The scent of roses and something far too expensive hit Hazel's nose before her eyes even opened.
She jolted upright—then immediately regretted it. Her forehead slammed into something hard.
"Ow—what the hell?"
A mirror. A massive vanity mirror, framed in gold. But it wasn't just the mirror that startled her.
It was the reflection.
That face—those lips, those lashes, that silky blonde hair—wasn't hers.
Hazel's breath caught in her throat. She leaned in closer, her fingers trembling as she touched her cheek.
Soft. Warm. Real.
But definitely not Hazel Lin.
She staggered back from the mirror, heart pounding in her ears. Her eyes scanned the room—velvet curtains, crystal chandelier, marble floors, and a closet the size of her entire apartment back in the real world.
"This… isn't real," she whispered.
It couldn't be. The last thing she remembered was cold water—black, bottomless. The crash. The silence.
Her own death.
And now, somehow, she was here—in a room so luxurious it looked photoshopped—with a face that belonged on a magazine cover.
A sudden flood of memories—ones that weren't hers—slammed into her mind like a freight train.
Dinner parties. Boardrooms. Screaming at a stylist. Throwing a wine glass. Walking down a red carpet like she owned the damn world.
Erin Lancaster.
Heiress. Socialite. And reportedly one of the most hated women in elite circles.
And she—Hazel Lin—was inside Erin Lancaster's body.
"No. No no no no—this is insane," Hazel muttered, grabbing at the silky white robe she didn't remember putting on. "This is some messed up coma dream, right? Right?!"
But the cool marble floor under her bare feet said otherwise.
This was real.
Hazel Lin, twenty-five, broke orphan who worked two waitress jobs and died in a freak accident—was now Erin Lancaster, the infamous ice queen of high society.
A knock interrupted her panic.
"Mrs. Blake?" a voice called from outside the door. "Breakfast is ready."
Mrs. Blake?
Hazel blinked.
Wait… wasn't Erin—
Oh God.
The second wave of memories hit her harder.
Erin Lancaster was married.
To Adrian Blake.
CEO. Billionaire. Emotionally constipated legend of the corporate world. A man with a jawline so sharp it could cut glass and a personality carved from granite.
The public adored him.
The tabloids hated their marriage.
And Hazel—now Erin—was legally his wife… by contract.
Her knees nearly gave out.
"Holy sh*t."
She stumbled toward the door, pushing it open like a ghost. A hallway stretched before her like something out of a palace.
A maid passed by, giving her a polite nod.
"Good morning, Mrs. Blake."
Hazel blinked. "Uh… yeah. Morning."
Mrs. Blake. Again.
She wandered down the stairs, following the smell of fresh coffee and toasted brioche. In the dining room, a long table waited—set for one. Like she was royalty. Or in solitary confinement.
And at the far end, sipping his espresso like it owed him rent—
Was Adrian Blake.
Even sitting still, he looked powerful. Controlled. Untouchable.
Hazel froze.
He glanced up. Their eyes met.
Something flickered in his gaze—confusion? Annoyance? Disdain?
Whatever it was, it wasn't affection.
"Didn't expect you to be up this early," he said, voice like smooth ice.
Hazel's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
"Yeah. Uh. Me neither."
Adrian raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Hazel sat stiffly across from him, her heart trying to jackhammer through her ribcage.
She didn't belong here.
She wasn't this woman.
And he didn't know that.
She was a waitress with zero experience in being rich, married, or blonde—and now she had to fake her way through a life she didn't understand, with a husband who clearly didn't want her.
But somewhere deep in her gut, she knew one thing:
If she messed this up, she'd lose everything.
And after a lifetime of having nothing, Hazel Lin wasn't about to let that happen.