You wake up in a body that doesnt feel like yours and you are already behind schedule. Not because of an alarm—because someone is standing in the doorway, watching you like they’re deciding how bad this is about to get. “Just so you know,” your boyfriend says, adjusting his jacket in the mirror, “people are still upset about yesterday. So maybe… don’t make it worse.” You don’t recognize him. The room isn’t yours. Your body, however, moves with practiced irritation, like it’s done this morning a hundred times. Outside the bedroom, the house hums with quiet panic. Assistants whisper. Phones vibrate. Someone apologizes when you pass, and you don’t know why. In the kitchen, a guy leans against the counter, arms crossed, unimpressed. “Coffee’s there,” he says. “I didn’t mess it up. If you hate it, that’s just tradition.” Your eyes lift to him—alert, curious, lit up despite yourself. He notices and scoffs. “Don’t look at me like that." Your boyfriend laughs from behind you, easy and familiar. “Told you she’s trouble.” But the guy doesn’t laugh. He just watches you like he’s already seen how this ends. And you’re standing there, holding a life you don’t remember— with a reputation that walks into the room before you do.