The sharp scent of burning tallow filled her nose.
Sophia stirred, eyelids heavy as stone. The surface beneath her was not the firm mattress of her modern apartment but something uneven, stuffed with straw. The faint rustle of silk and the clink of metal snapped her eyes open.
A canopy, Velvet-draped, embroidered with golden lilies and a room lit by flickering candle sconces.
Her breath caught. What is this place?
The last thing she remembered is scalpel in hand, operating room glaring with sterile lights and she had collapsed mid-surgery. Darkness swallowed her, then… this.
"Lady Valehart." A nasal voice cut through her daze.
She turned her head sharply. A middle-aged maid in stiff gray livery stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. Her face twisted in disdain.
"Your father has summoned you. Do not keep the Chief Advisor waiting, lest you embarrass him again."
The words struck like a hammer. Valehart? Chief Advisor? A thousand alien memories slammed into her skull ... the laughter of drunken nobles, the sneers of servants, the shrill voice of a girl demanding jewels, silks, and more power than her father could buy.
Sophia clutched her head, pain splitting her temples. No… this isn't me… This is—
Realization dawned.
She had transmigrated.
Her soul was no longer in her own body, she is no more Dr. Ariana Beth but she is now in the body of Lady Sophia Valehart, the spoiled daughter of the royal court's advisor—a woman despised for her arrogance, rumored cruelty, and shameless scandals.
The maid sniffed. "For once, wear something appropriate. You are to meet His Highness, after all."
Her throat tightened. His Highness?
Like a tide, the new Sophia's fate unfurled in her mind. A forced marriage to the kingdom's crippled prince. A man whispered to be cursed, too sickly to fight for the throne, abandoned by the king, mocked by the court.
The Broken Prince.
Sophia's fingers curled into the bedding. So this is my new life? From celebrated doctor… to condemned bride of a dying prince?
The hall outside was a portrait from another century with arched ceilings, tapestries of hunting stags, floors polished with wax. Servants bowed as she passed, but not out of respect. Their eyes lingered with barely disguised contempt.
"Such a disgrace to the Valehart name."
"She'll bring ruin upon the house."
"Wretched girl, marrying a crippled prince—how fitting."
Every whisper pricked her skin like needles. The old Sophia might have screeched, hurled her goblet, demanded punishment. But this Sophia only lifted her chin, gaze calm and cutting.
If she had learned anything as a doctor, it was this: dignity was not in what you wore but how you bore yourself.
Let them gossip. She had survived blood, disease, and death itself. She would survive this.
Her father's study loomed with towering shelves of scrolls and maps. Behind the desk sat Lord Alaric Valehart, a man of sharp features, robes heavy with embroidery, yet eyes colder than frost.
"You are awake at last," he said without looking up. "Good. You will be married within three days."
Sophia froze. "Married?"
"To Prince Alexander Daxton. The king himself commanded it."
Her pulse quickened. Alexander… Daxton. Memories surfaced—the late Queen's son, ignored by his father, shunned by his brothers, wasting away with a disease no physician could cure.
Three days. She was to become his wife.
"Father, is this not too sudden?"
His gaze lifted filled with steel and disdain. "Do not shame me further, Sophia. Your scandals have left me no choice but to pawn you for political peace. Consider this your redemption."
Her nails dug into her palms. So that was it. To her father, she was a bargaining chip, nothing more. A ghost of mocking smile settled on her lips.
That night, Sophia stood before the gilded mirror in her chambers. A stranger stared back: porcelain skin, glossy black hair cascading down her waist, eyes gray-blue like storm clouds. Beautiful, yes for sure but it was the beauty of a mask.
She inhaled deeply. "Sophia Valehart… I am you now."
She clenched her fists. "But I will not live as you did."
She would not waste this second chance at life.
And if fate had tied her to the cursed prince, then she would use everything she knew to untie the knot of his so-called incurable disease.
Because she recognized the symptoms. The hollow cheeks, the pale skin, the faint swelling in the joints.
It was not a curse. It was a condition. One that, in her world, had a cure.
A faint, dangerous smile touched her lips.
"Prince Alexander Daxton… you may be my cage, but you will also be my first patient."
Three days later, the bells of the royal chapel tolled.
Sophia stood cloaked in white silk, veil heavy with silver threads, as the court whispered viciously behind raised fans.
The spoiled daughter, the shameless bride and the crippled prince's chain.
And there he was.
Alexander Daxton.
Seated in a furred wheelchair, shoulders squared in quiet defiance. Dark hair framed a face both handsome and cold, green eyes sharp enough to slice her resolve.
He looked at her once with disinterest, His gaze sharp and icy, when their gazes met, a strange shiver ran down her spine.
Her lips curved slightly beneath the veil.
You think I am your burden, Alexander?
Just wait. I may be the one who changes everything.