My head throbbed like a K-pop concert gone wrong.
One minute, I was… well, I don't even remember what I *was*.
The next, BAM!
I was staring at a stranger in the mirror.
This wasn't my face.
Not even close.
This face was all sculpted cheekbones, plumped lips, and enough Botox to paralyze a small army.
Think "Real Housewife" meets "femme fatale" – and not in a good way.
Panic clawed at my throat.
Where was I?
And who the hell was this woman staring back at me?
The room screamed "expensive." Like, "daddy bought me a yacht" expensive.
Silk sheets, a chandelier that probably cost more than my college tuition, and a walk-in closet the size of my old apartment.
This was some serious "crazy rich Asians" territory.
Then, the memories hit.
Or rather, *fragments* of memories.
Snippets of whispered conversations, flashes of angry faces, and a burning, all-consuming desire for… revenge?
Oh, sweet mother of pearl.
I'd landed in a soap opera.
This body belonged to Vivian, a gold-digging mistress who apparently had a score to settle with this ridiculously wealthy family.
And according to the rapidly fading timer blinking in my mind's eye – a lovely little feature I'm calling my "limited-time soul rental" – I had 90 days to make it happen.
Ninety days, or poof!
Back to wherever lost souls go.
Talk about a ticking clock.
I stumbled out of the room, my stilettos clicking on the marble floor like a death knell.
The air hung thick with the scent of money and malice.
As I navigated the opulent hallway, a figure emerged from the shadows.
Tom, the butler.
Think Alfred Pennyworth, but with a serious attitude problem.
His eyes, cold and assessing, raked over me like I was a stain on the priceless rug.
"Good morning, Miss Vivian," he said, his voice as dry as a martini.
"Mr. Thompson expects you downstairs for breakfast."
Before I could even stammer a reply, a voice dripped with honeyed venom cut through the air.
"Vivian, darling! Sleeping in again? Really, you'll never catch a husband that way."
Ms.
Jenkins, the matriarch of the Thompson clan, stood framed in a doorway.
Picture Cruella de Vil in a Chanel suit, and you're halfway there.
Her eyes, narrowed with suspicion, could curdle milk at fifty paces.
"Don't think you can just waltz in here and start making demands," she hissed, her smile as fake as a five-dollar bill.
"You're nothing but a… a temporary distraction. The Thompsons always get what they want, and what we want is for you to disappear."
I plastered on my best "butter wouldn't melt" smile.
"Good morning to you too, Ms. Jenkins. Such a lovely day, isn't it? Perfect for… plotting revenge." I mentally face-palmed.
Smooth, Vivian, real smooth.
The air crackled with tension.
I needed information, and fast.
But how to get it without blowing my cover?
Back in Vivian's ridiculously oversized bedroom, I tried to access her memories again.
It was like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, while blindfolded, during an earthquake.
Fragments flickered: a name – "Isabella," a place – "Columbia," a symbol – a black rose.
My head pounded.
This was going to be harder than I thought.
A shadow fell across the doorway.
Mr.
Thompson.
The big kahuna.
The man you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, or a well-lit boardroom, or anywhere, really.
His eyes, sharp and calculating, bored into me.
"Vivian," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through my bones.
"I trust you understand the… boundaries of your position here. This family has secrets, Vivian. Secrets that are best left undisturbed."
His gaze lingered, a clear warning.
He knew something was up.
He was watching me.
Suddenly, a flicker of movement in the hallway.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure, disappearing around a corner.
Zhuang Yu.
The bodyguard.
He was always there, lurking in the background, his eyes like chips of obsidian.
Something about him felt… off.
Too observant, too controlled.
A bodyguard didn't usually carry himself with that kind of intensity.
My gut screamed, "Trust no one."
Driven by a sudden impulse, I decided to follow him.
But as I stepped into the hallway, two more gorillas – I mean, *bodyguards* – materialized, blocking my path.
"Miss Vivian, Mr. Thompson has requested you join him for breakfast," one of them said, his voice devoid of emotion.
Think fast, Vivian.
Think fast.
I gasped, clutching my ankle.
"Oh! Oh dear! I think I've twisted my ankle! It's excruciating!"
The bodyguards exchanged glances.
Suckers.
"I need to sit down," I whimpered, batting my eyelashes for good measure.
