The first thing Maya felt was heat.
Heat under her palms, along her bare legs, trapped between expensive sheets and a body that was absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent not hers.
The second thing she felt was weight.
Someone's arm was draped heavily across her waist, pinning her down. A long, toned leg tangled with hers. Warm breath grazed the back of her neck, slow and steady, like whoever was attached to that arm was comfortably asleep.
The third thing was pain.
Her head throbbed like she'd been hit with a hardcover novel. Which, considering she'd fallen asleep reading one, might not be far from the truth.
Maya cracked one eye open.
Crystal chandelier, glittering softly in the dimness.
Ceiling molding so ornate it looked like it belonged in a palace instead of a hotel.
A hint of city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling curtains, reflected in polished marble beyond the edge of the bed.
None of it was familiar.
Her brain tried to connect the dots and got as far as: This is… not my tiny rented room with the squeaky ceiling fan.
Something shifted behind her. The arm across her waist tightened—possessive, even in sleep—and pulled her back against a distinctly naked, distinctly female body.
Every neuron in Maya's brain misfired at once.
Naked. Bed. Woman. Not my room. Not my bed. Not my body—
She froze.
Slowly, carefully, she looked down at the hand resting on her stomach.
The fingers were slender, with neatly manicured nails painted a deep wine red. Elegant. Expensive. They did not look like the bitten stubs she'd chewed to oblivion while devouring three hundred thousand words of melodramatic romance last night.
Maya inhaled.
Her chest expanded differently than she expected. Heavier. The movement of her ribs dragged satin against skin that didn't feel like hers—and when she glanced down, she saw the edge of a silk nightgown slipping low over—
Those were not her boobs.
They were better.
Higher. Fuller. Perkier. Realistic gravity-defying, cover-model-tier boobs.
"Okay," she whispered, voice rasping. "This is a dream."
It had to be. Last she remembered, she'd been curled up in bed in her worn-out pajamas, phone in hand, halfway through typing an angry review about how the villainess didn't deserve that terrible ending.
Her eyes darted to the nightstand.
Instead of her scratched IKEA knockoff, there was a sleek, dark wood table, a glass of water with perfect condensation beading down its sides, and a phone—some latest-model, glossy thing that probably cost more than three months of her rent.
The wallpaper was a subtle cream-gold damask. The bedspread was thick, white, and immaculate—if you ignored the rumpled mess where she was lying. A faint, expensive perfume lingered in the air, something cool and sharp and floral.
This was not a dream her broke, overworked brain could afford.
The arm around her flexed slightly, muscles shifting under smooth skin. The warmth at her back shifted, and the woman behind her made a soft, displeased sound in her sleep, like something had disturbed her.
Maya swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
Okay. Focus. Evidence-gathering. One: unfamiliar incredibly luxurious room. Two: unfamiliar incredibly luxurious body. Three: unfamiliar incredibly luxurious woman glued to my back like a very attractive barnacle.
Four: headache-level hangover without remembering a single drink.
Her pulse quickened.
Very slowly, she lifted her hand and brought it up to her face.
The fingers were delicate, not as short as she remembered. The knuckles were finer, the skin smoother. Her nails were shaped into proper ovals and painted the same deep wine red as the other hand.
She did not own nail polish. She barely owned socks that matched.
"Okay," she breathed. "Not mine."
She braced herself and shifted, trying to maneuver onto her back without jostling the human furnace behind her.
The arm gripping her waist loosened a fraction, but didn't let go.
She managed to twist, turning just enough to see the face of the woman beside her.
Time stopped.
In the soft, early-morning light leaking through the curtains, the woman looked almost unreal. Sleek black hair spilled over the pillow, glossy and straight, framing a face that had been engineered out of every cutting, devastatingly beautiful line possible.
High cheekbones. Straight, aristocratic nose. Full, defined mouth—currently relaxed in sleep, the natural downturn at the corners softened into something almost vulnerable.
Her eyelashes were long and thick, shadowing the sharp eyes Maya knew would be an icy, piercing gray when open.
She knew, because she'd read about them. Over and over again.
Because the woman in bed with her was Elena Rowan.
CEO of Rowan International Group.
Ice Queen of the high-society romance novel *"Love's Executive Order."*
And the story's cold, ruthless *villainess*.
Maya stared.
Her heart went from a nervous flutter to a full-blown drum solo against her ribs.
"No way," she mouthed soundlessly.
But it was. It was absolutely, definitely, unmistakeably Elena Rowan.
She recognized the angle of her jaw, the slight arch of her brows—details she'd imagined clearly while reading lines like: *"Elena's gaze was as frigid as the boardroom's air-conditioning, cutting through the heroine's pride like glass."*
Up close, Elena's skin looked flawless, even without makeup—smooth, fair, and touched by the faintest pink across the cheeks, like the last evidence of a flushed night.
Memories slammed into Maya's brain like a truck.
She remembered the book. Of course she remembered the book—she'd binged all sixty chapters in one manic sitting and then rage-scrolled through the comments.
In *"Love's Executive Order,"* Elena was the powerful, untouchable antagonist. The immovable obstacle standing between the sweet, hardworking heroine and her dreams. The woman who allegedly "ruined" the male lead's chances, sabotaged deals, and—
Never. Had. A love interest.
That had been the whole point.
She was the tragic, irrevocably alone villainess.
Cold from beginning to end. No romance. No softness. Only a bleak, humiliating downfall orchestrated by the author.
Maya had been furious.
She'd gone to bed cursing the ending. She'd fallen asleep thinking, *If I were there, I'd save her. At least give her a friend. Anything.*
And now—
Now she was lying in bed, half naked, with that very same villainess's arm wrapped around her waist.
