I TRANSMIGRATED INTO A NOVEL AS THE DOOMED HEIRESS

The last thing I remember is falling asleep with a book on my chest, hating its ending.

I was a fraud investigator with a tiny apartment, a broken heater, and a bad habit of reading 

novels at two in the morning. At work nobody could lie to me for more than five minutes. My 

boss used to shake his head and say, "Nora Bennett never misses." That night I read a billionaire 

romance about a cruel rich family and a fake heiress who dies alone. I gave it one star and went 

to sleep angry.

Now I opened my eyes, and the ceiling was wrong.

It was cream colored with gold edges, and it was far too high. My ceiling had a water stain 

shaped like a rabbit. This one had a crystal light hanging from the middle like a frozen waterfall.

"Did I fall asleep in a hotel?" I whispered.

The bed was huge. The sheets were silk. Pale morning light came through tall windows, and 

outside I could see a garden full of roses. My head felt heavy, as if I had slept for a hundred 

years. I rubbed my eyes and sat up, and something long and soft slid over my shoulder.

Hair. Long, dark, silky hair.

My hair was short. I had cut it myself last month.

I was still staring at it when someone knocked on the door.

"Come in?" I said, because I could not think of anything else.

A young woman in a gray uniform stepped into the room. She kept her eyes low and her hands 

folded neatly in front of her. Then she bowed, deeply, the way people do in old movies.

"Good morning, Miss Alessia. Madam is waiting for you at breakfast."

I waited for her to say more. She did not. She just stood there, bowed, like she was waiting for 

an order.

"Sorry," I said slowly. "Who are you talking to?"

The maid looked up. Her face went confused. "To you, Miss."

"Me?"

"Yes, Miss Alessia."

The name sat in the air betweI pinched my arm as hard as I could. It hurt.

"This is not a dream," I said, and the voice that answered me was soft, sweet and not mine.

I backed away from the mirror until my legs hit the bed. My heart was pounding against my 

chest.

Think. Think. You do this for a living.

When someone gives you a lie that is too strange to be true, you do not argue with it. You check 

the facts. So I checked.

The room, the silk, the maid, everything was real. The ache in my arm was real. I was not in my 

body, and I was not in my bed, and somebody had just bowed to me and called me by the name 

of a dead girl from a book.

I knew this story. I knew every page of it.

In seven days there would be a grand banquet with three hundred guests. The family lawyer 

would stand up and read a DNA report. A quiet girl named Isadora Kensington, who was living 

in this house for a "charity project," would be named the real daughter, the baby stolen at birth. 

My mother would cry. My father would stare at the floor. Alexander Rothwell, my fiancé, would 

remove his ring in front of everyone.

And I would be thrown out like trash.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking. Then, slowly, the old habit came back. When 

everything falls apart, you do not panic. You make a plan.

Plan one, do not wait for the banquet.

Plan two, take cash, a few pieces of jewelry I could sell, a passport, and plain clothes. Plan 

three, eat breakfast like nothing was wrong, then walk out the front gate and keep walking.

Liars always get caught because they wait too long, take too much, or tell someone. I would do 

none of those things.

I packed a small bag and pushed it under the bed. Then I put on a pale blue dress and went 

downstairs.

The Beaumont dining room looked like a palace. A crystal chandelier hung over a long table, 

and sunlight poured through tall windows. My mother, Genevieve, was already in her seat at the 

end, holding a cup of tea. She was fifty two and looked forty. Her pearls were perfMy skin went cold. I knew that name. I knew it the way you know the name of a person who 

once hurt you. Alessia Beaumont was the fake heiress in the book I had just finished. The girl 

who gets thrown out of her own family. The girl who dies in a rented room with no money.

"That is not funny," I said.

"Miss?"

"Say it again."

The maid shifted her feet. "Miss Alessia?"

"What is my name?" The words came out sharp and too loud. "Say my whole name. Say it 

slowly."

"Alessia Rose Beaumont." She was almost whispering now. "Are you feeling unwell, Miss? 

Should I call the doctor?"

Her lips said one thing, but I heard something else, faint and strange, like a radio playing in 

another room.

She looks like she has seen a ghost. If she is sick, Madam will blame me.

I blinked. The maid's mouth had not moved at all.

"No. No, please, wait outside." I tried to smile. "I am fine. I just need a minute."

She bowed again and left. The door clicked shut.

Wait. I just heard her thoughts.

I stood very still. Or was I overthinking? I was in a strange room, in a strange body, with a 

stranger's name. Of course my mind was playing tricks. I hadn’t slept well, and I was in shock. 

That was all.

That had to be all.

I stood up so fast the room tilted. My legs felt thin and strange. I walked across the thick carpet 

to the tall mirror by the wall, and I looked.

A stranger looked back.

She had big brown eyes and smooth pale skin. Her face was soft and young and almost too 

pretty to be real. When I touched my cheek, she touched hers. When I opened mGood morning, my darling," she said warmly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, Mom," I said, and sat down.

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. In the book she had always been kind to 

Alessia before the banquet. I remembered thinking it was real kindness.

Then it happened again.

Her voice came into my head, quiet and clear, but her lips had not moved.

If she ever finds out the truth, I will lose her. And everything we built will fall with her.

I froze. My spoon slipped from my fingers and hit the plate with a loud crack. This time I could 

not call it my imagination.

"Alessia?" My mother tilted her head. "Are you unwell?"

"I am fine," I said quickly.

Her thoughts kept coming, soft as a whisper in my ear.

Why is she so pale? She cannot know. Nobody has told her. Nobody.

I stared at her. Her face was calm. Her smile did not change. But her eyes slid, just a little, 

toward the door.

My father walked in. Maximilian Beaumont was a tall, gray haired man who always looked like 

he wanted to apologize for something. He kissed my mother's cheek and sat down.

His voice slid into my head, tight and worried.

Keep your face still. If she ever learns what is in that study, everything we buried comes back.

A cold shiver ran down my back. What was in that study?

A maid came in and poured coffee with a smooth, polite face.

I hope she does not notice I took the little gold bracelet. It was only lying there. She has 

hundreds.

I looked at my wrist. The gold bracelet I had worn last night was gone.

So I was not going crazy. I could hear I put my hands in my lap and breathed slowly, the way I used to before facing a liar.

Rule one. Do not react.

I had spent ten years reading faces and catching small mistakes in people's stories. Now I 

could hear their real thoughts. It was the best tool a fraud investigator could ever dream of.

It was also the worst thing that could happen to a girl who was supposed to be running away.

Because now I knew that everyone in this house was hiding something, and the book had only 

told me half the story.

"Alessia." My mother's real voice this time. "Isn't it wonderful? Isadora has come down to join 

us."

I looked up.

A girl stood in the doorway in a white dress, holding a bunch of pink roses. Her hair was soft 

and light brown. Her eyes were big and shy. She looked like someone who had never told a lie in 

her life.

"Good morning," she said, in a voice like warm milk. "I picked these for the table. I hope that is 

all right."

"How lovely," said my mother.

I said nothing. I was too busy listening.

Her smile did not change at all. But the voice in her mind was cold and sharp, and it ran like a 

clock.

Just seven days left. Keep smiling. Look soft and shy. Do not let her see the cold in your eyes.

She set the roses on the table and looked straight at me, sweet and soft, like a sister.

She must never find out what happened to the baby.

My blood turned to ice.

In the book, Isadora Kensington was the lost baby.

So which baby was she talking about?