The first thing I felt was silk. Crisp, cold, disturbingly expensive silk sheets wrapped around my limbs like luxury burrito foil. Then came the soft weight of the mattress a mattress that might actually have been smarter than I am. Memory foam, temperature regulated, probably enchanted by a minor deity of sleep hygiene. If death came for me now, I'd ask for five more minutes just to enjoy this bed.
Then came the voice.
[Good morning, Host. Time to seize the day.]
I cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it. The room was filled with warm morning light filtering through sheer drapes, bathing everything in soft gold. Marble floors. Crystal chandelier. A wardrobe the size of my old apartment. I was still in the mansion.
Still Alessia.
Still screwed.
"Ugh," I groaned, dragging the sheets over my head like that would reverse fate itself. "So it wasn't a dream."
[Correct. You remain in possession of Alessia Ryvenhart's body and assets.]
"Assets," I muttered bitterly. "Yeah, I've noticed."
[Would you like to review your schedule?]
"Do I have a choice?"
[Technically, yes. Realistically, no.]
"Great. Lay it on me."
[You have three board-level check-ins, two contract reviews, a performance analysis for the media division, and several pending HR requests including one from an omega intern claiming you threatened to 'lick her scent blocker off.']
I stared at the ceiling. "Okay. First of all, ew. Second, why was she not fired?"
[She filed the report anonymously.]
"Of course."
With the resigned grace of someone awaiting execution, I sat up, rubbing my face. My hands felt different. Larger. Elegant. Dangerous. Like they could type up a corporate takedown memo and snap a neck, all before lunch.
I slipped out of bed and padded into the massive bathroom white marble, gold accents, rainfall shower. The works. I caught my reflection in the mirror.
And paused.
Alessia Ryvenhart was... criminally attractive. Masculine style, feline grace. Bone structure so sharp I could probably cut cocaine on it. Hair slicked back in perfect villain fashion, and eyes those ridiculous silver-grey eyes that looked like they'd seen stock market crashes and smiled through them.
"Damn," I whispered.
I understood now. Why omegas in this company still flirted despite the HR complaints. Why alphas stayed away with a mix of fear and awe. Why the original heroine hadn't punched her immediately though I wouldn't have blamed her if she had.
I showered. Took my time. The water pressure was glorious and, frankly, the only thing preventing me from committing treason against reality. Then came wardrobe.
[May I suggest something from the 'intimidating but chic' collection?]
"That a real label or just your fantasy?"
[Imported French line. Popular among CEOs who want to look like they could commit legal murder.]
I chose a charcoal suit with structured shoulders, a crisp black shirt, and a dark silver tie. Masculine. Minimalist. Absolutely terrifying. I didn't look like someone trying to be powerful—I looked like power.
Downstairs, the mansion was already humming with quiet energy. Betas moved around with surgical efficiency cleaning, adjusting floral arrangements, prepping trays of food. When I entered the dining room, they all froze.
Like they expected me to throw a knife.
I said nothing. Just walked to the long table and sat at the head, silently.
The breakfast layout was obscene. Croissants, poached eggs, artisanal yogurt, three kinds of imported cheese, berries that had clearly never seen a supermarket, and a black coffee so strong it probably had a death toll.
I ate in silence. The betas visibly relaxed after the first five minutes passed without anyone getting fired or mauled.
Then came the sound of approaching shoes.
"Miss Ryvenhart!"
I turned slowly. A beta man early thirties, wire-rimmed glasses, neat suit slightly wrinkled, nerves practically tattooed across his face hurried toward me with a tablet in hand.
He stopped short when he saw my expression.
"I—I hope I'm not interrupting," he said, bowing slightly. "I just wanted to know if… if you were pleased with the surprise last night?"
I blinked. "What surprise?"
He swallowed. "The omega."
I put my coffee down. Gently.
"You arranged that?"
He winced. "I—I thought you'd appreciate something… familiar. Given your usual preferences."
"Let me make something very clear," I said, standing slowly. "If you ever do that again without my express permission, I will have your contract terminated before your next blink. Understood?"
He paled. "Understood, Miss Ryvenhart."
"Good."
He handed me the tablet with shaking hands.
"Car's waiting," he whispered.
I didn't bother with another word. I walked past him, heels clicking like a warning bell, and exited through the main door.
The car same sleek Maybach as yesterday was waiting with the door already open. The chauffeur gave a small nod. I climbed in. The beta assistant followed silently, looking like he was trying to stop his soul from leaking out of his ears.
The ride was blissfully quiet.
Outside, the city came to life. Glass towers reflected the morning sun, billboards blinked with faces of up-and-coming artists, and the usual crowd of early risers hustled past cafés and subway entrances. Somewhere among them, I remembered, was Sera Lin. The heroine. Still trapped in this company. Still glaring like I was a live grenade.
We reached the Ryvenhart Entertainment headquarters in under twenty minutes.
It was… impressive.
A thirty-story monument to excess and ambition. Polished glass façade, sharp angles, towering logos. Inside, a marble lobby with minimalist art installations and that faint citrusy-clean scent all corporate palaces seem to love. Employees buzzed through with practiced speed, most barely daring to glance my way.
Except when they did.
Some bowed slightly. Some whispered.
The braver omegas offered faint smiles, half-curious, half-fearful.
[You are feared. Respected. Desired.]
"No pressure, then."
I entered the executive elevator with the beta assistant still pale, still clutching the tablet like a life preserver. We reached the top floor. My floor.
The office looked pristine.
No sign of yesterday's disaster. The couch was clean. The desk organized. No lingering omega scent. Just polished professionalism and the faintest whisper of antiseptic.
I sat down behind the desk.
The assistant placed the morning documents in front of me like a sacrificial offering.
"Would you… like to continue with Project 87?" he asked hesitantly.
I stared.
"The… office reassignment for Miss Lin. The one where she's placed next to the janitor closet with the broken AC?"
I raised a brow.
"She… she's the omega who refused your uh, Miss Ryvenhart's previous advances."
I stared harder.
He squirmed.
"Forget it," I said flatly. "We're done with all of that."
He blinked. "Ma'am?"
"She gets a real office. Upstairs. With a window. And no water pipe symphonies."
"But "
"Do it. Or find another job."
He scribbled a note furiously.
I leaned back. "And schedule a performance review. Quietly. I want to see what she's working on."
"Yes, Miss Ryvenhart."
[Good call. This aligns with your 'survival' objective.]
"I'm not doing it for her," I muttered. "I just don't want to get stabbed in an elevator."
[Understood.]
As I picked up the first folder contract litigation involving a band that may or may not have cursed at a sponsor mid-interview I realized something shocking.
I knew what I was doing.
The system's skills installed like downloadable confidence kicked in instantly. My mind processed numbers, legal phrasing, marketing angles, and social backlash probabilities without a blink. I was efficient. Fast. Ruthless.
I was, somehow, good at this.
And for the first time since I woke up in this world, I didn't feel like an imposter.
I felt… in control.
Let's see how long it lasts.