"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.
What would the original Maya—the "laughing, tipsy woman in red"—have done?
In the book, she'd never appeared again. Not at parties, not in rumors, not even as a footnote. Erased.
Disposable.
That meant whatever happened last night hadn't mattered to the original plot. Elena left with a stranger, and the next day, everything proceeded as normal.
So if Maya wanted to survive, her best bet was to not stand out.
She tried to smile, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere near mildly concussed. "I was… pretty drunk."
A faint pause.
Elena's eyes flicked over her face, slow and precise, like she was checking for cracks.
"You were," Elena said flatly.
An unwelcome image flashed behind Maya's eyes—a version of last night she couldn't actually remember. Laughing too loud. Flirting clumsily. Maybe clinging to Elena's arm, babbling about success and fate and how beautiful she was.
Her stomach twisted.
Had she thrown herself at the most dangerous woman in the book?
Elena shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. The sheet slid down her body, revealing more of her bare shoulder, the elegant line of her neck.
Maya's face heated again. She dragged her eyes resolutely upward.
"Do you regret it?" Elena asked.
The question hung in the air, cool and precise, as if they were negotiating a contract instead of discussing morally questionable activities involving silk sheets.
Did she regret it?
Did "waking up inside a novel in a stranger's body after accidentally seducing the villainess" count as something you could neatly categorize into regret?
Her brain churned.
If she said yes, what would Elena do?
The Elena in the book did not care about anyone's feelings. She cared about efficiency. Reputation. Control. A regretted one-night stand? She'd probably shrug, write a discreet check, and never spare the person another thought.
Which, under normal transmigration circumstances, would be perfect.
But these were not normal circumstances.
Because Maya knew the future.
She knew Elena's public image would be shredded within months. She knew a vicious rumor about Elena's "moral corruption" would spread like wildfire across tabloids, stoked by business rivals and the heroine's righteous indignation.
She knew Elena would end the story disgraced, alone, and quietly written off by the narrative.
And now Maya was here, inconveniently attached to the very start of that spiral.
Her fingers tightened in the sheet.
She couldn't be erased as easily as the original woman in red. She existed now. She thought. She knew too much.
And Elena... Elena was supposed to be untouchable right now. Controlled. Impeccable.
Scandals weren't supposed to start yet.
Maya forced herself to meet Elena's gaze.
"I…" She swallowed. "I don't know yet. I barely remember anything after the second drink."
A lie, but a strategic one.
Elena's eyes narrowed a fraction, but her expression didn't change much.
"You were at the gala," Elena said. "Alone. You kept arguing with a server about the correct vintage of champagne."
That… sounded painfully on brand for someone drunk in an expensive dress in a romance novel.
"You approached me," Elena continued. "Twice."
Oh no.
"In the lobby first. You told me my shoes looked 'emotionally unavailable.'"
Maya shut her eyes. That tracked with the version of her that had spent a full chapter mentally calling Elena "hot evil ice lady" while typing in all caps.
"And then," Elena said, unrelenting, "you found me again on the balcony and asked if I ever got tired."
"Tired?" Maya opened one eye. "Of what?"
"Of standing alone and pretending you didn't want anything."
Maya winced.
Okay, that… That sounded like her.
Not the original woman, but her—fresh off a reading binge, furious at how Elena had been portrayed. She could easily imagine herself, a few drinks in, marching up to Elena and dumping her entire catalog of righteous reader outrage in person.
Elena's gaze searched her face.
"You were very insistent," she said. "And very drunk."
"And you still brought me up here?" The words slipped out before Maya could catch them.
Elena's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I did not force you," she said coolly.
"I didn't say—" Maya cut herself off, shaking her head. "I know."
Of course Elena wouldn't have. Even in the book, as much as the narration painted her as this ruthless, manipulative monster, she never crossed certain lines.
Still, guilt prickled under Maya's skin. Had she cornered Elena? Pushed her into something impulsive in a rare unguarded moment?
She remembered the long, lonely chapters of the book, all that subtext swirling around Elena's isolated position, trapped by expectations and scrutiny. How the author had refused to acknowledge any of that, choosing instead to reduce her to "ruthless harpy antagonist."
And then some drunk woman—Maya—had waltzed in and treated her like a character with feelings instead of a caricature.
