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“Psst! Wren!”
Shifting from the screen in front of me, I turned to find Sara, my close friend and colleague, poking her head inside my office door. Her eyes sparkled with that particular gleam that usually meant either impending drama or life-changing news. With Sara, there was rarely an in-between—everything was either apocalyptic or absolutely amazing.
“Have you seen the announcement on social media?”
she asked, vibrating with excitement.
“What announcement?”
Sara bounced into my office like she’d discovered the secret to eternal youth. “Only the biggest news since sliced bread!”
She commandeered my mouse—a capital offense in most offices—and hijacked my computer. My carefully crafted PowerPoint presentation vanished beneath a tsunami of social media posts and entertainment headlines.
Seeing the familiar logo at the top of the webpage, I nudged my glasses up the bridge of my nose and stared, wide-eyed. My heart did a little somersault that would’ve scored a perfect ten in the Office Olympics.
“A Kingdom of Infernal Flames is getting a live-action,”
Sara announced with the gravitas of someone revealing the meaning of life. “And before you ask—yes, the casting is absolutely insane. Look at Adam McTavish. Look at him! If they’d ordered Jared Abaddon from a fantasy boyfriend catalog, they couldn’t have done better.”
Her fingers flew across the keyboard with the speed of someone who’d definitely won all the office typing competitions. Images flooded my screen, and there he was—Adam McTavish in all his glory, pale-gold hair and amethyst eyes straight out of the novel’s most detailed descriptions.
“Well,”
I admitted, “they certainly nailed the devastatingly handsome yet slightly murderous vibe.”
“And look!”
Sara squealed, scrolling faster. “Vanessa Smith as Marissa!”
“Ah yes, Vanessa Smith—the actress so popular she’s in everything except my weekend plans.”
“She’s perfect for Marissa!”
Sara clutched her chest dramatically. “Your favorite character brought to life!”
I couldn’t help but snort. “She’s your favorite, not mine. I like my heroines with a bit more spice than vanilla ice cream.”
“What?”
Sara’s jaw dropped like I’d just confessed to a terrible crime. “But everyone loves Marissa! She’s the heroine! The chosen one! The?—”
“The girl who trips over her own destiny so often she needs plot armor kneepads?”
I suggested helpfully.
Sara looked personally offended. “Okay, Miss Critic, enlighten me. Who does the fandom actually love most? Because clearly, I’ve been living under a rock.”
“Well…”
I leaned back, savoring this moment like the last cookie in the break room. “According to the latest polls, it’s our resident brooding wolf boy.”
“Kaleb? Kaleb Wulfric?”
Sara’s eyes widened to anime proportions. “The guy whose entire personality is ‘grr’ with a side of angst?”
“The very same. Apparently, the bad boy archetype hits different when he can actually turn into a wolf. Who knew?”
Sara frowned, her perfectly shaped brows drawing together. “He’s just Jared’s attack dog. They haven’t even announced who’s playing him in the adaptation yet.”
“The power of fandom,”
I said sagely, spreading my hands. “Hell hath no fury like a wolf-shifter stan scorned. When they do announce it, that poor actor better have the brooding stare down pat, or social media will implode.”
“Who’s second?”
Sara scrolled through more images, her manicured nails clicking against my mouse like a countdown to more drama.
“Obviously, Darius the dragon,”
I replied, already counting down to her reaction in my head. Three, two, one…
“Darius?”
Sara’s voice hit a pitch usually reserved for dog whistles. “The tyrant who burned half of Whitfall City because someone stole his favorite treasure? The same dragon who turned the entire Summer Palace into a smoking crater because, and I quote, ‘the architecture offended my eyes’? THAT Darius?”
“He destroys a lot of things,”
I pointed out reasonably. “Cities, palaces, mountains—it’s kind of his thing. Like some people stress-bake, Darius stress-incinerates. Remember when he reshaped the entire northern valley into a lake because he wanted somewhere nice to nap? Or that time he rerouted a river because he didn’t want to walk around it? The Whitfall incident was actually one of his more reasonable tantrums, if you can believe it. At least he had a reason that time.”
