The first time she heard someone call her Vina, she almost didn’t respond.

It wasn’t her name. Not really. But the woman who had owned this face and body was gone, and somehow, she—Willa Crespo—was still here. Breathing. Blinking. Borrowing someone else’s life.

“Lady Vina,” the maid said softly, kneeling beside the bed, “your tea has gone cold again.”

The scent of lavender and chamomile drifted upward, strange and comforting. Willa stared at the cup for a long time before realizing she’d been holding her breath. Her hands—no, Vina’s hands—were softer than hers had ever been, with short, neat nails and a slight tremor that betrayed exhaustion. Even the air felt different here, heavier and scented with polished wood and wax candles instead of antiseptic or exhaust fumes.

She had died.

And yet, she hadn’t. She lives but as another.

In the hazy days since she’d awakened, the world had been a blur of adjustment and disbelief. Servants spoke to her as though nothing extraordinary had happened—just their mistress waking from a strange, weeks-long sleep. They said she’d fallen ill after a fever and miraculously recovered. Only Willa knew that wasn’t true.

Sometimes she saw flashes when she closed her eyes: her old apartment window glowing from the city lights, her empty fridge, the constant hum of loneliness.

A car horn.

Rain against glass.

Then the blinding light of the truck.

When she jolted awake, the light would fade, replaced by the golden flicker of a hearth. This world didn’t hum or buzz—it breathed. Slow. Measured. Real. Almost clear.

But the strangest part wasn’t the world. It was her body.

Willa had spent most of her life trying to disappear.

In the mirror now, she couldn’t.

Where she had once been sharp angles and hollow cheeks, this reflection showed soft curves and a gentle roundness that spoke of warmth, of life. Her hips were wide, her stomach carried the faintest curve of womanhood, her breasts full and heavy under the pale silk of her nightgown. Her skin glowed with color—rosy, alive. Her arms, her thighs, even her face held the kind of softness that once would’ve made her self-conscious. But here… it looked beautiful.

The thought startled her.

Back home, she had starved herself without meaning to. Anxiety and rejection stripped her appetite; heartbreak took what was left. Food had become an afterthought. She’d grown thin and brittle, the kind of woman men said they liked until they saw the emptiness in her eyes. She had forgotten what it felt like to inhabit a body that could be called alive.

She was chubby. Plain and simple but she found she liked that about Vina.

Now, every movement in this body felt foreign—fuller, heavier, undeniably real. Vina Rosethorne had been petite, yes, but with the kind of plumpness that came from both comfort and motherhood. Willa could feel the small stretch marks near her hips, the softness of her stomach, the faint ache in her back that hinted at late nights spent holding a child. She wondered what Vina had looked like before giving birth—and if this body’s owner had ever looked in a mirror and felt beautiful.

If she hadn’t… Willa would.