Chapter one
Jack\\
The morning light spills through the glass walls of my house, warm and golden as it stretches across the king-sized bed.The waves are the first thing I hear, so I know it's gonna be a good day.
I groan, stretch, joints cracking in satisfying pops, and half-heartedly tug the sheets into place.
I still can't believe it.
It's been a month since I died.
And woke up in this ridiculous, pheromone-soaked, duke-infested novel written by my chemo buddy, Rose.
The moment I realized I'd transmigrated into her story—as the minor villain doomed to be gutted by Chapter Ten—I did what any sane man would do.
I ran.
Didn't even pack a toothbrush. Bolted straight out of the capital like I owed the mob money.
No way was I sticking around to get carved up in her twisted love pentagon. Especially not when the character I'd landed in had my exact name and face—because Rose, the gremlin, thought it was hilarious to model her villain after me.
Payback, she'd said, for teasing her bald head.
(I was bald too. Cancer club solidarity.)
Anyway, I bolted. Left the capital the moment I got my bearings and came straight here—to the coast. Turns out this version of Jack? Loaded. Offshore accounts, land titles, a fully furnished estate perched right above the beach.
Thanks for the beach house, Rose.
Now every morning, I wake up, stretch, and jog the sand. Shirtless. Because this body? Healthy. Strong. Scar-free. No burns. No stab wounds. No gunshot scars. In my old life I avoided mirrors; now I don't flinch when I pass one.
This life is mine now.
A second chance.
In my last life , I was born in a slum to a drunk who thought fists were punctuation and a mom who lived in a glass pipe haze. The foster system spat me out, the orphanage got shut down for embezzlement, and I landed in gang life at fourteen. Clawed my way out by twenty-eight and built a semi-legal loan shark business.
All I wanted by then was peace. Maybe even a family.
I opened my heart wide—to anyone. Men, women, non binary didn't matter. I just wanted someone to stay. Anyone to stay.
And for a while, I had Noah. Pretty. Sweet-talking. Used me for my money—but I let him. Companionship for cash. I was fine with it.
Then came the diagnosis.
And like everyone else before him, he left.
Chemo. Isolation. Days of pain. Nights of silence. Other patients had families. I had an empty chair.
I would've gone mad if it weren't for Rose. Nineteen. Terminal. Spiteful. Talented. Filling her hours by cranking out unhinged omegaverse drivel.
So yeah. Thanks, universe. Or fate. Or whatever cosmic roulette wheel landed me here.
I lace up my sneakers and head downstairs.
This house is obscene. Glass walls, sleek wood floors, a pool, an outdoor kitchen, a second-floor balcony with a view straight to the horizon. Too big for me, obviously.
I grab a glass of water in the kitchen, lean against the counter, and let my eyes sweep over it all.
One day, I think. One day, I'll fill this place with a family.
I step outside, down the stone steps that carve their way to the sand. The morning air bites clean. The ocean dazzles under the sun, gulls crying overhead like they own the place.
I breathe deep. Salty. Bright. Alive.
Yeah. This world's got heat cycles, knotting, and an aristocracy with too much time on its hands—but it's beautiful.
I jog down the stairs and onto the shore, the cold sand shifting under my weight, water rushing in around my ankles before sliding back out.
I tell myself I should meet people. Try dating. Start building the family I want.
Too bad I have the social skills of a rock.
If only someone would just fall into my arms.
Save me the trouble.
"AAAAHHHH—!"
The scream rips through the morning air.
I stop mid-stride, whipping toward the sound. It comes from the slope above the house—scrub plants thrashing, loose sand scattering.
Then a blur of white and red hurtles downward, crashing into me.
The impact nearly knocks me over. My arms catch the figure by instinct, steadying us both.
Warm. Shaking. Fragile.
And then the scent.
Roses. Strawberries. Apples warmed by the sun. Sweet, sharp, dizzying.
Pheromones.
No. No, no, no—
I look down.
Scarlet curls tumble into my chest. Red eyes, wet with tears. Pale skin mottled with bruises. A torn white nightshirt slipping off one shoulder. A belly—swollen, unmistakable.
Beautiful.
No. Dangerous.
There's only one person in Rose's twisted story who looks like this.
Ciel.
The omega who drives four psychotic dukes to war.
And he's in my arms.
He lifts his head, trembling, lips quivering.
"P-please," he whispers. "Help me."
I stare at him.
...
Fuck the plot.