Help! I'm a queen!!

--- *CHAPTER ONE – JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE KITCHEN* The kitchen of Grand Royal Hotel was chaos wrapped in the smell of garlic, oil, and deadlines. “Imelda, the pasta’s overcooked!” “That’s not my station!” Imelda shouted back as she stirred the creamy mushroom sauce. “And I told you—watch the timer!” Her white chef coat was slightly stained near the collar, her ponytail was falling apart, and her eyes stung from the steam. But she moved like clockwork—flipping, stirring, tasting—an orchestra of flavor at her fingertips. Despite the heat, the stress, and the nonstop yelling, this was where she thrived. “Duck confit is ready,” she called out, garnishing the plate with a delicate swirl of plum glaze. A junior chef leaned in. “Do you ever get tired?” Imelda smiled. “Only when I stop moving.”She had been working in kitchens since she was sixteen. Now, at twenty-six, she could outcook half the staff with one hand behind her back. She wasn’t head chef yet, but her skills were undeniable. The sous-chef often said Imelda was “a miracle in an apron.” She just needed one big break. And today might be it. The royal family was holding a private banquet at the hotel. Word had it that Lady Grace—the king’s cousin and a major figure in the culinary world—would be attending. Imelda had never met her, but she’d read about her in magazines: regal, elegant, with a taste for exotic cuisine. If Lady Grace tasted her food and liked it... who knew what could happen? “Focus,” she told herself. *** The day rushed by in a blur of sizzling pans and sharp orders. The team was on edge. Even the head chef was unusually quiet, his brow furrowed as he checked every plate twice. By 7:00 PM, the guests had started arriving. Black cars with tinted windows pulled up to the hotel gates. Men in royal blue suits and women in glittering gowns stepped out, escorted by security. Imelda wasn’t allowed in the banquet hall, of course. Her place was in the kitchen—but she found a moment to peek through the staff hallway that led to the service area. Her breath caught.It looked like something from a fairy tale. Crystal chandeliers, golden curtains, and live music playing softly in the background. People were laughing, sipping wine, and taking photos. Her stomach twisted—not with jealousy, but with wonder. That world was so far from hers. She lived in a small apartment with cracked tiles and a noisy neighbor who argued with his cat. She couldn’t imagine sitting in a hall like that, wearing diamonds and being served. She shook her head and turned back. No time for fantasies. *** By 8:15 PM, Imelda’s signature dish was ready: roasted duck breast with a caramelized onion glaze and herb-infused mashed potatoes. She placed it on the silver tray and handed it off. Her hands were trembling. What if Lady Grace hated it? What if she didn’t even taste it? “Stop overthinking,” she muttered. Suddenly, the lights flickered. Then a loud crack—like a thunderclap—echoed through the kitchen. “What the hell—?” The floor vibrated beneath her feet. A pulse of energy filled the air, humming through the metal counters and silver trays. For a second, it felt like time itself paused. Then— *BOOM.* A burst of white light exploded around her. She heard someone scream. And then... nothing. Darkness. *** Imelda’s eyes fluttered open.The light hurt. She squinted. She wasn’t on the kitchen floor. She wasn’t in the hotel. She was lying in a massive bed with velvet sheets, high curtains, and golden candle holders. A fireplace burned quietly across the room, casting shadows on the elegant furniture. The ceiling was painted with clouds and angels. “What... is this?” she whispered. She sat up slowly. Her chef coat was gone. She was wearing a silk nightdress, embroidered with tiny golden leaves. Her hair was perfectly brushed and tied in a soft ribbon. “Where am I?” The door creaked open. Two women in maid uniforms entered, carrying towels and water. When they saw her awake, they gasped. “Your Majesty!” one cried, nearly dropping the bowl. Imelda blinked. “Majesty?” They rushed to her side, bowing deeply. “Oh thank the stars! You’re awake!” “Please, lie back. You’ve been unconscious since the accident.” “What accident? What are you talking about?” They exchanged a look. “You don’t remember?” “I don’t even know where I *am*!” “Y-You’re in the royal palace,” the other maid said gently. “You’re Queen Imelda of Karador.” “Excuse me, *what?*” Imelda sat up straighter. “Queen who?” “You,” the maid said carefully, “are the queen of this kingdom.” Imelda stared at them. They weren’t joking.The room wasn’t a set. The clothes weren’t costumes. This was real. Or... it *felt* real. Was she dreaming? Dead? Hallucinating? “Look, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” she said slowly. “I’m not a queen. I’m just a cook. From Lagos. I work in a hotel.” “You must still be confused,” the first maid said. “You hit your head when the ceiling collapsed during the lightning strike.” “Lightning—?” It hit her. The flash. The sound. The kitchen. The energy in the air. Could that have been… magic? “No. No way,” she muttered. She pushed the sheets off and stood up. Her legs wobbled a little. In front of the mirror stood a version of her she barely recognized. Her skin looked smoother. Her eyes were brighter. Her hair was longer, neatly done. She looked… regal. “What the hell is going on?” There was a knock at the door. A tall woman in royal armor entered. She was striking — powerful, with piercing eyes and silver hair. “Your Majesty,” she said, bowing. “Lady Grace is here to see you.” Imelda turned slowly. “Lady... Grace?” The woman nodded. “Your royal advisor.” Imelda’s head spun. Lady Grace? Here? *Now?* Before she could think of anything else, the door opened again.And in walked the woman from the magazines. Elegant. Poised. Dressed in dark purple silk with jewels that sparkled like stars. “Imelda,” she said softly. “You’ve returned.” “I don’t know what’s happening,” Imelda whispered. “I’m not your queen.” Lady Grace stepped closer, studying her face. “Perhaps not the same… but you are her. Or at least, part of her.” “I’m a cook. That’s all I am.” “Maybe,” Grace said with a curious smile, “but in this world, you are much more.” Imelda felt the weight of it all hit her at once. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a joke. Somehow, she had landed in a different world… in someone else’s life… as a queen. And she had no idea how to get back. ---