The last thing I remember is the screech of tires on wet asphalt and the sickening crunch that followed. Not dramatic, not cinematic—just abrupt. One second I'm cursing Frankfurt traffic and the next, nothing. Black.
Then light. Too much light. White silk sheets tangled around my legs, the kind that cost more than my monthly rent. A chandelier overhead dripped crystals like frozen rain. The air smelled expensive—sandalwood, clean linen, and something sharper underneath, metallic almost, like ozone after a storm. My head throbbed, but not from impact. From memory overload.
Names, faces, plot points slammed into me all at once. Lucian Hartmann—no, not Hartmann yet. Lucian Laurent. The pathetic side character in that trashy omegaverse novel I'd skimmed during a particularly dull night shift. The one who gets engaged to the male lead for business reasons, tries to seduce him in chapter three, gets publicly humiliated in chapter five, and is quietly disposed of by chapter ten. Cannon fodder with a pretty face and zero survival instinct.
I sat up slowly, pressing a palm to my temple. The body felt wrong—lighter, softer, warmer in places it had no business being warm. A mirror across the room caught my eye. Silver hair falling in messy waves to my shoulders, golden eyes wide and startled, skin pale enough to look almost luminous against the dark headboard. Delicate. Fragile. Omega.
Great. Just great.
I laughed once, short and bitter. The sound came out softer than I expected, higher. Of course it did. This wasn't my voice anymore.
The door opened without a knock.
He filled the frame before he even stepped inside. Tall, broad-shouldered, black suit tailored so sharply it looked like it could cut glass. Dark hair swept back, not a strand out of place. Eyes the color of storm clouds—cold, assessing, already bored. Darius Hartmann. The ruthless Alpha CEO who would one day rule half the corporate empire in this world and break the other half just because he could. The man destined to claim me, ruin me, and forget me.
His gaze landed on me like a physical weight.
"You're awake." Flat. No warmth, no surprise. Just fact.
I stared back, refusing to flinch. My new body wanted to—pheromones already stirring, a faint flush creeping up my neck—but I locked it down. Years of dealing with arrogant pricks in boardrooms (well, coffee runs for boardrooms) had taught me one thing: never show the shake in your hand first.
"Apparently," I said. My voice came out smoother than I felt, laced with an edge I hadn't lost in the transfer. "Though if this is the afterlife, someone seriously skimped on the welcome package."
A flicker crossed his face. Not amusement. Interest, maybe. The way a predator notices the prey isn't running yet. He stepped closer, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounded final.
"The doctor said you'd be disoriented after the suppressants wore off." He tilted his head, studying me. "You don't seem disoriented."
I shrugged one shoulder, casual, like we were discussing weather instead of my entire existence being rewritten. "Disoriented would imply I had expectations to begin with. I don't."
He stopped at the foot of the bed. Close enough that his scent hit me properly—dark amber, smoke, something feral underneath. My pulse jumped despite every effort to stay cool. Biology is a bitch.
"You're different today." Not a question. Observation.
"Am I?" I met his eyes directly. No dropping gaze, no submissive tilt. Just steady. "Maybe I finally read the fine print on this engagement contract."
His mouth curved—just the barest hint. Not a smile. A warning. "The contract was signed by your family. Your opinion wasn't required."
"And yet here we are." I leaned back against the headboard, crossing my arms. The silk robe slipped off one shoulder; I didn't fix it. Let him look. Let him see I wasn't cowering. "Funny how fate works. Or pheromones. Or whatever bullshit excuse this world uses for bad decisions."
Silence stretched. Heavy. Charged.
He leaned down, one hand bracing on the mattress beside my hip. The other lifted, slow, deliberate, fingers brushing the side of my neck where the claiming gland sat—sensitive, untouched, already pulsing under his proximity.
"You smell different too," he murmured. Voice low, almost thoughtful. "Less... desperate."
I didn't move. Didn't breathe for a second. "Maybe I stopped caring what you think I should smell like."
His thumb pressed lightly against the gland. Not hard. Just enough to make heat spike through me, involuntary, humiliating. My breath hitched despite myself.
"Careful, little omega," he said softly. "That mouth of yours is writing checks your body can't cash."
I tilted my head into his touch—just enough to make it look like defiance instead of surrender. "Then maybe you should stop smelling like trouble and let me cash them."
For the first time, something real flickered in those storm eyes. Surprise. Hunger. Possession.
He straightened abruptly, stepping back as if burned. The air between us felt colder for it.
"The engagement party is tonight," he said, tone clipped again. Professional. "Be ready. And Lucian?"
I raised an eyebrow.
"Don't test me."
He turned and left without another word. The door closed with the same quiet finality.
I exhaled slowly, letting the tremble run through me now that he couldn't see it. My hands were shaking. My skin felt too tight. And underneath the adrenaline, something darker stirred—curiosity. Challenge.
I wasn't the Lucian Laurent from the book. That boy had been pathetic, clinging, doomed.
This Lucian?
This one remembered Frankfurt traffic jams, midnight cynicism, and exactly how far arrogance could carry you before it broke your neck.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood. The mirror showed a man who looked breakable but wasn't. Not anymore.
Game on, Darius Hartmann.
Let's see who breaks first.