When Alex woke up, his head was throbbing like it was stuffed with wet towels. His whole body felt heavy, like he'd just been pulled out of boiling water. He forced his eyes open.
Above him was a ceiling covered in gold and fancy paintings. The walls had tall mirrors framed with intricate carvings. Velvet curtains let in soft morning light. The furniture around him looked like it belonged in a museum.
He blinked, completely lost.
"Isn't this... the palace I once visited in Paris? The one that looked like Versailles?"
He glanced around again.
This was definitely not his $4,000-a-month shoebox studio in Midtown Manhattan, where his bed, kitchen, and desk shared the same five square meters. There was no peeling IKEA shelf in sight. No noisy radiator. No smell of burnt coffee.
Something was seriously off. This wasn't his broke workaholic life.
Just then, a young woman in 19th-century maid clothes rushed to his bedside. She gasped when she saw his eyes open.
"You're awake! I must call the doctor—right away, Your Grace, the Duke of Reichstadt!"
Duke of what now?
Alex froze. His voice was stuck in his throat. He looked down and saw... tiny hands. Pale, small, not his.
He jumped out of bed and stumbled over to a nearby mirror.
A seven-year-old boy stared back at him.
"What the—"
Before he could even finish the thought, the doctor arrived, checked his temperature, and gave him some kind of bitter syrup. The next moment, darkness swallowed him again.
In that deep sleep, Alex began to remember.
He was born Alex Carter, in the middle of nowhere—rural Missouri. Cornfields. Rusty trucks. Dirt roads. He'd known from a young age that if he didn't fight for a different life, he'd die just like everyone else there: invisible.
So he studied. Hard.
He got into Syracuse University, majoring in biotech. His dream was to become a doctor, but med school was too long, too expensive. So after graduation, he took a job in Boston at a biotech company. $70,000 a year. Not bad—until you added student loans, rent, food, and taxes. Boston wasn't cheap, and neither was surviving.
After finally paying off his undergrad loans, he borrowed more to chase a better life. An MBA at Columbia. That meant two more years of debt, stress, and over 200 coffee chats. He memorized every post on Wall Street Oasis and practiced interviews until 4 a.m.
Eventually, he made it.
An investment banking associate on Wall Street.
His salary doubled. So did his misery.
He worked 100 hours a week. Slept under his desk more than in bed. His boss screamed at him daily, clients nitpicked everything. His college girlfriend dumped him. His parents complained he never called.
After four brutal years, he finally paid off all his loans. Saved enough for a down payment on a tiny apartment in Long Island City. He jumped to a top global PE firm—his dream job.
That was the day everything fell apart.
He walked into the company's Midtown skyscraper for his first day. Just past the marble lobby, he got a text:
"Alex, I don't think we're right for each other. I need someone who's there for me. Let me know when I can return the ring."
It was from his fiancée.
Just last month, she had cried with joy when he proposed. He'd spent his entire year-end bonus on a massive Harry Winston diamond ring.
Now she was leaving him. Just like that.
Still staring at the screen, frozen in disbelief, he heard the scream. Then the gunshot.
A man—sick, angry, and armed—was shooting at random.
Alex never had a chance to react.
Everything went black.
He opened his eyes again, lying in the golden bed. Soft light. Painted ceilings. Heavy silence.
Voices whispered outside the door. Two maids.
"Poor little Duke," one said. "His father was that monster Napoleon. After the Emperor was forced to surrender, the boy lost everything. His mother brought him back to Austria—but she hardly even visits."
Napoleon?
As in... the Napoleon?
Alex's brain finally clicked.
Somehow, he had been reborn in the body of Napoleon's only son.
He wasn't just anyone. He was François Joseph Charles Bonaparte, the Duke of Reichstadt. A prince. A pawn. A piece of history.
And maybe...
Maybe this time, he could win.
From now, he is not Alex, instead, he is Franz.