“And the fandom loves him for this?”
“Hey, when you’re a two-thousand-year-old dragon who treats the continent like his personal playground, casual terraforming becomes more of a hobby than a crime. Plus, have you seen his character design? That red hair that literally glows when he’s in one of his moods? Those smoldering dark eyes that actually smolder? The man’s chaotic energy has its own fan club.”
Sara scrolled through more images and news snippets, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘dragon apologist’ under her breath. “Third?”
“Lewis Lenoir, the demon prince.”
“Oh, now that I agree with.”
Sara’s professional demeanor evaporated faster than my weekend plans. “The psycho villain who can stalk me any day. Tall, dark, and homicidal—he’s such a daddy.”
Her giddy laughter bounced off my office walls as she swayed like a teenager at her first concert.
“You and your thing for murderous men in fancy coats,”
I teased. “Should I be concerned about your dating preferences?”
“Hey, fictional murderous men in fancy coats,”
she corrected primly. “There’s a difference. Besides, you know I’m into baddy daddy, and psycho Lewis is the ultimate baddy daddy. Who’s number four?”
“Taranis Abner.”
“Woo, Taranis!”
Sara clasped her hands together in mock swooning. “The hunk with the second male lead syndrome. I love Marissa, but leading him on like that? Not cool.”
She paused, then brightened like someone had flipped her internal switch. “Though I get it—Jared is the hero after all. Those amethyst eyes could probably get away with tax fraud.” Her fingers danced across the keyboard, searching for casting news about Taranis. “Who’s number five?”
“Obviously Marissa,”
I said, reciting the list like I was reading from a well-worn page. “Then Jared, Stefan—you know, the one who actually has more personality than a marble statue—then Isidore with his tragic backstory, Nowell who really deserved better plot development, and finally Wilmon, who I’m convinced only made the top ten because of that one scene in the rain.”
“The villains followed by the main cast,”
Sara mused, then turned to me with that particular gleam in her eye that meant I wasn’t going to like her next question. “So, spill. Since you’re not on Team Marissa—which is still shocking, by the way—whose fan club are you secretly running? Please, please tell me you’re not one of those Kaleb girls.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with Kaleb?”
“Oh no.”
Sara clutched her chest dramatically. “You are! You’ve fallen for the brooding wolf boy aesthetic! Next thing you’ll tell me you think you can fix him with the power of love and belly rubs.”
“First of all”—I held up a finger, fighting back a laugh—“that’s oddly specific. Second, no. While I appreciate a good angsty backstory as much as the next person, my favorite character is actually?—”
Sara leaned forward, eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Actually…?”
I adjusted my glasses, bracing for the inevitable reaction. “It’s Wren Lee.”
Sara’s expression shifted faster than a mood ring in hot water. “Wren Lee? The villainess who threw wine at Marissa during her own engagement party? The one who spread vicious rumors about Marissa’s commoner background? The same Wren Lee who tried to steal Jared by throwing herself at him at every opportunity?”
She shook her head in disbelief. “The woman was basically a walking cliché of every mean girl trope rolled into one desperately jealous package.”
“We share a name,”
I offered weakly, knowing how feeble it sounded. “Plus, she’s just misunderstood.”
“Okay,”
Sara drawled, skepticism dripping from every syllable. “She’s misunderstood. Sure. Like how a tornado is just a misunderstood breeze.”
I couldn’t help defending my namesake, even as Sara playfully rolled her eyes. “Look, Jared and his noble friends aren’t exactly innocent. They make Marissa cry countless times and even leave her for dead. Not to mention all the plotting and that massacre?—”
“That’s different,”
Sara cut in with the conviction of someone who’d analyzed every plot point with color-coded sticky notes. “The heroine has to suffer—it’s character development. And those murders? Totally essential to the plot. It’s like how you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”
“More like you can’t have a fantasy kingdom without breaking a few laws of basic human decency,”
I muttered.
