A Different Mirror
1161 Words
Silk.
That was Ethan's first conscious thought—the sensation of impossibly soft fabric against his skin, nothing like the scratchy clearance-bin sheets on his bed at home.
His bed didn't have a canopy either. Or curtains made of shimmering silver fabric that caught morning light like liquid starlight.
Ethan's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him was painted. Actual hand-painted clouds and cherubs swirled across pristine white, so detailed he could see individual feathers on their wings. Crown molding—real gold, unless he was losing his mind—framed the masterpiece.
His heart began to hammer.
*Where am I?*
He bolted upright, and the world tilted sideways. Too fast. Everything felt wrong—his center of gravity, the weight distribution of his body, even the way his hair fell forward over his shoulders.
Wait.
*Over his shoulders?*
Ethan's hair barely touched his ears. He'd kept it short since middle school because anything longer gave bullies more ammunition. But now, dark silky strands cascaded past his collarbones, pooling in his lap like an oil spill.
"What the—"
His hand flew to his throat. That wasn't his voice. Too soft, too melodic, distinctly... feminine.
Panic clawed up his spine. Ethan threw off the covers—silk sheets, because apparently everything here was silk—and stumbled out of the massive four-poster bed. His legs tangled in a nightgown he definitely hadn't owned yesterday. White lace, delicate embroidery, the kind of thing that belonged in a period drama.
The room spun. He steadied himself against an ornate dresser, and that's when he saw it.
The mirror.
It was taller than him, framed in silver so polished it looked liquid. And in its reflection stood a girl.
She was beautiful. Objectively, stunningly beautiful. Long dark hair that caught the light, delicate features that belonged on a porcelain doll, wide eyes the color of warm honey. She wore the same white nightgown, and she moved exactly when Ethan moved.
Because she *was* Ethan.
"No." He touched his face—her face—feeling smooth skin where he should have found the slight stubble he'd started shaving last year. "No, no, no, this isn't—"
His hands traveled downward, confirming what his mind refused to accept. Soft curves where there should be angles. A completely different body, unmistakably female.
Ethan's breathing came in short gasps. *I'm dreaming. I have to be dreaming. Too much reading before bed, stress from school, maybe I hit my head when Jason—*
"My lady, are you awake?"
The voice came from beyond a door Ethan hadn't noticed. Ornately carved wood, gilt handles, because apparently everything in this nightmare was fancy.
He couldn't make his voice work. Couldn't do anything but stare at the strange girl in the mirror who mimicked his mounting hysteria.
"My lady?" The door cracked open. "Lord Blackthorne is waiting for you in the breakfast room. He insisted I wake you, though I told him you needed rest after last night's ordeal."
*Lord Blackthorne.*
The name hit Ethan like a physical blow. He knew that name. He'd just read it. Last night, before falling asleep, in the book—
*No. Impossible.*
A woman entered—middle-aged, kind-faced, wearing what looked like a maid's uniform from a historical drama. She bobbed a curtsy. "Shall I help you dress, Lady Serina?"
*Lady Serina.*
The heroine. The protagonist of *Destined Hearts.* The girl loved by three men.
Ethan's knees gave out. He caught himself on the dresser, white-knuckled, as reality—or whatever this was—crashed over him.
"My lady!" The maid rushed forward. "Are you unwell? Should I fetch the physician?"
"I—" Ethan's voice cracked. He tried again. "What... what day is it?"
The maid's brow furrowed with concern. "Saturday, my lady. The morning after the Harvest Ball. Don't you remember? You fainted during your dance with Lord Blackthorne. He carried you here himself."
The Harvest Ball. Chapter three of the novel. Where Serina first danced with Adrian Blackthorne, the cold duke who would eventually fall desperately in love with her.
This couldn't be real. People didn't fall into books. That wasn't how the world worked.
"My lady, you're trembling. Let me—"
"I need a moment." Ethan pulled away from her reaching hands. "Please. Just... give me a moment alone."
The maid hesitated, clearly torn between duty and concern. "Lord Blackthorne was quite insistent—"
"I don't care what Lord Blackthorne wants!" The words came out sharper than intended. "I need to be alone. Now."
Hurt flashed across the maid's face, but she curtseyed again. "As you wish, my lady. I'll inform Lord Blackthorne you'll join him shortly."
The door clicked shut.
Ethan turned back to the mirror, forcing himself to really look. To accept what he was seeing. The face staring back was exactly as he'd imagined while reading last night—delicate features, dark flowing hair, the kind of beauty that launched ships or started wars or inspired sonnets.
He touched the glass, and she—*he*—touched it back.
"This isn't happening," he whispered. "I'm Ethan Park. I'm eighteen. I live in Seattle. I go to Lincoln High. I'm a senior. I have a math test on Monday. I'm—"
*"A girl so captivating, three powerful men would go to war for her heart."*
The book's tagline echoed in his memory.
A knock on the door made him jump.
"Lady Serina." This voice was different. Deep, controlled, edged with something dark. Male. "I know you're awake. We need to talk about last night."
Ethan's blood turned to ice. He knew that voice too. Had imagined it while reading descriptions of the cold, mysterious duke.
"Open the door, Serina."
His hand moved to the handle before his brain caught up. Some instinct—survival, maybe, or the pure absurdity of the situation—made him pull it open.
The man standing in the hallway was exactly as described in the novel. Tall, intimidatingly so, with dark hair that fell artfully across his forehead. Sharp jaw, aristocratic features, and eyes the color of winter storms—piercing gray that seemed to see straight through skin and bone into whatever passed for a soul.
Adrian Blackthorne looked at him with an expression Ethan couldn't read.
"Good," Adrian said coolly. "You're not as fragile as you appeared last night." His gaze swept over Ethan—assessing, calculating. "Get dressed. We have much to discuss, and I don't appreciate being kept waiting."
He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and Serina?" Those gray eyes locked onto Ethan's. "Don't even think about running. You're mine now. The contract your father signed ensures that."
The door closed behind him with a decisive click.
Ethan stood frozen, the heroine's face staring back from every reflective surface.
He wasn't in Seattle anymore.
He was in a novel.
And according to Adrian Blackthorne, he belonged to someone else.
- Writer
