CLAIRE'S POV
By 9 PM, you will receive the summarized performance report for the Executives at Keller Insurance.
I end the last call of my twelve-hour shift, my body screaming in protest. My back aches, and my stomach churns from the endless caffeine fueling my system. As I look around, the massive 22nd-floor HR office stands empty except for my lonely desk. No one has a more boring life than me, I think. No wonder everyone else clocks out early.
"Huh? What are you still doing here at this hour, Cla?"
I flinch, clutching my chest. A familiar laugh rings out—Sophie. I roll my eyes, irritation melting into amusement. "Shouldn't I be asking you the same?"
Her violet eyes sparkle with mischief, that annoyingly cute smile playing on her lips. "Had an online meeting with a Japanese client." She hooks her arm through mine, and I shake my head, laughing.
"So you skipped a downtown party for a client?"
Sophie is the kind of best friend who lives on the opposite pole yet somehow matches me perfectly.
Hello there.
My name is Claire Weston. Overworked, overpaid assistant to the HR manager of Keller Industries. Relatively beautiful, reasonably popular, and living a life so predictable it could put a clock to sleep.
Nothing interesting to report. I work like a maniac on steroids, fund my luxurious lifestyle and book addiction with the paycheck, and party with the girls on weekends. Rinse and repeat.
Some might complain, but I do not mind. A boring life comes with benefits, and mine are pretty sweet.
"Did you hear your boss got an intern pregnant?"
I snap out of my thoughts and shrug. Sophie's eyes narrow. "You always have the best gossip, but you never share."'
True, I have the best gossip. But what is the point when I just forget it?
"Not my business. That weirdo was bound to land in trouble. Terrible personality, despite the looks."
We step out of the elevator into the biting Manhattan winter. Even at 2 AM, the city pulses with life. I hug my overcoat tight as Sophie tugs my sleeve. "Wanna hit the bar?"
"I would if I had not just worked twelve hours straight," I groan, stretching.
She rolls her eyes and gives my butt a playful pat. "Whatever. I am going."
"Do not hook up with anyone," I tease, earning a light smack.
Sophie's reputation for charming hot tech nerds is infamous, though she still claims to be searching for true love. With a hug, she jumps into a cab, already texting.
I head toward the bus stop, too cold to walk home tonight. Snow falls softly, dusting the streets. Around me, couples laugh, wrapped up in each other's warmth.
A strange, heavy feeling has been twisting in my gut for days—a deep, unexplainable dread. My intuition has always been sharp, but I try not to overthink it.
My life has been the same for seven years. I wake at 5, hit the gym by 6, start work by 10, pull overtime more often than not. I have dinner with friends, party on weekends, and sleep. Rinse and repeat.
After losing my parents at seven, my friends and colleagues are my family.
My love life is boring. Not for lack of interest, but something in me always shuts down before feelings can bloom. Too many suitors have backed off, sensing that wall.
But none of that matters now. I am running on caffeine and exhaustion, emotionally bankrupt.
Snow catches on the tip of my nose as I cross the quiet street. The world feels still, frozen in the winter night.
Then a blinding flash of headlights appears.
I turn.
A black Ferrari roars through the silence, too fast, too close.
My body locks. It is too late to move. Too late to scream.
Then I am airborne. Weightless. My body shatters under an invisible mountain.
The sky above is clear, the stars painfully bright.
Why do I feel so calm?
My back slams onto the ground. A sickening thud echoes. Heat blooms across my side—blood, vivid and warm, staining the snow.
Seriously, I really did prefer my boring life.
Voices shout for an ambulance. Snow kisses my cheeks as the world fades.
.....
...
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A new awareness trickles in. My eyes are shut, but I can hear them—men's voices, tense and unfamiliar. Everything aches. A metallic taste coats my tongue. I try to move, to open my eyes against the heaviness.
The air smells rich and expensive, like linen and sandalwood. This is not a hospital room. Have they put me in some VIP suite?
"Look, he is moving."
He?
Who are they talking about? I am a she.
I force my eyes open, muscles protesting.
"Oh, thank god! He is awake!"
Again with he? Are these doctors illiterate?
A low groan escapes my lips. I blink, adjusting to the harsh morning light.
"Hey, can you hear me?"
I turn toward the voice. A man in his late twenties—sharp features, tan skin, intense amber eyes—stares down at me, worry etched on his face.
He is handsome.
But he is not a doctor. He wears a black hoodie and grey sweatpants.
My throat is too dry to speak.
The man lets out a relieved sigh, running a hand through his hair. "You bastard."
My brows furrow. How dare he?
"How dare you!" I try to snap, but the voice that comes out is deep and husky, undeniably male.
The man does not even flinch. He just rolls his eyes.
"Be grateful. If it were not for me, news of you collapsing in your penthouse would have spread already. Every vulture waiting for a chance would have picked you clean."
My confusion deepens. Collapsing? Penthouse? I was hit by a car!
I push myself up, dizziness swamping me.
"Whoa, take it easy," he says, reaching for my arm.
"Do not touch me," I warn, and that strange, resonant baritone echoes in the quiet room.
This is not my voice. This is the kind of voice that commands rooms, that holds power in every syllable.
My heart hammers against my ribs. A dream. This has to be a dream.
The man sighs again, a faint smile on his lips. "Yeah, yeah. Now get your ass up, Sleeping Prince. Your father called an urgent board meeting for 10 AM."
My head spins, nausea rising. Nothing makes sense.
Then my eyes land on the mirror across the room.
And I see him.
Broad shoulders strain against a medical gown. Strong, defined forearms rest at my sides. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Navy-blue hair, messy under the light. And eyes—violet, intense, and utterly unfamiliar.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My heartbeat roars in my ears.
I stumble out of bed, ignoring the shout behind me, and lunge into the adjoining bathroom. I fall to my knees and retch, my body rejecting this impossible reality.
When I look up, gripping the sink until my knuckles turn white, the reflection stares back.
A face of perfection, as if sculpted by a god with too much time.
A man's face.
"Dude, are you okay?" the stranger calls from the doorway.
Who are you? Where am I? What is happening?
This is not me.
I did not sign up for this.