Before Sara could defend her beloved hero’s questionable life choices, my phone’s cheerful ringtone interrupted us. The caller ID displayed ‘Mom,’ and I felt the familiar mix of warmth and apprehension that her calls usually brought.
“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,”
I told Sara, gesturing at my phone.
“Yeah, okay. Have a wonderful weekend!”
Sara bounced off my desk with the same enthusiasm she’d entered with.
I picked up the call, bracing myself for what I knew would be Mom’s perfectly timed intervention into my love life. “Hi, Mom.”
“Wren, sweetie, just reminding you about our dinner date tonight.”
Her voice carried that particular tone that meant she was about to drop a social bomb wrapped in motherly concern.
“Contrary to popular belief, my master’s degree hasn’t completely destroyed my ability to remember family commitments,”
I quipped, though we both knew her reminders were as reliable as my morning coffee addiction.
“Well, since you’re so good at remembering things,”
she segued with all the subtlety of a charging rhinoceros, “you’ll remember Toby? Margaret’s son?”
Ah, there it was. Mom’s version of a surprise attack would make military strategists proud. “Mom, if this is another one of your stealth matchmaking attempts?—”
“Can’t a mother invite old family friends to dinner?”
She managed to sound both innocent and wounded simultaneously—a skill I’m convinced they teach in some secret mom school.
“The same way you just happened to invite my fourth-grade teacher’s son to Christmas dinner?”
I countered. “Or that coincidental run-in with the pediatrician’s nephew at Easter?”
“Those were… networking opportunities.”
“Mom, I work in project management, not The Bachelor.”
“Speaking of projects,”
she said, pivoting with the grace of a professional dancer, “could you pick up a few things for dinner? Just some basics.”
Her basics turned out to be a gourmet shopping list that would make a celebrity chef sweat. “Mom, are we feeding the neighborhood, or is this just your subtle way of ensuring I don’t have time to escape before dinner?”
“Both,”
she admitted cheerfully. “Oh, and your father says hi. He’s complaining that his youngest?—”
“The baby of the family who you all still treat like she’s five,”
I corrected automatically.
“—never visits anymore. Eve and Luke miss you too. And Grace has news about the baby.”
I sighed, guilt creeping in despite my best defenses. My overachieving siblings were probably the only reason Mom hadn’t completely despaired of my life choices yet. “Tell Dad I love him and I’ll see you all soon. With enough groceries to feed a small army, apparently.”
“That’s my girl. And Wren? Keep an open mind about tonight.”
“Like how you keep an open mind about my perpetual singlehood?”
“Exactly! Love you, sweetie!”
The call ended with Mom’s trademark blend of guilt-inducing love and tactical manipulation. I had to admire her technique—Sun Tzu would’ve been taking notes.
I began my end-of-day routine, shutting down the computer while gathering my things. My hand brushed against the familiar spine of A Kingdom of Infernal Flames as I packed my bag. Eve had been pestering me to bring it over—apparently, she needed something more dramatic than the ER to escape into. Because saving lives wasn’t exciting enough.
The book settled among my project notes and laptop like a guilty pleasure hiding among work documents. Speaking of my siblings, they were all living their best protagonist lives while I was here starring in How to Dodge Your Mother’s Matchmaking: A Professional’s Guide. Eve thriving in her controlled chaos of the ER, Luke creating masterpieces with his hands that made other carpenters weep with envy, and Grace running her booming fashion design studio while casually making our parents’ dreams come true by producing the first grandchild. Because apparently being a successful entrepreneur and fashion designer wasn’t enough—she had to overachieve in the family department too.
The evening had turned cold and dreary, the streets congested with the usual rush-hour crowds who all seemed to share a collective mission to make my grocery shopping as challenging as possible. I navigated through the familiar paths to the supermarket, mentally checking off Mom’s list as I filled my cart. Basil for her famous sauce, tomatoes that would make any Italian grandmother proud, and—because I knew my family—extra snacks and a good bottle of wine. If I was going to survive another one of Mom’s “casual”
family dinners with surprise guests, alcohol was nonnegotiable.
