By the time I reached the dining hall, the entire household staff went silent, and disappointment pricked at me—I'd hoped to eavesdrop on their gossip and maybe uncover more dirt about Zion's mysterious life.
"Madam, here is your breakfast." Butler Enrod's impeccable baritone broke the hush.
My eyes widened as footmen streamed in from the kitchen, bearing silver-domed trays heavy with food. The absence of chicken—my usual comfort—hit me first. Instead of the hearty rice meals I grew up with, a full Western spread awaited: stacks of syrup-glazed pancakes, a pitcher of frothy milk, bowls of honey-dusted cereal, even a small tureen of yogurt studded with berries. My appetite promptly curled up and died.
All I really wanted was steamed rice, maybe a fried egg—something familiar. Before I came to this mansion that had somehow become my reality, that was my everyday breakfast. But here, apparently, continental elegance ruled.
"Madam," Butler Enrod prompted gently as I took a sip of milk, "is the meal not to your liking?"
Thank goodness the milk was already halfway down my throat, or I might have sprayed it across the snow-white tablecloth. There it was again—not to your liking—the same line Zion used whenever he forced me to make a choice.
"It's fine, Butler Enrod," I managed, setting the glass down.
"Please, Madam, you must tell me exactly what you like and dislike. The kitchen can only serve you properly if we know your preferences."
"Er…" I faltered, unsure how blunt I should be.
"Sir Zion's direct instructions," he added, tone courteous yet unbending.
Left with no escape, I closed my eyes and rattled off a list: more rice, less butter, lots of fish, no overly sweet sauces, and please—rotisserie chicken at least twice a week. He listened with the focus of a court stenographer, then nodded.
When the interrogation ended, I ate quickly—partly to avoid further questions, partly because I still needed to research my bizarre new identity inside the web-novel My Lily.
While the car rolled toward Cartridge Mall—Butler Enrod's idea, not mine—I tried to recall the beats of My Lily. I'd devoured the story online before I died, yet only fragments surfaced: Lily, the plucky heroine; Carlo, the dazzling male lead; and Zion, the icy antagonist—now inexplicably my husband.
"Why am I so forgetful?" I muttered, forehead against the tinted window.
From the corner of my eye I noticed the driver glance at me via the rearview mirror. Let him wonder; I had bigger problems than seeming eccentric.
On a sudden impulse I decided to pump him for information. Know yourself before you face your enemy, or however the saying goes. In this warped world, I was both the mystery and the combatant.
"Sir," I ventured, clearing my throat, "could you tell me… about me?"
Bold move, but desperation outranked dignity.
"Ah… Madam," he hedged, knuckles tightening on the wheel.
My brows knitted. "Why the hesitation?"
"It's nothing, Madam," he said quickly.
I nodded toward him. "Then please—enlighten me."
He expelled a breath, gathering courage. "You are… strict, Madam. You dislike Sir Zion and anyone who attempts to approach you."
Strict? Translation: tyrannical. No wonder the maids whispered behind my back—apparently Novel-Ally excelled at making employees cower.
"Go on," I urged. "More details."
"We truly do not know how you became Sir Zion's wife," he admitted. "Sir returned from abroad after several days, and you were with him. The two of you registered your marriage immediately upon landing in the Philippines."
I swallowed. They don't know me at all?
"I'm not from here?" The words escaped, half gasp, half realization.
The traffic light ahead flicked crimson, and the driver turned fully, concern etched across his weathered face. "Madam, are you feeling all right? I can turn the car around—Sir Zion ordered me to bring you home at once if you feel unwell."
"I'm fine," I lied.
"Please, if you're uneasy we must return. Rest is paramount—Sir's strict command." Confusion clouded his eyes.
My pulse stuttered. Last thing I needed was the driver reporting strange behavior and Zion deciding his bride required a psychiatrist. "Yes, yes, I understand," I said, gaze flipping back to the window. "I was merely curious about your perspective."
Truth was, My Lily never detailed how Zion's wife died—only that she would die. The anonymous author left the death shrouded in mystery, and now I stood smack in the crosshairs of that blank space.
The driver fell silent, the light turned green, and the car rolled on. I loosed a shaky breath.
Outside, pedestrians drifted along the boulevard. The driver kept a respectable speed—slow enough for me to study shopfronts and convince myself this dreamscape matched my old world perfectly. Same traffic signs, same vendors hawking taho in the shade of acacia trees. Yet everything felt faintly laminated, as though an unseen novelist had placed props exactly where the plot demanded.
I pinched my wrist; pain blossomed. Not a dream, then. Should I laugh or cry? I was supposed to be dead, yet here I was, rebooted inside fiction.
We finally reached Cartridge Mall, whose sleek glass façade mirrored the sky. The name gleamed in silver, just like in the book. Unnerving.
"Madam," the driver said, parking at the VIP bay, "I'll call our aides to follow you and carry your purchases."
I almost refused, but suspected the dreaded tag—Sir Zion's orders—would pop up again. I nodded instead.
Moments later, a squad of Zion's employees—half security detail, half personal shoppers—marched up and formed a polite bubble around me as I entered the mall's cool, perfumed air.
Great. A walking circus, and I was the reluctant ringmaster. Worse, I still had zero intel on Ally Cartridge—the woman whose shoes I currently inhabited. Where could I snoop unnoticed?
An antique shop caught my eye: brass telescopes, porcelain dolls, shelves of dusty tomes. Perfect. I veered in; Zion's entourage trailed dutifully, trying to appear inconspicuous and failing.
Among cuckoo clocks and vintage globes, a smug female voice cut the hush. "Well, well, well… I didn't expect Ally Cole to grace this little shop."
Brows furrowing, I pivoted toward the sound. A brunette wearing scorn like perfume lounged beside a display case, arms folded, expression dripping condescension.
She sneered. "What are you staring at?"
My spine straightened, and a reply sprang unbidden, sharp as flint. "Cartridge," I corrected, letting the surname crack like a whip. "Ally Cole-Cartridge."
Her smugness evaporated; her jaw dropped so far a porcelain teacup might have fit inside. For the first time today, I felt a flicker of genuine satisfaction. In a world where everyone knew more about me than I did, wielding my married name like a shield was a small but thrilling victory.
And maybe—just maybe—it was the first step toward mastering the story rather than letting the story master me.