Trapped As The Girl They All Desire

The Contract

Ethan had thirty seconds before Adrian returned, and he was wasting them staring at his reflection like an i***t.

*Think. Think.*

He was in a book. Fine. Insane, but fine. He was the heroine. Also insane. And apparently, he was contracted to marry the male lead, which—

"Wait, married?" Ethan spun toward the door Adrian had just exited through. "What contract?"

His voice still sounded wrong. Too light, too feminine. He pressed his palms against his face, feeling the foreign softness of it. This body didn't belong to him, but his mind was still his own. Still Ethan Park, certified nobody from Seattle.

The maid from earlier poked her head in. "My lady, Lord Blackthorne will return in fifteen minutes. Please, let me help you dress."

"I don't need—" Ethan caught himself. He needed information more than he needed to maintain some stupid masculine pride. "Actually, yes. But answer me something first. What contract was he talking about?"

The maid's eyes widened. "The marriage contract, my lady. Between House Blackthorne and House Serina. Your father signed it before he passed. Surely you remember?"

Marriage contract. Right. Because of course the heroine's dead father had sold her off to the brooding duke. Classic romance novel setup.

Ethan's real father had essentially done the same thing, just without the paperwork—handed him over to Marissa and checked out emotionally. At least here, Adrian Blackthorne looked at him like he existed.

Even if that look made Ethan want to crawl under the bed.

"Remind me of the terms," Ethan said, letting the maid pull him toward an enormous wardrobe.

She began laying out clothes—a corset that made Ethan's stomach turn, layers of petticoats, a deep blue gown that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe back home. "You're to marry Lord Blackthorne within three months. The union secures your family's debts and protects your late father's merchant business. In return, House Blackthorne gains access to your family's trade routes in the eastern provinces."

So Serina was a business transaction. Perfect. Even fictional girls got treated like property.

The maid started unlacing the nightgown, and Ethan nearly had a heart attack. "I can do it myself!"

"My lady, you can't possibly—"

"I can." His face burned. No way was he letting someone else dress him. Undress him. Whatever. He grabbed the corset. "Just... explain how this thing works."

Ten minutes of fumbling later, Ethan looked presentable. The corset was torture, the dress weighed approximately eight hundred pounds, and he kept stepping on the hem, but he was dressed.

The door opened without warning.

Adrian stood there, now wearing a black suit that looked like it cost more than Ethan's house. His gray eyes swept over Ethan with clinical detachment. "Adequate. Come."

He didn't wait for a response, just turned and walked.

Ethan's temper—usually buried under layers of learned helplessness—sparked. "Excuse me?"

Adrian stopped. Turned. One eyebrow raised. "Did you just tell me no?"

"I said 'excuse me,' which in any dimension means you don't get to order me around like a dog." The words came out before Ethan could stop them. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was eighteen years of taking orders from people who treated him like garbage. Maybe he'd finally snapped.

Something flickered in Adrian's expression. Not anger. Something else. "You've grown a spine since last night."

"Maybe I hit my head when I fainted."

"Maybe." Adrian's gaze sharpened. "Or maybe you're finally showing your true colors. I wondered how long the sweet, docile act would last."

Wait. The heroine was supposed to be sweet and docile? Ethan tried to remember the early chapters. Serina had been gentle, soft-spoken, the perfect aristocratic lady. He'd found her boring, honestly, which was why he'd kept reading—waiting for her to do something interesting.

He was supposed to be playing a role. Being her.

But he had no idea how.

"I'm not acting," Ethan said carefully. "I just don't appreciate being treated like I'm stupid."

"Then stop acting stupid." Adrian closed the distance between them in three strides. He was tall—way taller than Ethan's current body—and he used that height like a weapon, looming. "You fainted during our dance. You've been unconscious for twelve hours. The physician says you're healthy, but you're behaving erratically. So either you hit your head harder than anyone realized, or something else is going on."

Ethan's pulse kicked up. Adrian was smart. Of course he was—the novel had made that clear. Cold, calculating, always three steps ahead of everyone else.

"I'm fine," Ethan lied.

"You're lying."

"I'm not—"

"Your left eye twitches when you lie. It did the same thing last night when I asked if you wanted to dance." Adrian leaned closer, studying him like a puzzle. "You're hiding something."

Ethan's breath caught. This close, he could see flecks of darker gray in Adrian's eyes. Could smell something clean and sharp, like winter air. His traitorous body—Serina's body—reacted in ways that made him want to die of embarrassment.

He was a straight guy. He liked girls. He'd had a crush on Emma Chen sophomore year, even if he'd been too terrified to talk to her.

But right now, his heart was racing, and it had nothing to do with fear.

"Back off," Ethan managed.

Adrian smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Make me."

"I'm serious—"

"So am I." Adrian's hand came up, fingers catching Ethan's chin, tilting his face up. "You're contracted to marry me, Serina. That means you're mine to protect, mine to question, and mine to punish if you're playing games."

"I'm not playing anything!" Ethan tried to jerk away, but Adrian's grip held firm. Not painful, but unbreakable. "Let go!"

"Not until you tell me the truth. What happened last night?"

"I don't remember!"

"Liar."

"I'm not—"

The door burst open.

A man stood in the doorway, and Ethan's stomach dropped. Golden blond hair that looked like it had been kissed by the sun itself. Bright green eyes full of mischief. A smile that could sell toothpaste or start wars.

Leo Hawthorne. The second male lead.

"Adrian, you bastard." Leo's cheerful voice filled the room. "I leave for one hunting trip, and you've already got your hands on my future wife?"

Adrian's expression went glacial. "Your wife?"

"Our wife, technically." Leo's grin widened as he looked at Ethan. "Hello, beautiful. Miss me?"

Ethan stared at him. Then at Adrian, whose jaw had gone tight. Then back at Leo, who was walking toward them like he owned the place.

"I—what?"

"The contract," Leo said, like it was obvious. "Didn't Adrian tell you? House Blackthorne and House Hawthorne are joint signatories. We're both marrying you. Together. It's very progressive, don't you think?"

The room tilted.

"Both of you?" Ethan's voice came out strangled.

"Both of us," Adrian confirmed coldly. "Did you truly not read the contract your father signed?"

"And speaking of contracts," a new voice drawled from the doorway, deep and rough like gravel, "you forgot the third signature."

Ethan turned.

Red hair. Broad shoulders. Amber eyes that burned.

Damian Redwyne. The third male lead.

"Hello, little wife," Damian said, his smile sharp as a blade. "Ready to meet your three new husbands?"