I hit the en-suite bathroom; a veritable cathedral of opulence carved from veined white marble that gleamed like frozen moonlight. Towering rain-forest showerheads hung overhead like metallic storm clouds, promising deluges beyond my wildest barista dreams.
The bathroom was like a palace itself. I have only seen this type of bathroom in the movies. Dawn light filtered through frosted glass panels etched with abstract floral motifs, casting golden fractals across the space.
I peeled off the sheer camisole, the fabric whispering against my skin as it pooled at my feet, and stepped into the spray. Scalding water erupted in a thunderous cascade, slamming my shoulders like a relentless downpour—hotter, fiercer, alive.
Oh my god! This feels so nice! It's like I am a princess or something.
It sluiced over my porcelain skin in relentless sheets, turning milky white to flushed rose, tracing every curve with insistent fingers. Raven hair plastered flat like inky ribbons snaking down my back, heavy and cool against the heat.
I tilted my head back, letting it soak my scalp, eyes fluttering shut as luxurious soapsuds foamed up—jasmine and sandalwood, thick and creamy, erasing the phantom grit of last night's transmigration sweat.
My hands moved of their own accord, lathering slowly: over full breasts that heaved with each breath, down the sinful dip of my utterly huggable waist, across flaring hips and toned thighs earned from... well, whatever villainess workouts this body remembered.
Goddess, the word echoed in my mind as I twisted under the jets, watching rivulets carve paths along my reflection in the fogged mirror—sinuous trails that highlighted every perfection.
Why am I so beautiful? It felt like a cosmic sin, this body sculpted for worship, not the hurried scrubs of my old life.
Maybe I should have my own set of followers—my devotees.
I don't miss my barista life. Nope. Never. Flashback hit hard—early mornings jolting awake to a cheap alarm's blare, splashing tepid tap water on my face in a cramped flat reeking of yesterday's filter coffee. Grease stains from the shop's ancient fryer clinging to my uniform, coffee grinds wedged under nails no matter how I scrubbed.
I'd daydream through endless shifts—slinging espressos to rude office drones, sketching fashion ideas on crumpled napkins during rare lulls. Smart fabrics that breathed with the wearer, dresses morphing hues under streetlights.
Low wages barely covered rent, orphan life scraping by without a safety net. Now? This was my reality. I lingered longer than needed, letting the steam envelop me like a lover's embrace, until my skin tingled pink and alive.
Towelling off with heated Egyptian cotton—plush, endless—I slipped into simple black pants that hugged my hips like a jealous paramour, the fabric whispering premium synth-wool.
A fitted emerald shirt followed, silk blend clinging just right, making my eyes blaze like forest fires. Mirror check—hair blow-dried to glossy waves, makeup minimal but fierce. Perfection. A goddess forged for runways and empires, not espresso machines and minimum wage.
My mind ignited with ideas, the fashion engineer in me—honed from YouTube tutorials and late-night CAD software hacks during off-hours—buzzing like a live wire. Leonhart Fashion could evolve under me—smart-fabrics woven with nano-threads that shifted colours via ambient light or body heat, reacting to a wearer's mood for chameleon couture.
Forget static gowns; imagine light-reactive weaves that shimmered from sapphire to crimson under neon skyscrapers. Sustainable synth-silk from lab-grown spider glands, zero-waste production pipelines with AI-patterning for custom fits in hours. I'd disrupt the dynasty from within—turn cold legacy into hot innovation. Why fight the plot when I could own it?
Wait. I forgot that this world has no AI in the first place. As for my designs, I have a lot of things in my mind, including the ones that I have obsessed on before.
Suddenly, a sharp knock-knock shattered the reverie, yanking me back. The door swung open without ceremony—privacy be damned in elite lairs—to reveal a maid in crisp black livery, starched collar framing her bowed head, gloved hands clasped demurely.
"Sir and Madam are calling you downstairs for breakfast, my lady."
I froze mid-stride, pulse skipping like a glitchy holo-track. My lady. The words landed soft as silk, laced with deference no one had ever spared me. Barista life? "Hey, refill this slop!" from hungover suits, or grunted "keep the change" tips that barely covered basics.
Heat bloomed in my cheeks, a goofy grin threatening to crack my facade; I fought it down hard, schooling my features to villainess ice—chin lifted imperiously, emerald eyes narrowing just so. Keep it up, Emily! You can do it.
With a voice like chilled steel forged in boardroom battles, I replied, "I'll be down in a minute." She dipped her head deeper, vanishing like smoke down the hall, door clicking shut with oiled precision.
Now, it's time for the makeup—smoky liner to carve my eyes into weapons, crimson lips painted for unassailable armour. I descended the spiral staircase hand trailing polished obsidian banisters cool under my palm, heels clicking a staccato rhythm that echoed through vaulted halls adorned with ancestral portraits—stern Leonharts glaring down, judging.
The dining room loomed at the base—a cavernous expanse where crystal chandeliers dripped prisms onto mahogany gleam, morning sun shafting through arched windows to gild silver cutlery.
Scents assaulted—seared synth-steak sizzling faintly on warmers, fresh croissants flaking buttery gold, exotic fruits bursting citrus tang. A feast for kings, not the stale instant meals I'd nuked solo in my sparse flat. My mouth watered just by the smell.
There they sat at the head of the vast table—my "new" parents, the Leonhart patriarch and matriarch—silver foxes in bespoke suits, Patriarch Viktor with his hawkish nose buried in his phone, Matriarch Elena's manicured nails tapping a stylus against her tablet, lips pursed in perpetual calculation.
Cold as the marble floors underfoot; OG Emily's fragmented memories confirmed the chill—no birthday hugs, no proud glances at runway debuts, just transactional nods amid empire metrics.
Doubled down from my own life—orphaned young, bouncing through a string of indifferent placements before landing barista gigs, love a luxury I brewed for strangers. I shook my head faintly, raven strands swaying like dark banners, and slid into my assigned chair at the table's remote end—isolated, symbolic.
Maids materialized from alcoves like well-oiled ghosts, silent in their black uniforms, plating my meal with balletic grace—golden eggs quivering on porcelain, yolks fat and promising; artisanal breads steaming with crust cracks revealing airy hearts; sliced synth-fruit glistening ruby and emerald.
Across from me loomed my stepbrother, Alexei Leonhart—one of the novel's four male leads, a brooding colossus of controlled power. Chiselled jaw shadowed by deliberate stubble, ice-blue eyes flicking up from his tablet just once—assessing, dissecting me like a hostile takeover target.
His tall frame coiled in a crisp white shirt rolled to forearms veined with quiet strength, exuding that effortless alpha aura the book fawned over—heir to the tech arm of Leonhart, all sharp intellect and sharper rivalries.
He knew the villainess playbook—my predecessor's barbs, her schemes to undermine him for inheritance scraps. Our eyes met; his held a curt nod, loaded with unspoken challenge—What game today, Emily? The air crackled, thick with it, forks clinking softly amid the silence.
I speared an egg with deliberate poise, yolk bursting rich and savoury across my tongue—velvety, indulgent, worlds from instant noodles. The other things could come next, but for now—let's concentrate on food.