Chapter One: Not like this

The water went into my lungs before I understood what was happening.

One moment there was darkness. The kind of darkness that belongs to sleep, soft and complete. The next, my face was being pushed into a drum of freezing water while two pairs of hands held the back of my head down and someone counted.

Counting.

Like this was a timed exercise.

Like I was something to be processed.

My body reacted before my mind did. My arms jerked upward. My fingers caught the rim of the drum and gripped hard. My legs shoved backward against whoever stood behind me.

Not enough.

The hands were stronger.

Water rushed into my nose, my throat, my lungs.

I thought: I’m going to die.

Then another thought slammed into it.

Not like this.

My name is Zara Cole. Twenty-nine years old. Book editor. Professional hater of badly written web novels.

Three hours ago, I had been lying on my couch in Cape Town rage-reading the most infuriating story ever written.

Over a thousand chapters of suffering.

A pathetic female lead.

A cold fiancé.

A manipulative childhood friend.

Humiliation after humiliation after humiliation.

And after all that?

One apology from the male lead and suddenly it was true love.

I had left a comment.

A long one.

An extremely violent one.

Then my phone screen flashed.

And now I was drowning.

The memories hit between one heartbeat and the next.

Her name was Zara Monteiro.

Twenty-six.

Heir to Monteiro Industries.

Current target of a hostile corporate takeover orchestrated by a man named Stellan Voss.

Cold.

Precise.

Ruthless in the way only rich men with too much power could be.

The memories came in sharp fragments.

Board meetings.

Lawyers.

Threats disguised as polite conversations.

Fear hidden behind designer clothes and perfect makeup.

And tonight; tonight Stellan Voss had decided to remove the problem permanently.

The shareholder vote was in four days.

If Zara Monteiro died before then, Voss Capital would swallow the company whole.

The water crushed into my lungs again.

Something inside me snapped.

Not fear.

Fury.

I stopped struggling.

Completely.

The men holding me paused slightly, caught off guard by the sudden stillness.

That tiny hesitation was enough.

I twisted violently sideways.

My head burst out of the water with a choking gasp. I ripped one arm free and slammed my elbow backward.

Something cracked.

The man behind me shouted in pain.

The second one grabbed for my wrist.

I bit him.

Hard.

Not a warning bite.

A full, committed, feral bite.

He screamed.

I ran.

The room was a basement. Concrete floors. Rust stains. One metal door at the top of a short staircase.

I threw myself at it.

Once.

Twice.

The lock broke on the third hit.

I stumbled into a narrow corridor smelling of mold and old paint and kept running.

Footsteps thundered behind me.

I didn’t look back.

I hit another door.

Cold night air slammed into me.

I burst out into the street soaked to the bone, gasping violently while water poured from my nose onto the pavement.

Cars moved past without slowing.

Nobody noticed the half-drowned woman standing under a flickering streetlight trying to remember how breathing worked.

I bent forward with my hands on my knees.

Then a voice spoke inside my head.

Cold.

Calm.

Inhuman.

“Transmigration confirmed.”

I froze.

“Welcome to the body of Zara Monteiro.”

I stared blankly at the empty street.

“Due to hostile arrival conditions, emergency compensation has been activated.”

A translucent blue screen appeared in front of my eyes.

SYSTEM ABILITY GRANTED:
SINGLE WORD OVERRIDE

One word within any active plot event may be changed per use.
Changes are immediate and permanent.

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…What?”

“You have four days remaining until the shareholder vote.”

Another screen appeared.

PRIMARY THREAT:
STELLAN VOSS

Probability of survival: 18%

“Well,” I muttered hoarsely, “that’s rude.”

Somewhere behind me, a door slammed open.

The men.

I straightened slowly.

My wet clothes clung to my skin. My lungs burned. My head pounded with two sets of memories colliding together.

But beneath all of it, something cold and sharp was beginning to settle into place.

The original Zara had been afraid.

I wasn’t.

The footsteps got closer.

I looked toward the dark city skyline stretching beyond the streetlights.

Then I smiled.

“Okay,” I said softly.

“Let’s ruin this story.”