The wine selection took longer than expected—apparently, everyone else in the city had also decided that this particular Friday needed a hefty dose of fermented grapes. I finally settled on a nice Cabernet that cost more than I’d usually spend, but hey, if I had to sit through another round of “So, Wren, are you seeing anyone?”
at least I’d do it with good wine.
Standing at the pedestrian crossing, grocery bags heavy in each hand, I caught sight of a billboard screen flashing A Kingdom of Infernal Flames advertisement. The costumes were stunning—a perfect blend of fantasy with touches of Victorian and Renaissance flair. Adam McTavish and Vanessa Smith dominated the screen, looking every bit the perfect Jared and Marissa.
I stood transfixed, watching the characters from my beloved series come to life before my eyes. My heart quickened—whether from excitement or something else, I couldn’t tell. The way they’d captured the magical atmosphere of the novel was impressive, right down to the intricate details of the Whitfall City backdrop. Even the supporting characters looked exactly as I’d imagined them while reading, though I noticed they’d conveniently left certain plot-relevant scars off their perfect faces.
The ad faded to black, and only then did I realize how dark it had gotten. The streetlamps had flickered on. A chill wind whipped around the corners of buildings, carrying the promise of rain. Perfect—because this evening needed another layer of dramatic atmosphere.
The light finally turned green, and the crowd around me surged forward like a wave breaking shore. In the midst of the mass exodus across the street, someone knocked into me—hard. Not the casual bump of a distracted pedestrian or the gentle nudge of someone in a hurry, but the kind of collision that spoke of either extreme clumsiness or a complete disregard for other humans carrying breakable objects.
My grocery bags went flying, their contents creating an abstract art installation across the crosswalk. The wine bottle shattered on impact, its contents spreading across the pavement like spilled blood. Packets of pasta skittered away like escaping prisoners, while the tomatoes rolled toward freedom with surprising determination. Mom’s perfectly planned dinner was creating a still life of disaster right in the middle of the crossing.
I dropped to my knees, trying to salvage what I could. The wine was a lost cause, but maybe some of the other ingredients could be saved. A few kind souls paused to help, but most of the crowd flowed around me like a river around a stone, probably eager to clear the crossing before the light changed.
That’s when I heard it—the roar of an engine, far too close and far too fast. Shouts of alarm rose around me as people scattered. Someone screamed, “Look out!”
I looked up to see headlights bearing down on me like twin stars about to explode. A car was barreling through the intersection, ignoring both the red light and basic human decency. Move! my mind screamed. Move, Wren! But my body refused to cooperate, frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights—which, given the circumstances, was an unfortunately apt comparison.
The impact came before I could even draw breath to scream. There was a moment of searing pain, a flash of blinding light, and then…
When consciousness returned, it brought with it waves of pain so intense I wished it hadn’t. Every part of my body felt like it had been put through some sort of medieval torture device—and given my encyclopedic knowledge of fantasy novels, I had an unfortunately vivid catalog of references to choose from.
“You have awakened, my lady.”
Confusion knotted within me. Why was she calling me my lady? Shouldn’t she be calling for an ambulance? There had been an accident—a traffic accident—just moments ago. Eve would absolutely murder me if I wasn’t in her ER right now, probably while simultaneously trying to save my life. My sister was talented like that.
She leaned over and patted a damp cloth over my forehead. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. You were having quite a fever. Are you thirsty?”
I was unconscious for two days? I was sure I had only just gotten hit by a car heading toward me on the road. Eve would never let me stay unconscious that long without intervention—she had strong opinions about coma patients, most of them involving aggressive treatment plans and creative threats to wake them up.
Thirsty? Yes, I was rather. My throat felt like I’d swallowed an entire desert and chased it with sandpaper.
I managed a “Mm”
and a nod of my head, immediately regretting the movement as pain shot through my skull like an overeager drumline.
With a gentle touch, she helped me to sit up. Pain lanced through me, drawing a gasp that turned into an involuntary groan. She handed me something that looked suspiciously like tea—which was definitely not standard hospital protocol unless Crestview General had undergone some very dramatic changes during my unconsciousness.
