It has to be a phone. Not just any phone—the original Vivienne's phone.
Spurred into action, I dash around the room to where I hear it loudest. Near the bed.
It's nowhere near the nightstand; I already checked there. I toss the blankets to the ground, but no phone appears. Under the bed, maybe?
Falling to my knees, I squint beneath the massive bed, seeing something light up near the head of the bed, toward the wall. Vivienne must have fallen asleep in bed with her phone, and it fell.
The caller must give up, because they don't call back after the second time. Still, I wiggle my way under the bed until I can grab the device, excitement thumping against my ribs.
Maybe I'll finally get some answers. And if I'm really lucky, she'll have some sort of digital diary.
My fingers curl around the sleek device with triumph. It's a lifeline to understanding this bizarre new reality. I shimmy backward, eager to unlock the secrets held within.
"What are you doing?"
The voice, as biting as arctic ice, freezes me mid-motion. My heart leaps into my throat, choking off any response I might have mustered. Caught. Like a child with her hand in the cookie jar, only the stakes feel infinitely higher.
No, wait. They don't know another soul is inhabiting this body. Act natural, Vivienne. What would Vivienne Marshall do?
Play it off like the inquisitor's the problem. Like a true villainess with a devil-may-care attitude.
Problem: That's not me. Like, at all. Also problem: She dies later. Imitating her isn't a long-term solution.
"I asked you a question."
The impatience in his tone snaps me back to the present. Right. I'm halfway under a bed, ass out for anyone to see. No well-bred heiress would be caught dead in my situation, and yet here I am. Or she is. Or… whatever.
This living-in-a-body-that-isn't-mine thing is so fucked up, honestly.
"What does it look like?" I snap, hoping my voice isn't quivering.
Inch by agonizing inch, I extract myself from beneath the bed. The polished wood floor is cool against my palms as I push myself up to sitting.
Taking a deep breath, I face the owner of the voice.
He looms in the doorway, all broad shoulders and sexy pheromones wafting my way, waking up my nether regions in a way I've never experienced.
Holy shit.
Is this the love interest effect?
Dark blond hair, artfully tousled. Amber eyes glowing with an inner fire. And a face that could have been carved from marble—I get what the phrase means now. Beautiful, but utterly devoid of warmth.
He must be Knox Marshall, Vivienne's husband. Scratch that: my husband.
The word feels foreign and yet here he stands, regarding me with a mixture of irritation and something unidentifiable. Suspicion? Contempt? It's hard to read anything beyond the icy mask he wears.
I flash the fruit of my labor at him. "I was getting this."
Since when is being under a bed a crime worthy of inquisition, anyway? His brooding stare leaves my stomach doing flips, but it's no longer about warm, sexy tingles. It's like he doesn't approve of me.
I guess he wouldn't. He never liked Vivienne, and hated belonging to her in marriage. Now that I'm in the book, it makes no sense that he'd give into a shitty marriage just because his family wanted him to.
But I guess little plot holes like this are glossed over as a reader.
Now, as someone inside the book, I'm less than pleased with the author.
"Your phone," he repeats, one eyebrow arching skeptically. "The one you haven't touched in days?"
Shit. Does Vivienne not use her phone? Who lives like that these days? The internet is more like a fifth limb than a luxury.
"I use it when I want to. Is there something wrong with that?"
The attitude and words come to my lips more easily than I expect, little barbs of attitude coated in the original Vivienne's sultry voice. Even my posture corrects itself, my shoulders drawing back as I stand to my full height.
I'm taller than I was in my previous life, too. I guess a short antagonist doesn't give the same vibes of villainy an author is looking for. Compared to Knox, who's as tall as a freaking tree—seriously, what is he, six-five?—I probably look dainty, but I bet Abigail would look adorable and tiny next to me.
It almost makes me feel bad for the original Vivienne, who was written as an antagonist, down to every detail.
"You use it when you want," he repeats, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorframe. "But you can't be bothered to pick up when your husband calls?"
Not sure how to respond, I go with a sassy shrug. It was supposed to just be a quick up-and-down of my shoulders, because I have no idea how to approach this man I find myself married to. Instead, my body takes the idea and runs with it, and I find myself spreading my hands with an over-exaggerated shrug and wide eyes. "I didn't realize I was supposed to be at your beck and call, Your Highness, Alpha Knox."
Wow. That's a lot of attitude from the body of someone who loves her husband.
His jaw tightens. "Enough with the sarcasm, Vivienne."
My name on his lips, even uttered with such disdain, sends my belly flipping and flopping in glee, like a fangirl. The whiplash in this body's emotions leaves me unsettled.
"Why are you here, Knox?"
His eyes narrow. "I heard you overdosed. Again."
Ah, right—Vivienne's sister was talking about that, too. Like the previous owner of this body does this sort of thing often, just to get attention from a man who doesn't care about her.
Why? Why try so hard? You're beautiful and rich. You can find someone else to love, who will love you in return. Why stick with this one? Why give him your love so one-sidedly?
As a reader, I hadn't thought too much into Vivienne's mindset. I just thought of her as some crazy psycho bitch who got what she deserved.
Amazing how quickly things can change when it's now your life on the line.
"It was an accident. I've been having trouble sleeping."
The excuse comes out without thought on my part; the words feel familiar as they come out of my mouth, like I've said them before.
"Always the same excuse," he mutters, his upper lip curling as he looks me over. "You seem to have a lot of energy this time, though. You're usually in bed for days. What are you up to now?"
Bingo. It's like my body has automated responses if I'm lost. This probably won't end well for me. I'll have to get the hang of this new life soon, or else I'll just follow in original Vivienne's tragic footsteps.
"I'm not up to anything. Is it so hard to believe I just wanted a good night's sleep?"
Knox's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture shifts. He takes a step into the room, and I resist the urge to scramble backward.
"Dr. Graham mentioned you might experience some... disorientation," he says, each word clipped. "Perhaps it would be best if you rested."
It's not a suggestion. The command is clear in his tone, leaving no room for argument. I nod, not trusting myself to speak. It isn't like I have anywhere to go, anyway. Every spare moment needs to be spent plotting a way to survive this place.
He turns to leave, then pauses. "I'll be working late. Don't wait up."
And just like that, he's gone. The tension bleeds from my shoulders, leaving me feeling oddly deflated.
Knox Marshall. My husband. The man who's supposed to kill me.