The scent of roses and expensive perfume filled Erin's nose as she snapped awake.
Her eyes shot open.
Velvet drapes. A chandelier dangling above her. Silk sheets beneath her back.
Where… where was she?
The last thing she remembered was icy cold water swallowing her body. Screaming lungs. Darkness.
And now?
She was in a luxury bedroom that looked like it came straight out of a billionaire's catalog.
She bolted upright—too fast—and groaned as her forehead slammed into something hard.
"Ow—!"
A mirror.
She was sitting in front of a massive vanity mirror, dressed in a white satin robe. But it wasn't her face staring back.
Full lips. Long lashes. Glowing skin. Flawless hair.
This face wasn't hers. This wasn't her body.
"What the—?!"
She touched her cheek. It was real. Soft. Warm. Alive.
A wave of memories not her own crashed into her mind—like a movie reel rewinding too fast. Fancy dinners. Cruel words. A cold marriage. Power. Wealth. Pride. Screaming at maids. Slapping assistants. Acting like the queen of the world.
She was Erin Lancaster.
A notoriously arrogant heiress and the wife—no, the legally contracted wife—of a silent, cold CEO named Adrian Blake.
She had… died.
And now, she was inside Erin's body?
Her name—her real name—was Hazel Lin. Orphan. Twenty-five. Died in a car crash caused by a drunk driver after working a double shift. She never had a family. Never had money. Never even had a boyfriend.
And now she had a mansion, a closet bigger than her old apartment, and a marriage contract with the most unreadable man in the country?
"…Holy sh*t," she whispered.
Hazel—no, Erin—stumbled to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly.
She wandered out of the bedroom, pushing open the heavy double doors like a Disney princess lost in someone else's castle.
Marble floors. An indoor fountain. A staircase that spiraled like a movie set.
"Good morning, Mrs. Blake," a maid said with a bow, not even blinking at her dazed expression.
Mrs. Blake.
Mrs. Adrian Blake.
Erin nearly tripped over her own feet.
Before she could ask anything, a deep, steady knock echoed through the hall.
She turned.
And there he was.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Jet-black suit. Pale skin. Ice-cold eyes.
Adrian Blake.
The man didn't speak. Didn't smile. Didn't blink much, either.
He simply held out a box in his hand—a velvet jewelry box.
She took it like a robot and opened it.
A necklace. Thin, delicate, with a tiny sapphire pendant.
He nodded once, turned, and walked away without a word.
"Wait—" she called instinctively, but he was already gone.
The maid behind her smiled. "Mr. Blake always prepares a gift after your fights."
"Fights?"
The memories flashed again.
Old Erin screaming, throwing wine glasses, demanding a yacht. Adrian just standing there like a statue.
He never yelled. Never hit back. Never even talked.
But in those silent eyes… Hazel saw something else. Something raw. Quiet pain. Loneliness.
He was never cold. He was just silent.
The doctors said it was psychological. Selective mutism. Triggered by trauma. No words could come out unless his heart desperately wanted to speak.
And Erin—the old Erin—never once cared to understand.
Hazel's fingers curled around the necklace.
Her voice trembled. "You poor man…"
She looked at her reflection again. This wasn't her life. This wasn't her face. But somehow, fate had thrown her into this twisted fairy tale.
And maybe… just maybe… she could write a better ending.
She touched the mirror, her eyes firm now.
"Don't worry, Erin," she whispered.
"I'll live your life for you. I'll be the wife he deserves. I'll love him, protect him… and maybe, if I'm lucky, he'll smile. Even once."