No wonder Elena had responded.
Maya dragged in a breath.
"Last night is… a blur," she said carefully. "But I'm not—" She swallowed. "I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen just to make myself feel better."
Elena watched her, unreadable.
"I understand if you'd prefer to forget it," Maya added quickly. "I don't expect—anything. Or want anything. We were both drunk. You're—busy. Important." She gestured vaguely at Elena's whole existence. "I get it."
Silence stretched.
The air felt heavier, like the room was listening.
Maya pressed her lips together to stop herself from rambling more. Every additional word risked revealing she did, in fact, know exactly how busy and important Elena was—board meetings, mergers, hostile takeovers, and all.
Finally, Elena exhaled slowly.
"If that is your preference," she said, "we can consider this an isolated incident."
Isolated incident. So neat. So clinical.
Maya's chest tugged uncomfortably.
She'd wanted Elena to have something real. Someone real.
But she was the wrong person at the wrong time in the wrong world.
"Right," Maya said quietly. "An incident."
A beat.
Elena shifted away from her, graceful even in bed, and the loss of warmth was absurdly noticeable. She reached for something on the nightstand—a sleek smartwatch—and slid it onto her wrist with practiced efficiency.
"Check-out is at eleven," she said, glancing at the screen. "You can charge anything you need to the room."
Maya blinked. "Check-out?"
"This is the Aurora Hotel penthouse," Elena said, matter-of-fact. "I have a meeting at nine. I'll have to leave before then."
It was like watching the pieces of the book slot into place.
Elena at the Aurora Hotel.
Morning after the gala.
Meeting at nine.
The plot train was gearing up.
Maya sat up a little too fast. The sheet slipped, and she scrambled to clutch it tighter, the motion earning a brief, coolly amused glance from Elena.
Her face burned.
"Clothes," Maya muttered. "Right. I should, um, find mine."
Elena didn't respond.
She slid out of bed, unconcerned with her nudity in a way that made Maya's brain blue-screen. Elena reached for a robe hanging neatly from a nearby chair—of course it was there, of course it was ready—and shrugged into it, tying the belt with a efficient tug.
The movement exposed the curve of her collarbone and a faint mark at the base of her neck—dark against pale skin.
Maya's stomach dropped.
She'd done that.
She tore her gaze away, pretending to be *very* interested in the pattern of the sheets.
As Elena crossed to the desk at the far wall, Maya snuck a look at her face. The icy composure was firmly back in place now, whatever vulnerability or soft edges the night had created neatly buried.
Okay.
So this was the moment, in a normal world, where they'd go their separate ways. Elena would delete her number, if she'd even asked for it. Maya would go home with a hangover story and a piece of scandalous gossip no one would believe.
And in this world—the book world—that was exactly what was supposed to happen.
The problem was that Maya was here now.
And she could feel it, as clearly as if the pages were turning in the air: things were already off-script.
Because in the book, that woman in red was anonymous. Forgettable.
But Elena was looking at her like she *wasn't*.
As Elena picked up her phone from the desk, it lit up. The screen reflected in the black glass of the window—enough that Maya caught a glimpse of the time, the calendar date, and a notification banner.
Today's date.
She knew it.
Chapter 3, *"Rumors in the Boardroom."* This was the day a blurry photo would hit the gossip sites—Elena, leaving the hotel in the early morning, hair slightly mussed, tie missing.
In the book, the woman beside her was cropped conveniently out of frame, back turned or hidden behind a pillar. Fangirls and antis alike spent weeks speculating about her identity, but the plot never circled back to it.
Now that woman had a mind.
And that mind was currently screaming: If that photo is going to circulate, Elena's going to be slaughtered in the comments sections.
Maya rubbed her temples.
Could she prevent it?
Did she dare?
"Your dress is on the chair," Elena said, not turning around. "And your bag is by the door. I had someone bring it up from the coat check."
That someone, in the book, had been the background character's only other mention. A bellhop muttering that "the woman in red might have gone upstairs with Ms. Rowan."
Maya shifted again, preparing to stand. Under the sheet, her legs wobbled in protest, muscles complaining.
Elena's gaze flicked over, lingering just long enough to confirm that yes, Maya was struggling and yes, she would absolutely pretend not to see it.
