Skylar Vance jolted awake to the shrill ringing of an iPhone. Eyes still closed, she instinctively groped for the device, swiped to answer with muscle memory, and mumbled, "Hello?" before freezing mid-breath. Why is my voice so deep? The rumble sounded foreign – unnervingly, undeniably male.
Her eyes snapped open. The delicate wrist she'd known for twenty-three years was gone, replaced by a corded forearm dusted with dark hair. A Patek Philippe gleamed on the masculine wrist, its platinum bezel catching the morning light. This isn't my body. Skylar scrambled off the silk sheets and sprinted to the en suite bathroom.
The reflection stole her breath. A man stared back – sharp jawline shadowed with stubble, tousled black hair falling over a forehead that usually commanded boardrooms. He wore a half-unbuttoned Thom Browne shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal tendons snaking down his forearms. The open collar exposed the sharp jut of his Adam's apple and a hint of sculpted collarbone. A charcoal tie hung loose like a declaration of casual power.
Skylar gaped. The reflection mirrored her shock, twisting aristocratic features into comical disbelief.
"Holy hell," she breathed, the baritone vibrating in her chest. "I'm stupidly hot."
A viral internet challenge flashed through her mind: If you woke up as a man, what's the first thing you'd try? Top comment: I'd test-drive the equipment. Her gaze drifted downward before she mentally slapped herself. Down, girl. No time for field research. The abandoned phone shrieked again from the bed. Skylar lunged for it, pulse spiking as she recognized the caller ID. That's… my number.
She answered, voice cautious. "Yeah?"
Her own soprano voice – crisp and cool – echoed through the speaker. "Finished panicking?"
Skylar's borrowed throat tightened. "Uh..."
"Check your left wrist." Silas Sterling's tone brooked no argument. "Is there a mole?"
Skylar rotated the unfamiliar limb. Nestled between sinewy blue veins, a tiny, jet-black mole punctuated the wrist bone. "Yes."
"I believe we've swapped bodies." The words fell like ice chips. "I'm Silas Sterling. You're currently occupying my physical form. Confirm your identity: Are you Skylar Vance?"
Skylar's knuckles whitened around the phone. "It's me. But how? This defies physics!"
"Save the TED Talk." His clinical detachment sliced through her panic. "Two directives. First: Call my assistant, Finn Liang. Order him to collect me from Parking Zone B at the Flower Cloud Hot Springs Resort and transport me to the Oceanfront Avenue estate. Second: You're expected at a Sterling family brunch in twenty minutes. The elderly couple are my grandparents. Do not engage. Smile, nod, escape. Rendezvous at Oceanfront after."
Skylar's stomach dropped. "I don't know these people! What if I call Aunt Beatrice 'Grandma'?"
"Unlikely." Dry humor laced his voice. "I avoid conversation with them. If questioned, deploy silence. It's my default setting."
"Got it. I'll just… radiate enigmatic broodiness."
A sharp rap rattled the oak door. "Mr. Sterling?" A deferential voice filtered through.
"Madam Sterling requests your presence. Brunch commences shortly."
Skylar pitched her voice into Silas's whisky-baritone range. "Acknowledged." She covered the receiver, whispering, "Operation Lobster Thermidor is a go."
"Hmm." The monosyllable from her own vocal cords prickled with frost.
After disconnecting, Skylar scrolled through Silas's contacts. Finn Liang. She stabbed the call button.
"Sir?" Finn answered before the first ring faded.
"Go to Flower Cloud Resort. Retrieve a woman from Zone B parking." Skylar channeled boardroom abruptness. "Deliver her to Oceanfront. Sending her photo now." She screenshot a paparazzi shot of herself mid-laugh at last year's Venice Film Festival and fired it off.
"Immediately, sir."
As Finn's line went dead, Skylar typed "Silas Sterling" into Safari.
The Sterling Group. Royalport's crown jewel. Patriarch Samuel Sterling built an empire from Queens tenements into a conglomerate straddling skyscrapers, silicon chips, and solar farms. And Silas? The article's hero-shot showed him exiting a Bentley – razor-sharp tuxedo, eyes like Arctic flint. Harvard Law at nineteen. Sterling Group CEO at twenty-seven. Sole heir apparent.
Skylar's fingernails bit into borrowed palms. I'm about to break bread with royalty. Every fiber of her C-list actress soul screamed. The fanciest event she'd attended was a yogurt brand launch where the "VIP guest" was a TikTok Pomeranian. Get it together, Vance. Breathe.
She fell into a Wikipedia rabbit hole:
Samuel Sterling (80): Titan who could sink nations with a stock sell-off.
Margaret Sterling (née Zhu): Jewelry dynasty heiress whose "dowry" funded Samuel's first skyscraper.
Vincent Sterling: Eldest uncle. Head of Sterling Realty.
Richard Sterling: Second uncle. CFO with a penchant for hostile takeovers.
Rosalind Sterling: Aunt controlling media investments.
But Silas's parents? Only decade-old tabloid fragments remained: Zachary Sterling (third son) and wife Clara deceased in Swiss Alps helicopter crash. Samuel Sterling's hair whitened overnight. Skylar's chest tightened. Silas was nine. Then packed off to boarding school. For a heartbeat, empathy swelled – until logic bulldozed it. Pitying a billionaire? Girl, your bank account's crying.
One name jumped out: Lucas Sterling. Richard's son. Founder of Radiant Media – the agency that had blacklisted Skylar after she'd "accidentally" dumped sangria on Lucas's Valentino blazer during her audition.
Focus. Skylar memorized Samuel's hawkish nose and Margaret's pearl choker before straightening Silas's collar in the mirror. The suit jacket transformed his frame into a V-shaped monument to tailoring. Work the room like you own it. She practiced a smolder – one brow arched, lips quirking with calculated indifference. Three parts condescension, two parts boredom, one part I-sleep-on-money.
The expression curdled in the glass. Yikes. That's not smoldering – that's indigestion face. Grimacing, Skylar Sterling pushed open the bedroom door.