I eyed the steaming cup warily but the parched wasteland of my throat urged me on. Bringing the cup to my lips, I drank like a kitten lapping milk for the first time—half eager, half afraid of the unfamiliar sensation. At least it wasn’t hospital coffee, which Eve swore was actually just brown crayon water.
The woman watched with a mix of amusement and relief dancing in her eyes before saying, “I will inform his and her grace immediately that you have awakened. They have been worried sick since his grace brought you home, all beaten up like that.”
Home? A flash of memory sparked—a dinner invitation from Mom, complete with her usual subtle matchmaking attempts. But this woman spoke as if I belonged to some sort of nobility with the his and her grace bit. Last time I checked, my family’s closest brush with royalty was Luke’s “King of DIY”
coffee mug.
And where were my parents? More importantly, where was Eve? She should be here if I was in Crestview General Hospital. She was one of the doctors, after all—the kind who terrorized interns and somehow made patients thank her for it.
As I tried to make sense of the woman’s words, my gaze drifted around the room. It certainly didn’t resemble any hospital ward I had ever seen or imagined—and I’d seen plenty during Eve’s grand tours of “places Wren might end up if she doesn’t take better care of herself.”
Instead, it boasted all the grandeur of a palace chamber—classy chandelier casting warm light over walls plastered in elegant wallpaper, luxurious furniture strategically placed on lavish rugs that spoke volumes about the wealth and taste of its owner. Grace would have a field day analyzing this decor, probably while sketching designs for her next collection.
I squinted at the decor around me, each opulent detail another twist in this hallucination wrought from medication—or so I assumed. Maybe Eve had finally made good on her threat to give me the “good drugs”
if I ever ended up in her ER.
“Where… am I?”
my voice croaked out as I tried to take in more details.
Wait, why did my voice sound so high-pitched and soft? Was it because of the pain in my throat? I sounded like a child trying to play at being grown-up—all delicate and fragile, nothing like my normal voice.
“Argyll Manor,”
she said patiently as if to a child just woken from sleep.
Argyll Manor? That name… it echoed with an eerie familiarity that tugged at my mind like déjà vu. My heart hammered against my rib cage—not solely from fear or pain but also from a growing sense of unreality that wrapped around me tighter than any bandage could.
“Why am I not at the hospital?”
The question left my lips before I could stop it.
The woman’s eyes widened slightly before they softened with empathy.
“Hospital?”
She chuckled lightly as if I’d made a quaint joke. “Oh, dear Lady Wren, we have our own healer who has tended to your injuries with utmost care.”
Healer? This was becoming more bizarre by the second. Eve would have an aneurysm if she heard someone calling themselves a “healer”
instead of a licensed medical professional.
My gaze landed on her attire—the uniform was something out of historical dramas or fantasy novels—a crisp black-and-white ensemble completed with an apron that seemed both archaic and completely out of place in modern America. Grace would have a conniption trying to date this particular fashion period.
“Are my parents here?”
There was an urgency to know about their safety and presence, a desperate need for something familiar amid this sea of strangeness. Mom was probably worried sick about the missed dinner, and Dad would be making his terrible “running late”
jokes to lighten the mood.
“They are attending matters in Whitfall City but will return shortly,”
she answered with certainty that seemed odd given the context, or lack thereof, in my current state of mind.
Whitfall City… It clicked then—the capital city from A Kingdom of Infernal Flames where… No, that was ridiculous. I’d clearly been spending too much time discussing fantasy novels with Sara.
The possibility seared through me like wildfire. It couldn’t be real. This had to be some sort of elaborate dream influenced by the book series or maybe even brain trauma from the accident playing tricks on my consciousness. Eve would have a field day with this particular hallucination.
“Thank you,”
I murmured automatically, because apparently even in the midst of a complete mental breakdown, my mother’s lessons in politeness still held firm.
The maid gave a small curtsy—a curtsy, of all things—and exited the room with swift steps as if eager to relay the news of my awakening. At least someone was excited about this situation.
