The scent of roses was too sweet. Artificial. Olivia Carter stirred slowly, lashes fluttering against the strange softness of silk sheets. Her fingers curled against fabric far more expensive than anything she had ever owned—smooth, perfumed, and cool. She blinked up at a painted ceiling she didn't recognize, in a room far too quiet, too feminine, too… alive.
She shouldn't be alive.
The last thing she remembered was the fire—crimson and screaming metal—followed by the cold nothingness of a free fall. The plane. Her mother's terrified voice. Her little brother's cry. Her own breath caught mid-scream.
And then—nothing.
Until now.
Her body jerked upright with a gasp, heart thudding violently beneath skin that didn't feel like her own. Her limbs moved too smoothly, her frame too light. She shoved back the silk duvet and stumbled to the edge of the bed, pulse roaring in her ears.
Across the room, a floor-length mirror confirmed her worst suspicion.
The woman staring back at her was beautiful. But not her. Her.
Long, silky obsidian hair framed delicate, symmetrical features. Lips fuller than Olivia's ever were. Skin like porcelain kissed by gold. Her jaw clenched. She lifted a hand—so did the reflection. The same dark eyes blinked back at her, but nothing else was familiar.
Her breath trembled.
What the hell happened to me?
A sudden knock rattled the silence. Olivia jumped.
"Miss Laurier?" a voice called softly. "Breakfast is ready. Shall I tell Madam you'll be down shortly?"
Miss Laurier.
The name hit like an ice bath.
Rose Laurier.
Heiress. Socialite. Tabloid darling. Known for her designer tantrums and curated scandals. Olivia had seen her face on fashion blogs, in PR disasters, and occasionally—oddly—in tech investor gossip. But she had vanished from public view weeks ago, with no explanation.
And now…
Now Olivia was waking up in her bed. In her body.
She swallowed hard and stood upright, back straight, voice low but clear. "Yes. I'll be down in ten."
A pause. "Very good, Miss." The footsteps retreated down the marble hallway.
Alone again, Olivia pressed trembling hands to the edges of the vanity.
She had died. The plane had gone down. Her parents… her little brother...
Gone.
And somehow, impossibly, she was here.
Not just alive—reincarnated. Inserted into a woman's life who had her own secrets, her own empire, her own enemies. And not a soul could know.
Her jaw set.
She didn't know how or why she was here. But she knew one thing: someone brought that plane down. It wasn't mechanical failure. It wasn't chance. And if Rose Laurier's world held even a sliver of the truth, then Olivia would play the part.
Until she got answers.
==============================
Breakfast was served in a sun-drenched room that looked like a palace dining hall. White orchids lined the table. Silver cutlery glinted beside folded linen. And seated at the head, with a newspaper neatly unfolded in his hands, was Harold Laurier—Rose's father.
"Good morning, darling," said the woman seated at his right, dabbing her lips with a monogrammed napkin. Elizabeth Laurier. Rose's mother, though she looked more like a polished PR executive than anything maternal.
Olivia took her seat, spine taut. "Morning."
She waited for a footman to pour her coffee. Everyone acted like normal. Like she belonged. But all she could think about was how her real family used to sit around a dining table, filled with affection and warmth although they were not as rich as Laurier's.
"How was your sleep?" Elizabeth asked, stirring her tea without looking up.
"Dreamless," Olivia replied smoothly. "Just how I like it."
Harold grunted, folding his newspaper. "You'll need the rest. We've confirmed the date for the Whitmore engagement gala."
Olivia blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Don't be dramatic," Elizabeth cut in with a sigh. "You knew this was coming. The Whitmore's are hosting next weekend. You'll make your appearance and charm whoever needs charming."
"I don't recall agreeing to this," Olivia said, keeping her voice level.
"You don't recall a lot these days," Harold said sharply. "That's been a growing concern, by the way."
Her pulse ticked. She forced a casual sip of coffee.
"I'm fine," she said. "Just reevaluating priorities."
"Your only priority is salvaging this family's alliances," Elizabeth snapped. "You've burned enough bridges. The Whitmore son is quiet, stable, and controllable. And his father controls three pharmaceutical networks we're negotiating with. This is a business alignment, not a romance novel."
Olivia smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Then perhaps you should marry him."
Silence. Forks paused mid-air. Harold's brow furrowed.
"Don't test us, Rose," he said. "You've used up your lifetime supply of indulgences."
Olivia held his stare for one steady breath.
"I'll be at the gala," she said at last.
Elizabeth's lips twitched—either approval or suspicion.
Olivia lowered her gaze. Let them think she was playing nice. For now.
=========================
That night, she arrived at the charity gala like a storm dressed in velvet. The emerald gown clung to her curves, the slit offering just enough leg to turn heads. Her heels clicked against the marble floor of the ballroom, her chin lifted, her lips painted with the perfect disinterest of someone who knew the cameras were watching.
She didn't drink. She didn't smile unless prompted. But she listened.
Her mind mapped the exits, the conversations, the subtle whispers of business deals and shifting alliances. This was no party—it was a power play. And Rose Laurier had always been a pawn.
But Olivia Carter was something else entirely.
She drifted through conversations with practiced grace, remembering names, connections, weaknesses. She took mental notes, calculating which of these vultures had the resources to bring down a private jet.
And then she saw him.
Across the ballroom, near the bar, stood a man with a posture too precise, too self-contained. Damien Quinn. The cold heir to the Quinn empire. Tall. Immaculate. Dangerous. His tailored suit fit like second skin, and his expression was unreadable stone.
He was speaking to someone—some executive Olivia didn't recognize. Laughing politely. But there was a tension in his jaw, a distance in his eyes.
She froze just for a second, heart tightening.
He hadn't noticed her.
Or had he?
His gaze flickered briefly in her direction—but didn't linger. No double-take. No recognition. And why would there be? To him, she was Rose Laurier. Spoiled. Useless. An accessory to wealth.
She turned before he could look again.