Maya gritted her teeth and got to her feet, clutching the sheet around her like a makeshift toga. Cool air whispered across her skin, raising goosebumps.
She took a careful, wobbling step, nearly tripping over the hem of the sheet.
"Careful," Elena said, almost absently.
The word was small, almost nothing, but it warmed something in Maya's chest.
She reached the chair and grabbed the red dress, fingers sinking into the rich fabric. It was even more luxurious up close; the kind of dress people paid a month's salary to rent for one night.
Slipping it back on without a mirror was a struggle, especially with Elena's gaze pricking the back of her neck like invisible needles. She fumbled with the zipper, arms straining.
"Here," Elena said quietly.
Maya jumped. "It's fine, I've—"
"Elena," she said, the name tumbling out too readily. Right. In this body's life, she'd called her that last night. Probably in a much more sultry tone. "I mean, Ms. Rowan, I can—"
"Turn around," Elena said.
There was no point arguing.
Maya exhaled and presented her back.
Elena stepped closer. Her fingers brushed the bare skin at the nape of Maya's neck as she caught the zipper and drew it up in one smooth motion.
Goosebumps shivered across Maya's spine.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
Elena's hand lingered a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Then she stepped back, distance reestablished.
"There," Elena said. "Presentable."
"Thanks," Maya muttered.
At least her voice didn't crack this time.
She turned to face Elena fully.
It was a mistake.
Standing this close, at eye level, they were almost—
Her breath caught.
Elena was taller by only a little, enough that Maya had to tip her head the slightest bit to meet her eyes.
Gray. Calm. Assessing.
Somewhere under all that all, still a faint, almost invisible tiredness.
"I've arranged a car for you," Elena said. "The front desk will call when it's ready."
Maya blinked.
"Why are you…" She caught herself. "You don't have to do that."
"I don't like loose ends," Elena replied, matter-of-fact.
Loose ends. That's all this was, to her. A unit of chaos to be mitigated.
Maya's stomach twisted again.
Better that way, she told herself. If Elena treated her like any other complication, Maya had a chance to slide back into anonymity and figure out what to do next.
Her fingers twitched at her side.
"Right," she said. "Loose ends. Understood."
Just as she turned to grab her bag, a sharp pulse of pain lanced behind her eyes.
She winced, closing them on reflex.
Images flashed across her mind—fragmented, rapid, like someone had hit fast-forward on a movie: glittering parties, whispered insults, a woman's mocking laugh, a champagne glass shattering on marble.
A name echoed at the edge of her consciousness.
Not Elena's. Not Amber's.
Maya.
*No.*
Not her name.
The name of the woman whose body she'd just hijacked.
For a heartbeat, their thoughts overlapped—like radio stations tuned too close together.
A panicked voice, a smear of memory. Alone at the gala. Drunk to forget something. Approaching Elena on a dare—or was it desperation? The dizzy thrill of being noticed, just once, by someone everyone else watched from afar.
The memory snapped off.
Maya staggered, grabbing the back of the chair for support.
"Are you alright?" Elena's voice cut through the static, sharper than before.
Maya forced her eyes open.
"I'm fine," she lied. "Just—headache."
"Hangover," Elena said, after a brief pause.
Her expression tightened by half a degree, which for her was apparently the equivalent of a full-blown frown.
"There's aspirin in the bathroom," she added. "And bottled water."
Her tone hadn't softened, but it lacked its earlier bite.
She cares, Maya thought suddenly. Even if she doesn't want to. Even if she couches it in efficiency and control.
That was the thing the author never gave Elena—a chance to show that.
Maya straightened slowly. "I'll manage. But… thank you."
They stared at each other for a second.
Maya wanted to say a hundred things. I like you. I'm sorry. You deserved better. I'm not really her.
Instead, what came out was, "You won't… get in trouble because of this, will you?"
Elena's brows lifted the slightest bit. "Trouble."
"Like, paparazzi. Gossip sites." Maya gestured vaguely around them. "Aurora Hotel penthouse, mysterious woman in red—this kind of thing tends to, you know. Circulate."
In the book, it had. And the comments had been ugly.
Elena held her gaze for a long moment, something like calculation flickering behind her eyes.
"I'm used to being watched," she said. "And this hotel values discretion."
"Yeah, but cameras exist," Maya muttered. "And some people don't value anything but clicks."