Left alone in this palace-like bedroom, reality, or what passed for it, settled heavily upon me. If this was indeed Whitfall City from A Kingdom of Infernal Flames… If somehow by some impossible twist of fate I’d found myself transmigrated…
No… No way… This couldn’t be happening… Sara would never let me hear the end of this.
I sank back against plush pillows as the room seemed to sway around me—or maybe it was just my head spinning uncontrollably—unable to process this surreal turn of events that felt ripped straight from fiction’s most tangled plots. The pillows were impossibly soft, nothing like the utilitarian firmness of hospital bedding that Eve always complained about.
The door creaked open, a sliver of light from the corridor piercing the dimness of the room. Through it stepped the young woman who had tended to me, flanked by two figures whose presence seemed to command the very air. Even Grace, with all her fashion week experience, would have been intimidated by their bearing.
The man’s broad shoulders were draped in a coat that melded Renaissance opulence with Victorian austerity, while the woman wore a gown that could have graced any royal court from the pages of history—or, more specifically, from A Kingdom of Infernal Flames’ live-action drama I’d glimpsed on that billboard. The costume department would have killed for references this detailed.
The woman perched on the edge of my bed, her skirts whispering against the sheets like expensive secrets, while the man leaned over with an air of gentle concern that reminded me painfully of Dad whenever one of us was sick.
“How are you feeling, little one?”
His voice was rich and warm, like a hearth on a winter’s night. The kind of voice that commanded respect while somehow remaining gentle.
Did he just call me little one? Last time I checked, I was a fully grown adult with a master’s degree and a concerning caffeine dependency.
“I’m glad you’re awake,”
the woman chimed in, her tone laced with genuine relief. “The healer said he wasn’t sure. You contracted an infection due to the wounds from the beating.”
A beating? I knew I had been in an accident. A car was speeding toward me, that much was clear in my memory. Were they mistaken, or was I hallucinating this entire exchange? Eve would know—she always knew what was really going on with injuries. She had a sixth sense about trauma that bordered on supernatural.
To ground myself in some sort of reality, I reached out tentatively and brushed my fingers against her hair. It felt soft and real under my touch, nothing like the drug-induced hallucinations Eve had lectured about during one of her many “medical facts you should know” dinners.
“She’s your mother now, Wren,”
the man added softly.
I turned to look at the man, and then my head throbbed with such intensity I couldn’t suppress a groan. Then came a deluge of memories—scenes and sensations that overwhelmed me with their clarity and emotion yet felt alien all at once. They rushed through me like a river bursting its banks, leaving me gasping for breath and grappling with confusion and fear. If this was what Eve’s patients felt like during their post-trauma episodes, I owed her an apology for all those times I’d called her overprotective.
Whose memories were these? They surely weren’t mine, but every image seemed like it was from a first-person perspective. Cold nights in an orphanage, empty stomachs, desperate prayers—memories of a harsh, impoverished childhood that stood in stark contrast to my own history of suburban comfort and family game nights.
“Mirror!”
I managed to gasp out between shallow breaths. “Please give me a mirror.”
My project manager instincts kicked in—always verify the situation before planning next steps.
The man and woman exchanged glances laden with worry before the maid hurried to fetch an ornate hand mirror. “Here, my lady,”
she said as she held it before my eyes. The mirror itself looked like something from an antique shop—the kind Grace would spend hours hunting for during her vintage shopping sprees.
I stared into the glass, my heart racing as I braced for what I might see. The reflection showed not my own familiar features but those of a child with a face pinched by suffering and framed by dark hair. Gone were the reading glasses Eve insisted made me look scholarly, the slight stress wrinkles Luke teased me about, and the coffee-fueled gleam Mom said I’d inherited from Dad.
Shock rooted me to the spot. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be me. I’d spent twenty-five years seeing my face in mirrors—through awkward teenage phases, grad school all-nighters, and countless family photos. This face belonged to someone else entirely.
“My lady, everything is going to be alright,”
the maid reassured me gently, misinterpreting my horror as simple vanity.
