The first thing Jack Thorne noticed was the smell of bergamot and iron.

His eyes flickered open to a vaulted ceiling adorned with gilded filigree, the morning light filtering through stained glass windows that cast fractured rainbows over mahogany floors. For a moment, he lay paralyzed on the cold marble, his mind clawing through fog. Where am I? The question dissolved as memories surged—a truck's blaring horn, shattered glass, the weightless void between heartbeats. Then… this.

He sat up slowly, his limbs foreign yet familiar. A polished silver tray beside him reflected a face that was not his own: sharp cheekbones, storm-gray eyes, and a scar slicing through one eyebrow. A butler's uniform clung to his frame, crisp and starched, the cuffs monogrammed with a serpentine V.

Vossaire.

The name ignited a spark. In his previous life, Jack had read Crimson Thorns, a fantasy novel about a tyrant noblewoman, Evangeline Vossaire, whose cruelty toppled kingdoms before her abrupt demise. He'd skimmed her chapters, more drawn to the heroic leads. Now, his throat tightened. I'm inside that story. As her servant.

A door creaked.

"Awake at last, are we?"

The voice was honeyed arsenic. Jack turned, and the world narrowed.

Evangeline Vossaire stood framed in the doorway, her silhouette a blade against the dawn. She wore a blood-red dressing gown, its collar dipped to reveal a choker of black pearls. Her hair—ink spilled over moonlight—curtained shoulders that held the tension of a drawn bow. But it was her eyes that arrested him: twin violets, luminous and cold, dissecting him like a specimen.

"You've been unconscious for two days," she said, gliding toward him. Her fingernail, sharpened to a point, traced the edge of the silver tray. "The physician claimed it was exhaustion. Tell me, Riven… did I work you so hard you forgot how to breathe?"

Riven. His name here. Jack's mind raced. In the novel, Evangeline's butler was a footnote, a silent shadow who died in Chapter 12 during a poisoning meant for her. A disposable pawn.

He rose, testing his balance. The body he inhabited moved with practiced grace, muscle memory guiding him into a deep bow. "My apologies, Lady Vossaire. It won't happen again."

She circled him, her scent a mix of night-blooming jasmine and gunpowder. "How peculiar. You usually stutter." Her gaze lingered on his scar. "Did the coma grant you courage… or stupidity?"

Jack kept his eyes lowered, but his voice held steady. "Neither. Clarity."

A beat of silence. Then, a laugh—low, dangerous, as if laughter were a weapon she'd sharpened. "Interesting." She stopped before him, close enough that her breath warmed his cheek. "Fetch my breakfast. The usual. And Riven?" Her smile didn't touch her eyes. "Burn the toast again, and I'll feed you to my hounds."

The kitchens were a labyrinth of copper pots and simmering tension. Maids scattered like startled sparrows as Jack entered, their whispers trailing him. "He's alive?" "She'll kill him by winter…"

He ignored them, focusing on the task. The "usual" was a riddle. In the novel, Evangeline's tastes were meticulously cruel: black coffee brewed with cardamom, poached quail eggs dusted with ash salt, and rye toast charred at the edges. A test disguised as a meal.

As he worked, Jack's thoughts churned. His old life—a cubicle, silent weekends, the ache of loneliness—felt like someone else's dream. Here, danger thrummed in the air, yet for the first time, he felt… present. Alive.

But vulnerability coiled beneath his ribs. This body, this role, wasn't his. Yet Evangeline's world demanded perfection. One misstep, and he'd join the skeletons in her garden.

He carried the tray to her solarium, where she reclined on a chaise lounge, a ledger open in her lap. Morning light gilded her profile, softening nothing.

"Sit," she commanded, not looking up.

He hesitated. "My lady, it's improper—"

"Sit."

He sat, spine rigid, on the edge of a velvet ottoman. She lifted the coffee to her lips, her eyes narrowing.

"You remembered the cardamom."

"You prefer it with two pods, not one."

A flicker of surprise. Then, suspicion. "And the toast?"

"Burnt precisely thirty seconds. Enough to crisp the edges without bitterness."

She set down her cup, studying him. "Who are you?"

The question hung between them. Jack met her gaze, his pulse steady. "Your servant."

"Liar." She leaned forward, her pearl choker glinting. "The Riven I knew trembled at his own shadow. You? You look at me as if…" She trailed off, her thumb brushing the ledger's spine. "As if you see a ghost."

Because I've read your ending, he thought. And it's tragic.

But he said nothing. Silence, he realized, was a language Evangeline respected.

After a moment, she waved him away. "Dismissed. But tonight, you'll attend me at the Argent Ball. Ensure my gown doesn't strangle any idiots. Yet."

Alone in his quarters—a sparse room with a narrow bed and a single window—Jack unraveled. His hands shook as he unbuttoned his collar. The mirror showed Riven's face, but behind the eyes, he remained: a man who'd once buried himself in books to escape solitude, now thrust into a story where survival meant serving a woman who wielded malice like art.

Yet, he'd glimpsed something in her. When she'd mentioned the ghost, her voice had dipped, almost wounded. Vulnerability? Or a trick?

He opened a drawer, finding a journal. Riven's handwriting sprawled across pages—notes on Evangeline's schedule, her enemies, a sketched map of the estate. Tucked between the pages was a dried rose, its petals crumbling. On the stem, a thorn pricked his thumb.

Blood and beauty, he thought. Like her.

A knock startled him. A maid hovered in the doorway, clutching a velvet box. "From Lady Vossaire. For tonight."

Inside lay a mask: black silk, embroidered with silver thorns.

"She said to wear it," the maid whispered. "And… to remember that snakes nest in roses."

When she left, Jack pressed the mask to his face. His reflection transformed—a shadow with eyes.

What game are we playing, Evangeline?

But deeper still, another question: Who are you beneath the venom?

He didn't know. But for the first time in two lifetimes, Jack Thorne wanted to learn.

Chapter 1 End.