The office was silent except for the rhythmic tapping of keys and the faint hum of the city far below. It was past midnight, yet the lights on the top floor of the building still blazed.
Yulan rubbed her temples, the screen in front of her blurring with endless numbers and contracts. At just twenty-three, she was already the chief financial officer of one of the country's most competitive real estate firms. Colleagues envied her brilliance; superiors relied on her precision. But none of them saw the cost carved into her bones.
Another file. Another call. Another report.
Her phone buzzed with messages, but she ignored them. The world outside her office could wait—profit margins could not.
Her chest tightened. At first, she dismissed it as fatigue. She'd been running on caffeine and ambition for so long that pain was almost familiar. But this time, the weight in her chest grew heavier, spreading up to her shoulders, pressing down like an invisible hand.
She reached for her pen, but it slipped from her fingers. Her breath came shallow, vision tunneling.
"…Not yet," she whispered, trying to steady herself. "I still have work—"
Her body gave no mercy. She collapsed forward, papers scattering to the floor. Her cheek pressed against the cool wood of her desk.
The last thing she saw was the blinking cursor on the unfinished report. The last thought that flickered in her fading mind was oddly bitter—
A heroine would die beautifully, tragically, remembered by all. Me? Just another overworked cog, found slumped over a spreadsheet.
And then, everything went dark.
Warmth.
That was the first thing Yulan felt. Not the cold marble floor of her office, not the stiff chair that had molded to her exhausted body over the years—just soft, enveloping warmth.
Her brows furrowed. Strange… didn't I… die?
Her eyes fluttered open, and instead of the familiar ceiling of her office, a grand chandelier glittered above her, its crystals scattering light across walls painted in ivory and gold. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood, rich and calming, so unlike the sharp tang of printer ink and stale coffee she was used to.
Yulan pushed herself upright, her fingers brushing silk sheets. Her gaze dropped—and froze.
The reflection in the ornate mirror across the room showed a woman in her twenties, with the same face as hers but sharper, colder, more refined. The woman's long hair spilled like ink over the pillows, and she wore a silk nightgown that screamed luxury.
A wave of memories—foreign yet vivid—slammed into her.
The canon fodder CEO of CEB Group, a self-made billionaire who ruled over real estate, shipping, and jewelry… but in the novel, she was nothing more than a stepping stone for the heroine's rise. Doomed to be ruined by her own family's schemes and the male lead's disdain.
Yulan's lips trembled as she gripped the sheets tighter.
Don't tell me… I transmigrated into that novel.
Her heart pounded. She remembered the scenes clearly—the treachery of the step-sister, the one-night scandal with the male lead, the humiliation and downfall that followed.
A bitter laugh escaped her. "So this is my fate? To live someone else's tragedy after dying in my own?"
But as her reflection in the mirror steadied, so did her resolve.
"No," she whispered, voice firm. "If I'm bound to this novel's fate… then I'll be the one holding the pen."
The faint fragrance of sandalwood drifted through the air.
She sat up sharply—then froze.
A man lay beside her.
The sheets were tangled around his broad frame, his breathing steady, his sharp jawline visible even in sleep. The dim glow of the lamp softened his features, but Yulan recognized him instantly.
The male lead.
Her pulse thundered. Memories not her own flooded her mind—the book's plot, the downfall of the "canon fodder CEO," the scandal her step-sister orchestrated. This night was the beginning of the end.
For a moment, panic clawed at her chest. She remembered the gossip, the flashing cameras, the humiliation that destroyed the character's reputation. This was supposed to be the trap that bound her to ruin.
But Yulan had died once already. And she refused to be helpless again.
She drew a slow breath, forcing her trembling hands to steady. Carefully, she straightened her nightgown, smoothed her hair, and pulled herself out of the bed. Her bare feet touched the cool marble floor, grounding her.
Her gaze drifted back to the man. Even unconscious, his presence was overwhelming. In the novel, he was ruthless, unyielding, a king in the business world. And right now—drugged, vulnerable, trapped just like her.
A humorless smile curved her lips.
"So fate throws me into the fire pit right away," she murmured. "Fine. But I won't burn."
She squared her shoulders, confidence slowly replacing fear. Whatever storm awaited outside that door—paparazzi, schemes, betrayal—she would face it. And she would not crumble the way the novel wanted her to.
Thank you for reading my book becoming the part of this journey. This is my second book uploading on this website reader of my first book The empress who came from future is eagerly waiting for the next chapter. This a message for them as well that story is on hiatus for few days, please give your love and support to this story as you give to that story. I thank you for your love and support. Your love and support give a small writer like as courage to write and publish are story. Don't forget to comment about the story. your comment is only way for me to understand view upon the plot and mode of interaction between an author and reader.
Promo of Next Chapter
A baby crying loudly in the room his voice echoing in the mansion, heartfelt cry is so distressful to melt a heartless heart, a row of servant, and maids are revolving around him trying to sooth him. Even a hour of their relentless can't coax him in a sleep. His face is turned red, feverish from his cries. Seeing this they all get panic. Head butler seeing the situation gather his courage and go to knock the door of the study room.