The morning light crept through sheer curtains, casting pale gold across silk sheets that probably cost more than most people's cars. The bedroom was obscene in its luxury — marble floors, a chandelier dripping crystals, furniture that looked hand-carved from something extinct.

Payuu stirred first. Her body felt different. Heavier. Warmer. The sheets smelled like expensive cologne and something darker underneath — sandalwood, maybe, mixed with smoke.

Beside her, sprawled on his stomach with one arm thrown possessively across her waist, was Dimitri Thorne. Shirtless. The muscles in his back shifted with each slow breath, tattooed ink crawling across his shoulders and down his ribs — designs she didn't recognize from her old life. His black hair was messy, jaw sharp enough to cut glass even in sleep.

His hand rested dangerously low on her hip.

Payuu's eyes flew open. Her heart hammered against her ribs as memories crashed back like a tidal wave. The comics. The junk food. The fall asleep on her couch. And then... this.

She was in the body of the wife. Dimitri Thorne's wife.

The room was too real to be a dream. Too detailed, too heavy, too warm. Sunlight hit her face and she flinched, blinking against the brightness. Her hands looked different — slender, manicured, nails done in a deep red she didn't remember choosing.

From somewhere down the hall, she could hear laughter. Female laughter. Bright and familiar.

Sophie.

Then a deeper voice responded — playful, teasing. Alex.