The woman pulled me into an embrace that felt both comforting and foreign. “That’s right, the bruise will soon disappear, and you’ll be completely healed,”
she soothed as she stroked my hair. “You have no need to worry about anything. And don’t be afraid. We’re family now. The orphanage was harsh for little ones like you, but that will now change.”
Orphanage? Bruise? None of this made any sense. Yet her words carried an undeniable weight—the weight of truth within this bewildering reality. The warmth of her embrace felt real, even if nothing else did. It reminded me of Mom’s hugs, the ones that could fix anything from scraped knees to broken hearts.
“That’s right,”
the man agreed with conviction. “You’re a Lee now. Everything will be alright.”
Who were these people? Where was I? My mind spun faster than a carousel in full tilt as I tried to piece together this puzzle with missing edges and jumbled center. A Lee? But I was already a Lee—Wren Lee, daughter of Helen and James Lee, sister to Eve, Luke, and Grace. Not this child from an orphanage being adopted into what appeared to be nobility.
The woman cupped my face in her hands and locked eyes with mine—a gaze so full of hope it almost hurt to look at her. It was the kind of look Mom gave us when she was particularly proud, except this wasn’t Mom, and I wasn’t supposed to be here, wherever here was.
“Wren,”
she said softly but firmly, “I know it’ll take time but please call me Mama, alright?”
Mama? My mind reeled under the weight of that single word—a term so intimate yet so foreign in this context that it threatened to unravel what little grasp I had on reality. I hadn’t called anyone Mama since I was six and decided Mom sounded more grown-up. Eve had followed suit, and Luke had never quite managed to say it without making it sound like a question.
I remained silent—shocked—my thoughts crashing against one another like waves during a storm. Each attempt to make sense of this situation only led to more questions, more impossibilities.
Mama? Family? How could any of this be real when just moments ago—or was it days?—I had been Wren Lee: post-graduate student and junior project manager at a global consulting firm living in America? When I had a presentation to finish for next week’s stakeholder meeting, a family dinner to attend, and a perfectly normal life that involved deadlines and meetings and coffee runs, not mysterious adoptions or medieval-style nobility? The most royal thing about my life had been the “Project Queen”
mug my team had given me after I’d successfully managed three crisis projects simultaneously.
As if sensing my inner turmoil, the woman continued to hold me close, her warmth enveloping me in a cocoon that seemed designed to shield me from whatever lay beyond this room’s walls. Her perfume was different from Mom’s signature scent, but the maternal instinct felt eerily familiar.
My thoughts scattered like leaves caught in an autumn gust—they whirled around without direction or sense as I tried to comprehend this surreal situation. The project manager in me desperately wanted to organize these thoughts into neat little categories: Things I Know, Things I Don’t Know, and Things That Shouldn’t Be Possible But Apparently Are.
“Mama?”
The word slipped out, a question rather than acknowledgment, a tiny sound amid the thunderous confusion within me. It felt foreign on my tongue, like trying to speak a language I’d only ever read in books.
The smile that bloomed across her face was radiant enough to rival the chandelier’s glow. She pulled me closer, and I was enveloped in the soft folds of her dress, surrounded by that unfamiliar perfume that somehow still managed to smell like comfort and safety.
“Yes, my dear,”
she whispered against my hair. “I’m your mama now. And nothing will ever harm you again.”
The man—my new father?—placed a warm hand on my shoulder, creating a picture of family comfort that felt simultaneously right and utterly wrong. It reminded me of those moments when my whole family would gather in the living room after a crisis had passed, except everything about this was different. “You’re safe now, little one. The Duke and Duchess of Argyll protect their own.”
Duke and Duchess of Argyll? The titles hit me like a physical blow, sending my thoughts spinning in new, terrifying directions. If they were the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, and this was their manor, and they were adopting a child named Wren…
A memory surfaced—Sara’s voice from what felt like minutes ago: “Wren Lee? That spoiled brat who shows up just to cause trouble?”
No. No, no, no.
This couldn’t be happening. I couldn’t be that Wren Lee. The villainess. The antagonist. The character whose actions would eventually lead to her own destruction.
Could I?