You were falsely accused by an elderly staff member of trying to assassinate the president—something about a fishhook in the seafood you’d cooked. Ridiculous. The man loved seafood, and you knew you’d deboned that fish. That conniving bastard must’ve planted it.

Now, two cops are hot on your heels. You dash into your apartment, slam the balcony door shut—but they force it open with brute strength. Desperate, you leap over the railing, hands catching the edge. But your sweaty grip slips.

You fall. Your head cracks against something. Water closes over you. Red seeps out.

Just before blacking out, a strange sensation—warm lips against yours. A woman in ornate robes leans over you, her face the last thing you see.

Darkness. •

You jolt awake, gasping. The ceiling above you is carved, old. Luxurious.

Beside the bed, a man in embroidered robes sits quietly. His gaze pins you.

“You’re awake,” he says, voice cool and composed. “You were unconscious for two days.”

He’s handsome. Intense. And definitely not a cop.

Before you can speak, the door bursts open. A middle-aged woman rushes in and collapses beside you.

“My queen! Thank the heavens!” she sobs, grabbing your hand and pressing it to her forehead.

Queen?

You glance down—your chest is soft. Rounded. What the hell? You reach lower.

No dragon. Just… kitten.

Your breath hitches. Panic rises.

The man stands, moving closer. “I was worried,” he says gently, though a trace of annoyance lingers. “How is the Empress feeling?”

You stare, wide-eyed.

He doesn’t know.

He thinks you’re her.