous smile. "Please get ready. Master William has called for you—and Miss Emma is arriving soon."
Emma… The name sparked like flint in his chest.
Tall, elegant, with a face like winter frost. Beautiful, but distant. Cold, even to her own parents. Allen had loved her for years, but she'd only ever looked at him with pity. Or worse—disgust.
A mischievous thought entered his mind. She's coming, huh? Maybe I should just stay in bed, pull this cute maid in with me, run my fingers through her soft black hair…
SLAP.
He slapped himself across the face.
"Focus!" he whispered sharply to himself. "You're not here to be a creep. You're here to take control."
System, if you're out there, now would be a good time to show up, he thought silently. But no blue screens appeared. No robotic voice. Nothing.
Back to reality.
"Young Master?" the maid called again, this time from the door. "Please… Madam Sophia prepared breakfast herself today. She'll be disappointed if you don't come."
He stood up and walked to the mirror. The reflection that stared back was almost frighteningly perfect: silver hair that shimmered like moonlight, piercing blue eyes, skin smoother than cream. This wasn't the face of a broken boy anymore.
It was the face of someone with a second chance.
He turned back to the maid with a lazy grin. "Alright, Sister Anna. I'll get ready. But you really are my favorite. So cute."
He pulled her into a gentle hug and pinched her cheeks softly.
"M-Mou… Young Master!" she yelped, turning crimson. "Let me go! I-I still have work to do… and Madam Sophia will be so sad if you skip breakfast!"
He let her go with a laugh and threw on a soft robe. "Tell her I'm coming. And tell Father to keep his stock lectures short."
The Campbell estate's dining hall was something out of a modern palace—gold-trimmed walls, soft jazz playing from built-in speakers, and a long marble table that could seat twenty.
At the far end sat three people.
William Campbell, the father—rigid posture, dressed in a three-piece suit even at home, reading financial reports on a tablet like they were holy scripture.
Sophia Campbell, the mother—elegant, poised, but distant. She stirred her tea with the calm precision of someone who hadn't felt warmth in years.
And finally, Emma.
She was sitting quietly, her long black coat draped over the chair, legs crossed, eyes cold. Her expression was unreadable, but her presence drew attention like a blade in a glass case—beautiful, dangerous, and untouchable.
Allen—no, Alex—walked in with effortless confidence, the robe swapped for a crisp designer suit. His hair slightly tousled, like he hadn't tried… but still looked perfect.
Sophia looked up. "Allen. Sit down."
He didn't move toward the chair. Instead, he stood at the head of the table.
"I'll be brief," he said calmly.
Everyone turned to him.
"I'm calling off the engagement," he said. "Effective immediately."
The air froze. Even the music seemed to go silent.
Emma's eyes narrowed just slightly. William's tablet lowered by an inch. Sophia blinked once.
"I have no intention of marrying someone who doesn't want me. And I have no intention of being used as a political pawn."
He turned to Emma.
"You're free," he said, with a small smirk. "Congratulations."
And with that, he turned and walked away—leaving behind three stunned expressions, a broken engagement, and the first bold move in a game he fully intended to win.