She wasn't sure why she was pushing. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was the leftover anger from reading all the slander about Elena online, but the thought of it happening again made her stomach twist.
"If anything does get out," Elena said, her tone sharpening with cool finality, "I will handle it."
Of course she would.
Because the Elena in the book always handled everything alone until it crushed her.
Maya wet her lips. "If there is a photo, or some rumor, and my face is in it—" She hesitated, then plunged ahead. "I won't say anything. I won't give interviews, or—add fuel. You have my word."
Her word, as someone who knew exactly how bad it could get.
Elena's expression flickered, so subtly that if Maya hadn't spent eight hours reading detailed descriptions of it, she would've missed it.
"Most people in your position," Elena said slowly, "would be more concerned about their own reputation."
"I don't really have one here," Maya said before she could stop herself.
Elena's eyes narrowed. "Here?"
"Here, as in, in this… city. Industry. Whatever." Maya fumbled, wanting to smack herself. "I'm not exactly… a public figure."
Not like the original heroine, who'd be emerging into the narrative any day now—a bright-eyed junior employee ready to dazzle the world.
The corner of Elena's mouth moved—too slight to be called a smile, more like a muscle considering the concept.
"You don't strike me as the type who doesn't care what people think," she said. "You were very passionate about my 'lonely aura' last night."
Maya groaned internally. "Please tell me I didn't say it exactly like that."
"You said," Elena recited, "and I quote, 'I read somewhere that people like you live in glass castles and eat their own hearts for breakfast.'"
Maya seriously considered climbing out the window.
"I was drunk," she muttered weakly.
"So you insisted," Elena said dryly.
Despite everything—the wrong world, the wrong body, the impending disaster—Maya's lips twitched.
A breath of something like amusement ghosted through the room, then vanished.
Elena looked away first, turning back to her phone.
"You should go," she said. "Before the lobby gets crowded."
Dismissed.
The word wasn't spoken aloud, but it vibrated between them anyway.
Maya swallowed everything else she wanted to say and picked up the small clutch bag by the door.
The moment her fingers touched it, another ping of borrowed memory hit her. A name embossed on a business card inside. A family that wasn't hers. A life she didn't know yet.
She pushed the memories down. Later.
Hand on the doorknob, she hesitated.
"Elena?"
Elena didn't look up from her phone. "Yes?"
Maya bit down on the words *be careful,* because they would sound insane out of context.
"Nothing," she said instead. "Just… thanks. For not pretending I don't exist."
It was a stupid thing to say. Too honest. Too revealing.
Elena's fingers paused over the screen for half a second.
Then, quietly, without looking at her, she said, "Get some rest."
The door clicked shut behind Maya.
The hallway outside was silent and plush, the carpet thick under her borrowed heels.
She stared at the numbers on the door for a long second—2301, the penthouse level—feeling the delicate, fragile thread of reality stretching thin around her.
Then she exhaled, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the elevator.
This was not her world.
This was the world of *"Love's Executive Order."*
And she had just crashed directly into the villainess's story in the most spectacularly irresponsible way possible.
As the elevator doors slid open and she stepped inside, her reflection flickered in the mirrored walls.
The face that stared back at her wasn't the one she knew from her own bathroom mirror. This one had slightly sharper cheekbones, fuller lips, eyes a shade lighter than her usual dark brown. Prettier. Softer. More polished.
She looked like the kind of woman who would wear a dress like this and march up to a CEO during a gala on a wild, reckless impulse.
The woman the book barely mentioned.
Maya's fingers brushed the cool surface of the mirror.
"Okay," she whispered to the stranger staring back. "Who are you?"
Somewhere far above her, Elena Rowan was likely already slotting this night into the mental file labeled "mistakes not to repeat."
Somewhere not too far in the future, the heroine was about to make her entrance.
The elevator began its smooth descent, numbers ticking down.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Maya's heartbeat synced with the soft mechanical hum.
She was in a story now.
But if there was one thing she'd learned from a lifetime of books, it was this:
Stories could be changed.
And as the elevator doors opened onto the glittering hotel lobby, cameras silently watching, fate quietly aligning its dominoes—
Maya took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and stepped forward into a plot that had never planned for her.
Whatever trap this transmigration was, whatever the author had written:
She was not going to let Elena face it alone.