All Chapters of Transmigrated into a Playboy Billionaire: Chapter 1 - Chapter 5

I woke up with a woman's arm around my waist, and I was the one with abs.That was the first problem.The second problem was the voice that came out of my mouth when I whispered, "Oh no." It was deep, rough, and male.I froze. The arm around my waist squeezed tighter."Mmm," a woman purred against my shoulder. "Good morning, darling."I knew that voice. I had heard it every Friday for two years, usually yelling at me about the temperature of her coffee. Camille Dupont. International model. Lucien Ashford's on-and-off girlfriend. The woman who once told me my uniform smelled like "poverty and lemon cleaner."And she was lying in my arms.Slowly, I lifted my hand. It was large, tanned, and strong, with a gold watch around the wrist. Not my hand. My hands were small and rough from scrubbing floors.I looked down at my chest. Hard muscle. Bare skin. A tiny tattoo of a compass near the ribs.I was not in my bed. I was not in my body. I was in the king-size bed of Lucien Ashford, Crestmont'

Every camera in the room was pointed at my own unconscious face."Who," Victor Ashford repeated, in a voice that could freeze soup, "is that girl?"I was still kneeling on one knee with a diamond ring in my hand. My brain screamed ten different answers at once. She is my cousin. She is a spy. She is a very tired woman who just discovered her life is a mess."She is the maid," I said."The maid.""Seraphina Vale. She works here. She has low blood sugar." I paused. "And she has been very overworked."Behind Victor, a reporter lowered his microphone. Another leaned toward his friend and whispered, "Since when does Lucien Ashford know a maid's name?"Victor's steel-gray eyes moved from the girl on the floor to me. He studied me for three long seconds, the way a man studies a painting he is sure is a fake."Then have someone take her out," he said. "She is spoiling the photographs.""Right away, Father."I stood up. My knees cracked in a very male way. I handed the ring box back to Victor,

Camille Dupont arrived with fourteen suitcases, three hatboxes, and a dog the size of a loaf of bread. His name was Pretzel. I was told he owned more clothes than I did."Darling!" she sang, floating through the penthouse doors in a cloud of perfume. "I am home!"I stood in the middle of the living room in a gray suit that Lucien's closet had chosen for me, and I wanted to run."Welcome," I said stiffly."You are so formal today." She kissed my cheek. "Servant! The bags!"Behind her, in a maid's uniform that was slowly getting tighter and tighter across his shoulders, Lucien came through the door carrying four suitcases at once. His face was bright red. His arms were shaking. The tiny dog yapped at his ankles."Be careful with the blue one," Camille said without looking. "It has my pearls.""Yes, Miss Dupont," Lucien said through his teeth."And do not drag the white one. It is Italian.""Yes, Miss Dupont.""And smile. Servants should smile."Lucien smiled. It was the most terrifying