Maya's brain did a full reboot.
She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, as if the universe might correct itself and swap Elena's face with, say, a wall. Or a pillow. Or literally anyone else.
Elena remained, very much real and very much inappropriately close.
Her lips were parted slightly, her breathing even. Up close, Maya could see the faint shadow of exhaustion under her eyes—subtle, but there. Tiny details the book's narration never bothered to mention.
Maya's gaze dropped to the bedcovers, where the sheet had slipped low enough to reveal the elegant line of Elena's collarbone, the suggestion of—
"Oh my god," Maya whispered, then slapped a hand over her mouth.
She might not remember what had happened last night, but the aftermath was not hard to interpret.
The heat in her cheeks spiked. Her thighs ached faintly in a way that was… unfamiliar, but not ambiguous. The air still carried a faint hint of mixed perfume and something warmer, muskier, intimate.
Maya's internal screaming intensified.
She had just had a one-night stand with the villainess.
In the novel she had just finished reading.
"Okay. Okay. Breathe." She inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her mouth, trying to organize this into manageable insanity.
Step one: Accept that this is not home.
Step two: Accept that this is not her body.
Step three: Accept that she has apparently committed plot treason.
Her gaze slid past Elena to the other side of the bed, where a man's dress shirt lay on the floor—hers, apparently, considering the smaller size—and a trail of scattered clothes led towards the door. A heel by the curtain. A black bra dangling from the arm of a velvet armchair.
She very carefully did not look down to see if she was currently wearing anything beneath the sheet.
The answer felt like a very vivid, very cold "no."
Her heart tried to climb out of her throat.
Think. Think like a rational person. You fell asleep reading. You woke up here. You know this woman. You know this room, sort of—it had been described during a high-society charity gala scene, this exact hotel, the penthouse suite.
She knew this world.
Because it wasn't hers.
"Oh," Maya whispered. "Oh, hell."
Transmigration.
She'd joked about it in comments sections a thousand times.
"If I were transmigrated, I'd fix this stupid plot myself."
Now apparently the universe had called her bluff.
Her headache pressed at her skull again, throbbing in time with her pulse. She tried to recall specifics.
Who was Elena supposed to have been with last night?
The novel opened with the heroine, Amber, accidentally spilling champagne on Elena during a gala. They trade barbed words, sparks fly (the angry corporate kind, not the romantic kind), and then Elena leaves with a mysterious guest.
A guest whose identity was never revealed.
Just a line. *"Elena disappeared into the elevator with a laughing, tipsy woman in red."*
Maya's eyes dropped to the crumpled dress half-hanging off the chair in the corner. Blood-red silk, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light.
Her stomach sank.
"That was me," she croaked.
Well, not her-her. The her who belonged to this face, this body, this life.
In the book, that woman was nothing more than set dressing. A throwaway side note. A "laughing, tipsy woman in red" with no name, no lines, no purpose.
A minor background character.
And now, apparently, her.
Panic swelled in her chest, tight and suffocating.
If she was in the novel, then—
She needed a mirror.
Very slowly, as if she were trying not to spook a dangerous animal, Maya began to extricate herself from Elena's grip.
One hand lifted Elena's wrist, inch by careful inch. Her skin was cool to the touch, smooth and firm. The slightest pressure of tendon and bone under her palm made her breathing hitch for absolutely unacceptable reasons.
She slid sideways, trying not to rustle the sheets.
Elena's arm followed, tightening reflexively.
Maya froze. Elena's fingers dug into her waist, anchoring her in place.
"Stay still," Elena murmured, voice low and sleep-rough, the words ghosting over the back of Maya's neck.
Maya went rigid.
Elena was awake.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no—
But when Maya turned her head the slightest bit, she saw Elena's eyes were still closed, her expression faintly tense but not fully conscious. As if the command had slipped out of some half-aware, deeply ingrained instinct to control everything around her.
Maya swallowed.
Her voice came out as a dry rasp. "I—I need to get up."
For a second, Elena's brows drew together, the faintest crease appearing between them. Then, long lashes fluttered, and those infamous gray eyes cracked open.
They focused immediately.
Sharp. Clear. Assessing.
The books had described Elena's gaze as "emotionless" and "cold as steel." In person, it was… worse. Or better. It was like being pinned by a boardroom presentation laser—no warmth, no softness, purely attentive.
Her eyes traveled from Maya's face down to where the sheet was clutched to her chest, then back up again.
Maya had the fleeting, insane thought that this was exactly how Elena looked at underperforming subsidiaries.
"Good morning," Elena said.
Her voice was low and smooth, with a faint huskiness leftover from sleep. The sound slid over Maya's skin like velvet and made something in her stomach flip.
Maya's own voice tried to die.
"Morning," she squeaked, then cleared her throat. "Um."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Elena's gaze. Her hand at Maya's waist loosened, but didn't move away entirely.
Her composure was ridiculous. Like waking up nude in bed with a stranger was something she did between quarterly reports.
Which—okay. Billionaire CEO. Maybe she did.
Maya's brain, frantically trying to keep from short-circuiting, latched onto the one thing she could control.
Play along. Don't blow your cover. Figure out what the hell is going on.
She had read enough transmigration stories to know the basic rules: don't announce you're from another world. Don't act like a crazy person. Gather information, then panic privately later.
Elena's gaze sharpened slightly. "Do you remember last night?"
Maya froze.
No. She most certainly did not remember last night, and also she remembered *too much*—the book, the plot, the ending Elena was marching toward like a train without brakes.
She forced her mind back to the question.