The first thing Zoe registered was the sledgehammer pounding against the inside of her skull, a relentless, merciless beat that synced with the throb behind her eyeballs. A groan escaped her lips, a raw, unfamiliar sound in the oppressive silence. Silk. That was the second thing. Silk sheets, impossibly smooth and cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the cheap cotton blend she was used to back in her tiny, budget-friendly apartment. Or, what used to be her apartment, when she was Zoe Carter.
Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy and gritty, like they'd been glued shut with sand. The dim light filtering through a gap in heavy blackout curtains did little to illuminate the room, but it was enough to confirm that this was definitely not her cramped studio. This was… palatial. A crystal chandelier, unlit, hung like a dormant galaxy from the high ceiling. Ornate, cream-colored furniture, all curves and gilded edges, loomed in the shadows. A chaise lounge draped with a cashmere throw sat by a pair of towering windows. The air hummed with the low thrum of a high-end air conditioning unit and smelled faintly of expensive cologne, something woodsy and masculine, and… sex. Oh god, yes, the cloying, unmistakable scent of a recent, very enthusiastic romp.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through the fog of her hangover.
She tried to sit up, a gasp tearing from her throat as a wave of soreness washed over her entire body. Every muscle screamed in protest. It wasn't the dull ache of a workout; this was the deep, grinding soreness of… well, she didn't want to think about what it was from. Not yet.
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling another cry as she pushed herself upright, the silk sheets pooling around a waist that felt… different. Thinner. Her breasts, too, felt unfamiliar beneath the thin barrier of a camisole she didn't recognize – a flimsy, lacy thing that was definitely not hers. Her usual sleepwear, back when she was Zoe Carter, consisted of oversized, threadbare t-shirts.
With a growing sense of dread, she forced her gaze downwards. The bed was a disaster zone. Pillows thrown askew, the duvet a rumpled mountain range. Clothes were strewn across the plush carpet with reckless abandon: a pair of men's tailored trousers, a crisp white shirt, a discarded tie like a dead snake. And closer to her side of the bed… a cheap, slightly torn sundress she vaguely remembered the original Emily Miller, the character whose body she was now in, favored in the novel's early descriptions, and a pair of scuffed sandals.
This isn't my body. The thought, a terrifying echo from her initial disorientation, solidified. This was the body of Emily Miller.
And then, a low groan from the other side of the king-sized bed.
Zoe froze, her blood turning to ice water in her veins. She wasn't alone. Slowly, heart hammering, she turned her head.
He was a silhouette, rolling slightly onto his side, his face coming into partial view, illuminated by a sliver of predawn light. Sharp, aristocratic features. A strong jawline, dark, tousled hair. Even asleep, he exuded power.
Zoe's breath hitched. Her mind, Zoe Carter's mind, went into total system overload. Because she knew that face. Not from her life as Zoe, but from the pages of Manhattan's Ice King, the trashy CEO novel she'd been rage-reading.
The male lead. Alexander Sterling.
And if he was Alexander Sterling, then this opulent prison had to be… Suite 1808 at The St. Regis. The infamous opening chapter. The chapter where the innocent Emily Miller gets ruthlessly set up by Isabelle Thorne.
A wave of nausea washed over her. No. Fucking. Way. She, Zoe Carter, had transmigrated. She'd woken up as Emily Miller, the cannon fodder, the character whose sole purpose was to be humiliated and discarded.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," she whispered, the voice that came out soft and trembling – Emily Miller's voice.
The original Emily Miller was naive, an art student from a small Midwestern town, the perfect victim. And now I, Zoe Carter, am her.
The absurdity was overwhelming. But laughter was a luxury. According to Manhattan's Ice King, Isabelle's goons were due at 6:00 AM sharp. A glance at the bedside clock: 5:37 AM. Twenty-three minutes to not become roadkill.
Zoe Carter's mind, the mind of a modern marketing assistant who dissected plot holes for fun, kicked into overdrive. Panic was useless. Original Emily had panicked. Zoe would strategize.
She scanned the room. Original Emily's cheap sundress. Her purse. What was in it? How did Original Emily get here? The book mentioned a gallery opening, a spilled drink, a drugged replacement. Classic.
The man beside her stirred again, a more definitive movement. A low growl.
Showtime.
Zoe held her breath, feigning sleep. She needed to see his reaction first. The book's Alexander Sterling was an ice block.
He pushed himself up, surveying the room with weary, world-class annoyance. His stormy Atlantic eyes finally landed on her, narrowing.
"Who the hell are you?" His voice was a low, gravelly baritone, edged with steel. Script-perfect.
Zoe Carter, now operating as Emily Miller, knew Original Emily would scream or cry. Zoe had other plans. She let out a small whimper, slowly opening her eyes, feigning bewildered innocence.
"Where… where am I?" she whispered, Emily Miller's voice trembling. "What happened? Last night… I was at the gallery opening… with my friend Chloe…" Her gaze drifted to his bare chest, then back to his eyes, widening them. "And who… who are you?"
Alexander's expression didn't soften. Impatience? Suspicion? His eyes raked over her. "Save the act," he said, his voice colder. "You know exactly who I am, and I'm fairly certain you know how you got here." He sat up, reaching for his trousers, his muscular back a brief, unwelcome distraction for Zoe's racing thoughts. Not the time, Carter!
"I… I really don't," Emily (Zoe within) insisted, voice frantic. "I had a glass of wine… maybe two… and then everything's a blur. I… I wouldn't…" A delicate sob. Internally, Zoe cringed. Pathetic. But necessary.
He stood, a titan in creased pants, chest bare. "Let's cut the charade, Miss…?" One eyebrow arched.
Zoe Carter took a deep breath. Twenty minutes. Less now.
"Miller," she supplied, Emily Miller's voice, but with a new firmness Zoe injected. "Emily Miller."
"Miss Miller," Alexander acknowledged, name like an accusation. "I'm not interested in fairy tales. What I am interested in is a number. How much will it take for you to disappear quietly and never mention this night, or my name, to anyone?"
The classic line. Zoe almost wanted to mentally high-five the universe for its sheer, unadulterated commitment to a terrible trope. Outwardly, a genuine tear escaped. His presence was potent, even for a collection of clichés.
"I… I don't understand," she stammered, buying time. What would Original Emily never do?
Knock. Knock. KNOCK.
Sharp, insistent raps from the suite door, a muffled, agitated male voice. "Mr. Sterling? Mr. Sterling, sir, are you in there? There are… concerns!"
Emily's (Zoe's) head snapped towards the door. Genuine panic finally flooded her. The "concerns" were here. The "raid" was on.
Alexander's jaw tightened. That unreadable emotion was back, stronger. Annoyance, and something like… resignation.
The script was on track. And Zoe Carter, in the ill-fitting shoes of Emily Miller, was right in the goddamn spotlight.