Reincarnated as General's Wife

From the very beginning, Celine was different. Not because she was beautiful or adored she was neither. She had an average face, the kind you’d forget in a crowd, and a quiet personality that made her easy to overlook. But she was smart. Brilliant, even. While other children laughed in the playground, Celine sat under a tree with a book in hand, memorizing things most kids didn’t even know existed. She wasn’t popular, and she didn’t mind. Popularity didn’t win you medals, grades did. Friends? She thought they were distractions. Her family wasn’t close-knit either. They weren’t cruel, but they were distant polite conversations over dinner, birthdays celebrated with store-bought cake, and love shown in the form of “study harder” and “make us proud.” And so she did. She studied until the dark rings under her eyes became permanent. She topped every exam. She graduated high school with honors, earned a scholarship to a prestigious university, and crushed every competition that came her way. But along the way, life became a series of checkboxes. ✔ Graduate with top marks. ✔ Get into a good company. ✔ Earn a salary that could make her parents brag to relatives. At twenty-eight, she was an assistant manager in a major firm, the kind of success story people envied from the outside. But what they didn’t see were the empty evenings, the quiet apartment, and the takeout boxes piling on her desk. She had no friends to call, no one waiting for her at home, no warm laughter to greet her after a long day. She was surrounded by people at work, yet completely alone. That night, she stared at her computer screen, the blue light reflecting off her tired eyes. She was successful, yes… but in what? Money? Titles? Recognition? Somewhere along the way, she realized she had built a life that was perfect on paper… and utterly hollow in reality. And as the clock ticked past midnight, Celine pressed her hand to her forehead, a dull ache forming behind her eyes. Her body felt heavy, her mind foggy. She thought she was just tired but she was wrong. Very, very wrong. The first drop hit her desk with a soft, wet plop. Celine blinked, staring at the small, red stain on the paperwork in front of her. She touched her upper lip — blood. “Huh…” she muttered under her breath, grabbing a tissue. She tilted her head back, pressing it against her nose. Her vision swam for a moment, the fluorescent lights above blurring into long white streaks. Her eyes felt heavy, like they were refusing to obey her anymore. “Great. My own body’s turning against me.” She sighed, pushed away from her desk, and left the office early for the first time in months. The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and old magazines. After a quick examination, the doctor frowned at her chart. “You’re severely overworked, Ms. Celine. Your blood pressure is unstable, and you’re showing signs of chronic fatigue. You need to rest. Immediately.” Rest? She almost laughed. “I have deadlines, Doctor. Taking time off isn’t—” “It isn’t optional,” he interrupted firmly. “If you keep pushing yourself like this, your body will make the decision for you.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t argue, but deep down, she already knew she wouldn’t follow his advice. That evening, she stepped into her apartment. It was big — the kind of space people dreamed of — but it greeted her with nothing but silence. No lights on. No smell of home-cooked food. No sound of footsteps. Just her heels clicking against the polished floor and the faint hum of the refrigerator. She dropped her bag onto the couch and stood there for a moment, staring into the dark. Her reflection on the window looked pale, almost ghostly. “Is this it?” she whispered to no one. “I worked my whole life… for this?” Her chest tightened. The emptiness in her home wasn’t just physical — it had seeped into her bones, into her heart. The next morning, she returned to work as if nothing had happened. The office buzzed with the usual chatter, but her desk was an island, isolated and untouched. She poured herself into her tasks, ignoring the occasional wave of dizziness. Until it hit her all at once. Her vision blurred, her hands trembled, and the air in her lungs felt too thin. “Celine?” A co-worker’s voice came from somewhere far away. “I’m… fine” she tried to say, but the words caught in her throat. The world tilted, colors bleeding into one another, and the last thing she felt was the cold bite of the floor against her cheek. The office erupted into shouts, but she didn’t hear the rest. Darkness claimed her. A soft rustle woke her. Celine’s eyelashes fluttered open to find herself staring at a high ceiling — not the white, cracked one of her apartment, but a smooth expanse of cream-colored plaster, its edges carved with intricate floral patterns. She blinked again. The bed beneath her wasn’t her cheap mattress from the discount store; it was massive, draped in silk sheets so soft she sank into them like a marshmallow. Light poured through tall windows framed by heavy velvet curtains, and the faint scent of lavender hung in the air. Her gaze wandered. Golden candlesticks. A fireplace with a faint ember glow. Walls painted in a style she’d only ever seen in historical dramas. She looked down. A white nightgown — flowing, delicate, and definitely not the oversized T-shirt she had been wearing when she… collapsed? “…Huh.” Celine’s brain was still loading when a thought popped in, uninvited: Is this heaven? She sat up slowly, pressing her palm to the ridiculously plush bedding. This is… kind of nice. Wow. So, dying comes with free luxury accommodations? Do they serve breakfast in heaven too? Her lips twitched at the absurdity. Not bad. Ten out of ten for interior design. The door creaked open. An elderly woman stepped in, her posture perfectly straight despite her age, dressed in a crisp maid’s uniform straight out of some aristocratic period. Her sharp eyes softened slightly when they landed on Celine. “You’re awake, Your Grace,” she said, her voice firm but respectful. Celine froze. Your… what now? The maid continued, “You gave us quite the scare yesterday. The Duke—” “Wait. Hold up. Your Grace?” Celine interrupted in her head. Her eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the maid. She had never seen this woman in her life. And since when did anyone call her anything other than “Ms. Celine” or “Hey, can you finish this report?” While the maid talked, Celine’s mind spun in another direction entirely. Okay, think. I was at work. I collapsed. Everything went black. And now I’m in… wherever this is. This is not my apartment. This is not my office. And that woman just called me “Your Grace” like I’m some noble lady in a drama. Her gaze drifted to her hands. Smaller, softer, and… was that lace on her sleeves? She touched her hair — longer, silkier, and not tied in the messy bun she used to survive workdays. The pieces were clicking together too fast, too absurdly. And yet… she remembered. She’d read something like this before. Her lips parted, eyes widening. “…Reincarnation?” Her pulse spiked. No way. No. Freaking. Way. And then, without thinking, she let out a very unladylike yell — the kind that belonged more in a sports stadium than a noblewoman’s bedroom. “HELL YEAH!”