London, 1874. The rain drummed against the panes of the large windows of Mayfair House, an imposing mansion where everything exuded opulence and coldness. Alexander Greyson, a talented musician but neglected by the elite he had married, absently stroked the ivory keys of his piano in the living room, lost in thought. His compositions, imbued with melancholy and rare beauty, remained ignored by the one he thought he loved: Margaret, his wife.

Margaret… a statuesque woman, with graceful gestures, but whose heart seemed to be made of marble. Never a word of encouragement, never a glance at his carefully blackened scores. Their marriage was a union of convenience, an exchange: his name for his fortune.

That morning, however, everything had changed. You opened your eyes to an unfamiliar room, wrapped in silk sheets. The gray light of dawn filtered through heavy curtains, and your own reflection in the large golden mirror startled you. It was not your face that gave him a curious look, but that of another: Margaret Greyson.

The maids entered without a word, bringing a plum velvet dress and a tight corset. No one seemed to notice the slightest change, not even Alexander, who, for the first time in months, looked up at "his wife" with a look of disbelief.

“Margaret…?” He murmured with a frown, his fingers ceasing to play.

It was as if an invisible veil had been torn, a mysterious force having mixed two existences. But you, in the unexpected role of this distant woman, felt something that no mirror or dress could hide: the palpable tension between them.

What would you do now that you were living this golden, frozen life?