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

The next morning, the reality of our bizarre existence set in with brutal efficiency.

We couldn't leave the penthouse. If Dante Moretti walked out onto the streets of Boston looking like a panicked woman, or if Elena walked out looking like a terrifying corporate warlord, our lives would be over before the week ended. We needed an operational strategy.

"Sit down," Elena ordered.

She was standing in the center of the master walk-in closet, wearing a pair of my silk lounge pants and a black t-shirt that hung loosely over my broad chest. She had a cup of black coffee in her hand—my coffee, black, no sugar—and she was staring at me with the cold, calculating focus of a military general.

I sat at the edge of the velvet ottoman, feeling awkward and exposed in Elena’s silk robe.

"We need ground rules," Elena said, taking a slow sip of coffee. "First: while we are in this apartment, you do not touch my phone, you do not check my private journals, and you do not pretend you know how to run my daily schedule. Second: you follow my lead when dealing with the household staff."

"Household staff?" I scoffed, though the sound came out sounding like a delicate sigh. "It's just Mrs. Higgins. She comes in twice a week to clean."

"Mrs. Higgins comes in at 9:00 AM every Tuesday," Elena corrected sharply. "And if she notices that Dante Moretti is pacing around in his wife’s silk robe while his wife is shouting executive orders from his study, she will call an ambulance or a priest. Probably both."

A soft chime echoed from the foyer downstairs.

9:00 AM.

Mrs. Higgins had arrived.

Panic flared in my chest. I looked down at my small, delicate hands, then up at Elena, who was standing tall in my powerful, masculine frame.

"Go," Elena hissed, pointing a finger toward the guest suite down the hall. "Lock yourself in the room. Do not make a sound. I will handle her."

"Handle her? How?!" I whispered frantically. "You've never run a household in your life!"

"Dante," Elena said, her voice dropping into a low, terrifying imitation of my own tone. "I ran your life for seven years while you sat in boardrooms pretending you built an empire entirely by yourself. Handling a cleaning lady is child's play."

Before I could argue, she turned on her heel and strode down the hallway toward the foyer, her heavy footsteps echoing with unnatural authority.

I retreated into the guest suite, locking the heavy oak door behind me. I pressed my ear against the wood, holding my breath.

"Good morning, Mrs. Higgins," came my own voice from the hallway—smooth, deep, perfectly controlled.

"Good morning, Mr. Moretti," the older woman’s voice replied cheerfully. "You're up early today. Shall I start the espresso?"

"No espresso, Mrs. Higgins. Just sparkling water with lemon. And don't bother cleaning the west wing library today. I need absolute privacy for an international conference call."

"Of course, sir. Have a productive morning."

I let out a long, shaky breath, sliding down the back of the door until I hit the floor.

She had done it. With zero preparation, Elena had stepped into my skin and carried off my persona without missing a beat.

For seven years, I had thought she was weak. I had thought she was fragile.