Rosario slammed the bedroom door shut and pressed his back against it, heart racing. The echo of the butler's words still rang in his ears.
Young Master Rosario…
He buried his face in his hands.
"Master? Rosario? No, no, no, that's not me. I'm Amera. I'm a girl. I'm—"
The sound of his own voice betrayed him. Deeper. Firm. The kind of tone that could fill a room without effort.
"Okay, okay. Calm down. This is just… temporary. A bad dream, maybe?"
His hands slid down his face, and he forced himself toward the mirror again. He almost tripped on the long carpet, his legs feeling too heavy, too long.
The boy in the reflection—he—looked back with crimson eyes that gleamed like cut rubies.
Rosario poked at his own cheek. The reflection poked back. He tugged at the silky blond hair falling into his face. Still there. Still real.
He lowered his gaze, taking in the lean shoulders, the sharp collarbones peeking from his open nightshirt, the way his frame had shifted. Taller, broader, undeniably male.
"...Oh my god." His face turned red as realization set in. "I really am a guy."
Rosario staggered back onto the bed and buried his head into a pillow, muffling his scream.
"WHY?! I asked for a new life with handsome, doting men, not to become one of them!"
He flipped onto his back, staring at the golden canopy above. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the weight of reality sinking in.
He tried flexing his hands, curling them into fists. The knuckles popped. He pressed a palm over his chest—flatter now, the curves he once had gone. His heart drummed beneath strong ribs.
Rosario groaned and kicked his legs weakly. Even those felt longer, heavier, nothing like his old body.
"This is so unfair. I didn't sign up for gender-bending mafia hell."
His eyes drifted to the ornate dresser, where polished cufflinks and neatly folded suits waited. No dresses. No skirts. Not even a hint of lace.
This wasn't just a mistake. This was a setup.
A voice in his head reminded him of the book's plot—the violent tragedies, the inevitable betrayals.
He swallowed hard.
"If I'm Rosario now… then that means I'm already on the chopping block, aren't I?"
A chill crawled down his spine.
Someone knocked on the door again, softer this time.
"Young Master, your father grows impatient."
Rosario sat up, hands trembling in his lap. His reflection's crimson eyes seemed to mock him with their cold beauty.
"Well," he muttered, forcing a shaky grin, "if I'm going to die anyway… at least I'll look fabulous doing it."