The next morning, I woke up to the soft rustle of curtains and the faint clinking of porcelain.
A maid had entered at some point—quiet as a ghost—and placed a breakfast tray on the small marble table beside my bed.
The sunlight spilled across my legs, warm and gentle, and for a moment I basked in it the way lizards do on hot rocks.
No existential dread about finishing ten files before 9 a.m.
Just… comfort.
And pancakes.
"Thank you," I said, sitting up and sliding the tray onto my lap.
The maid bowed. "If you need anything else, please ring the bell."
She glided out of the room.
I stared at the pancakes.
Golden. Fluffy. Perfect.
I took a bite and nearly sobbed. They tasted like wealth. Like freedom. Like a chef with long career experience who probably had no idea he'd just changed a young woman's entire outlook on life.
Halfway through breakfast, my phone vibrated on the nightstand.
I picked it up, narrowing my eyes at the unfamiliar interface. Violet Hawthorne had a nicer phone than I'd ever owned. Of course she did.
A single message:
Mack: I'll be at the office all day. Dad wants you to attend the executive orientation at 10. Don't be late.
I stared for a long moment.
Executive orientation.
Me.
An executive.
Someone who, in my old world, had once been written up for taking too long of a lunch break.
I set my pancakes aside and got out of bed, feeling the slight dread of responsibility creeping up my spine. But then I spotted the closet again, and excitement won.
Time to dress like a rich girl.
I walked inside and examined the rows of clothes. Soft silk blouses. Cashmere sweaters. Tailored trousers. Shoes that looked more expensive than my old monthly rent.
After several minutes of indecision, I picked a simple pastel blouse and a pair of trousers that fit like they were custom-made. I didn't know if Violet had been fashionable, but I planned to be.
Once dressed, I glanced at myself in the vanity mirror.
I looked… competent. Mature. The kind of person people wouldn't question when she walked into a boardroom.
"That's right," I told my reflection. "Fake it til you make it."
I grabbed my bag—a sleek designer purse I would've never touched in my old life—then headed downstairs.
The Hawthorne driver was waiting outside with the same polished car as yesterday. He opened the door, bowing slightly.
"Good morning, Miss Violet."
"It is a good morning," I agreed, stepping in. "I'm alive. Rich. I had pancakes. Nothing can ruin today."
Famous last words.
The car pulled onto the main road. The city looked crisp and bright, the morning air cool, the sidewalks bustling with people who had no idea I was living a secret BL-reincarnation storyline.
I relaxed into the seat and scrolled through Violet's phone calendar.
Meetings, events, and executive responsibilities.
It was horrifying. But also kind of thrilling.
Eventually, the car rolled to a stop in front of a towering glass building.
The Hawthorne Corporation.
The place where my new brother worked. The place where I was apparently employed as a junior executive—a position the original Violet probably earned through nepotism, terrifying her coworkers in the process.
I stepped out, straightened my blouse, and walked through the large revolving doors.
People in suits rushed past. A receptionist glanced up, recognized me instantly, and stood.
"Good morning, Miss Hawthorne."
I waved with a friendliness that made her blink. "Morning."
As I made my way toward the elevators, I caught several confused looks. Whispering. A few double-takes.
Right. Original Violet had been rude, impatient, hard to approach.
Me being polite was probably throwing them all off.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped in and was joined by two other employees, both wearing badges and exhausted expressions.
One of them pushed the button for floor 31—the executive level.
The ride was quiet until the woman beside me cleared her throat.
"Miss Hawthorne?" she asked softly.
"Yes?"
"I… I'm glad you're feeling better."
Her eyes darted away as if terrified I'd snap at her.
I smiled. "Thanks. That means a lot."
Both employees stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
The elevator dinged before they could fully process the personality shift, and I stepped out into a sleek hallway with frosted glass doors.
A sign read: Executive Orientation — Conference Room A
Right. Time to pretend I wasn't about to embarrass myself at a company worth billions.
I walked in, sat through a painfully detailed lecture about corporate workflow, nodded intelligently when people made eye contact, and took notes even though I barely understood 40% of what was happening.
But I kept my expression neutral, professional—even slightly bored.
Rich people always looked bored. It was practically part of the aesthetic.
After the meeting, I checked my phone. Nothing urgent. No chaos. No pheromone-activated disasters.
Which meant…
I was free.
And rich.
And bored.
The perfect combination for a shopping trip.
The driver dropped me off at one of the most luxurious shopping districts in the city. Wide marble walkways. Storefronts decorated like miniature art galleries. Soft music playing from unseen speakers.
Immediately, I saw a café selling tiny cakes for horrifying prices.
I wanted three.
But cake could wait. I had a mission: acquire clothes and accessories to complete my new identity as a wealthy young executive with a low tolerance for nonsense and a high tolerance for silk.
As I stepped into the first boutique, the smell of perfume and leather hit me. A sales associate approached with the speed of someone who'd been trained to detect large wallets.
"Welcome, Miss," she said, smiling. "Is there anything specific you're looking for?"
"Yes," I replied. "Comfort. And things that make me look like I know what I'm doing."
She blinked. "…Of course."
I drifted through the store, touching fabrics, admiring price tags with the calmness of someone who wasn't actually paying for any of this.
That was when it happened.
I felt a presence.
Not dangerous. Not alarming.
Just… intense.
A subtle shift in the atmosphere. Like the moment before a storm. Or the moment before a cat decides whether to pounce or walk away.
I turned my head.
And saw her.
A woman standing near the accessories display, dressed in a tailored black coat that fit her like it had been sculpted around her. Dark hair pulled back in a loose twist. Pale skin. Sharp eyes.
Beautiful. Ethereal. Cold.
But the most striking thing about her was the way she was looking at me.
Like she recognized me.
Like she'd been waiting.
Like she had a claim on a memory I hadn't discovered yet.
Our eyes met, and something in my stomach dipped.
She didn't look away.
I blinked, confused. "Um… hi?"
Her lips parted, just slightly, as if she were surprised I spoke.
The sales associate rushed over, completely oblivious to the strange tension. "Miss Hawthorne, these pieces just arrived—"
Hawthorne.
The moment she said it, the woman's eyes sharpened.
Recognition flared.
Not vague familiarity.
Personal recognition.
The woman took a single step forward.
I took a step back.
"Do we… know each other?" I asked carefully.
Her expression didn't change.
But something in the air did—like the world had suddenly narrowed, focusing on only her and me.
She opened her mouth—
—and my phone rang.
Loud. Jarringly loud.
I flinched and fumbled for it. "Sorry—one second—"
It was Father.
Oh god.
I answered quickly. "Yes?"
"Where are you?" His voice was smooth steel.
"Shopping?"
"…Come home. Now."
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone slowly.
When I looked up, the woman was still staring at me, calm on the surface, stormy underneath.
"I—" I cleared my throat. "I have to go."
I turned to leave.
But as I passed her, she spoke.
Just one word.
Soft. Quiet. Intense.
"Violet."
I stopped.
My heart gave a weird, uncomfortable thump.
How did she know my name?
I turned back.
Her eyes locked onto mine with the kind of certainty that made goosebumps rise along my arms.
I'd never seen her before in my life.
But she knew me.
And as I left the boutique, one horrible, sinking realization hit me:
That wasn't just some woman.
That was Marian Stark.
The CEO of the Hawthornes biggest rival
Stark.co.
The one person I absolutely needed to avoid if I wanted a drama-free life.
I stepped quickly onto the sidewalk, face pale.
"Oh no," I whispered.
"The plot found me."