"Perhaps… in the garden? The fresh air might help."
They hesitated, then grudgingly allowed me to pass.
Score one for the black lotus.
I limped – convincingly, I hoped – towards the garden, keeping an eye on the direction Zhuang Yu had disappeared.
Once I was out of sight, I ditched the stilettos (comfort over fashion, always) and darted behind a towering hedge.
Peeking around the corner, I saw him.
Zhuang Yu, talking on his phone, his expression grim.
I couldn't hear what he was saying, but something about his posture, the way he held himself… it screamed "undercover cop." Or worse.
I needed to know what he was up to.
But how?
Cornered, adrenaline coursing through my veins, I knew I had to do something, anything, to gain an edge.
This charade, this dangerous game of cat and mouse in a gilded cage, was just beginning.
Hiding in the shadows, I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
It was time to use my secret weapon, the one advantage I had in this crazy, messed-up situation.
Time to see what this "limited-time soul rental" could really do.
She slipped further into the shadows, concentrating all her energy, ready to use her golden finger - limited time soul possession.
The world swam into focus, a Monet painting rendered in nauseating detail.
Silk sheets, a chandelier that dripped crystals like frozen tears, and the cloying scent of white lilies – none of it was *mine*.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the lingering fog.
Where… who…?
Vivian's (or rather, *this woman's*) fingers, manicured to a lethal point and adorned with a diamond the size of a robin's egg, clawed at the plush duvet.
This wasn't her life.
Her life was… a blur.
A life of spreadsheets, late-night study sessions, and the comforting aroma of cheap coffee.
Not… this gilded cage.
A shard of memory, jagged and unwelcome, flashed: a penthouse view, a sneering face, the word "worthless" hurled like a poisoned dart.
Then, darkness.
*Who was she?
* And more importantly, *who was this woman whose body she now occupied?
*
The name surfaced, unbidden, a whisper in the echoing chambers of her mind: *Vivian Sterling.
*
Right.
Vivian Sterling.
Trophy wife.
Gold digger.
The mistress of one Mr.
Thompson, patriarch of a family whose wealth could make a small nation blush.
A family who, judging by the icy glares that had greeted her stumbling entrance into the Thompson mansion, clearly wanted her gone.
A wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm her.
Ninety days.
A voice, chillingly detached, echoed in her mind.
Ninety days to… what?
The fragmented memories offered no answers, only tantalizing glimpses of betrayal, secrets, and a burning desire for… revenge.
A knock, sharp and impatient, shattered the uneasy silence.
"Ms. Sterling," a voice, clipped and devoid of warmth, filtered through the heavy oak door.
"Mr. Thompson expects you downstairs in fifteen minutes."
That would be Tom, the head butler.
Loyal, efficient, and radiating an aura of disapproval that could curdle milk.
Vivian took a shaky breath.
Fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes to piece together a semblance of this woman's life, to navigate a viper's nest of wealth and deceit, and to figure out just what the hell she was supposed to *do*.
Her gaze landed on the vanity, a battlefield of designer cosmetics and perfume bottles that cost more than her old apartment.
A jolt – another fragmented memory: Vivian Sterling meticulously applying crimson lipstick, her eyes hard and calculating in the mirror.
An idea, desperate and reckless, sparked.
*The memories… they were there, buried beneath the surface.
Maybe… maybe she could access them.
*
Closing her eyes, Vivian focused, reaching out into the swirling chaos of her mind, grasping for the remnants of Vivian Sterling's consciousness.
It was like wading through treacle, the images fragmented and distorted.
But then, a flicker.
A memory, sharper this time: Vivian Sterling, unlocking a hidden drawer in the study, her face illuminated by the glow of a laptop screen.
The study.
Mr.
Thompson's inner sanctum.
Time was running out.
With newfound resolve, Vivian rose, her legs unsteady beneath her.
She had ninety days.
Ninety days to unravel the mysteries of Vivian Sterling's life, to navigate the treacherous currents of the Thompson family, and to exact… revenge.
But first, she needed to find that study.
And she needed to do it before Mr.
Thompson came looking for her.
As she reached the door, she paused, a chilling realization washing over her.
She was trapped.
Trapped in a life not her own, a game she didn't understand, with stakes she couldn't even begin to comprehend.
And the clock was ticking.