**Three days before their divorce, Dante Moretti thought his wife was being dramatic—until he woke up wearing her face.**

When consciousness clawed its way back through the darkness, the first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn't the sharp scent of cedarwood, leather, and expensive cologne that filled Dante’s private suite. It was lavender, soft cotton, and rain.

I tried to roll over, but my body felt strange—light, restricted, and impossibly fragile.

I forced my eyes open.

The ceiling above me wasn't the dark gray acoustic plaster of my bedroom. It was a vaulted white ceiling draped with sheer linen netting. I was lying in a queen-sized bed with pale rose silk sheets.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but the rhythm was all wrong. It was too fast, too shallow, fluttering like a trapped bird.

I threw back the covers and pushed myself up onto my elbows.

Long, dark chestnut hair cascaded over my shoulders, tangling in my face. I brushed it away with a hand that wasn't mine. The fingers were small, the skin smooth, the bones delicate.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins.

"What is this?" I tried to shout, but the sound that came out of my throat was high, melodic, and unmistakably female.

It was Elena’s voice.

I scrambled out of the bed, my bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. My legs felt too thin, my center of gravity entirely shifted. I stumbled forward, crashing against a gilded vanity table, sending a glass bottle of perfume shattering onto the floor.

I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror.

Staring back at me were wide, terrified hazel eyes, pale skin, and a slender frame draped in a cream-colored silk nightgown.

I wasn't Dante Moretti. I was Elena.

"No, no, no," I gasped, pressing my small hands against the glass. "This is a trick. This is a nightmare."

Suddenly, a violent thud echoed from down the hallway, followed by a roar of pure, unadulterated fury that shook the pictures on the bedroom wall.

"What the hell is going on?!"

The voice was deep, commanding, and rough with panic.

My voice.

Heavy, uneven footsteps thundered down the hallway outside the bedroom door. The handle rattled violently, and the door swung open.

There, standing in the doorway, was Dante Moretti.

Or rather, my body.

My broad shoulders filled the doorframe. My charcoal suit jacket was half-unbuttoned, and my dark hair was wildly disheveled. But looking out through Dante’s eyes was a look of raw, animalistic terror that I had never seen on my own face in forty years of life.

Neither of us spoke for a long, agonizing moment. The silence between us was thicker than glass, heavier than steel.

Then, slowly, the figure in my body raised a massive, calloused hand and stared at it, flexing the fingers as if testing whether they actually belonged to him. Or rather, as I quickly realized, testing whether she—Elena—was controlling them.

Elena—currently trapped inside Dante’s formidable frame—slowly lowered her gaze from the ceiling, her eyes locking onto mine.

In that gaze, there was no more anger. No more cold detachment. There was only the terrifying, undeniable recognition of the impossible.

Elena took a step forward, her expression hardening into something fierce and unreadable. She raised Dante’s heavy hand, pointing a single, accusing finger straight at me.