Marcus woke up drowning in silk.
The sheets wrapped around him like expensive tentacles, soft and suffocating at the same time.
The pillows had somehow multiplied into a small mountain that threatened to swallow his head.
Even the blanket felt wrong, too soft, too luxurious, too much like something that cost more than a normal person's yearly salary.
This is not my bed.
He sat up fast. Big mistake.
The room spun like a carousel made of bad decisions.
His stomach lurched, threatening to evacuate whatever the hell this body had consumed last night.
Wine, probably. Lots of wine, based on the taste in his mouth.
This is not my body.
His hands were wrong.
Too smooth, like they'd been moisturized daily by someone who'd never heard of honest work.
Too young, without the familiar age spots he'd been developing.
No calluses from years of taking notes during therapy sessions.
No paper cuts from filing client reports.
These hands had never done anything more strenuous than lifting a wine glass.
Marcus stumbled out of bed, his feet tangling in sheets that definitely cost more than his old apartment.
The room swayed. Or maybe he did.
He grabbed the nearest piece of furniture for support.
The bedroom was ridiculous.
No, ridiculous wasn't strong enough.
The bedroom was what happened when money and bad taste had a baby.
Gold everywhere.
Not subtle gold accents, but aggressive that screamed:
"I'm rich and I want everyone to know it."
Paintings of half naked women lined the walls, their eyes seeming to judge him for existing.
The furniture looked like it belonged in a museum.
Even the air smelled expensive.
Where the hell am I?
Marcus forced himself to walk.
There was a mirror in the corner.
The frame was gold, real gold, because why stop at tasteless when you could go for obscene?
Marcus walked over slowly, afraid of what he might see.
His reflection moved wrong, too smooth, too young, too everything that wasn't him.
The face in the mirror wasn't his.
It was handsome, he'd give it that.
But handsome in that specific way that said "I've never worked for anything in my life and I'm proud of it."
Dark brown hair. Gray blue eyes.
Sharp cheekbones that belonged on a magazine cover.
A nose that had probably never been broken in an honest fight.
Okay. Think. You died. Heart attack. Client session.
There was a void. A voice said something about helping people find happiness.
Something about not breaking the plot.
What plot?
Then the memories hit.
They weren't his memories. They belonged to this body's original owner.
And every single one was worse than the last.
A party where he'd gotten blackout drunk and tried to seduce the Duke of Somewhere Important's wife.
In front of the Duke. And about fifty other nobles.
The woman had slapped him. The Duke had challenged him to a duel.
He'd been too drunk to stand, let alone fight.
A gambling den where he'd lost an entire year's worth of estate income in one night.
Not even on something respectable like cards. He'd bet it all on which raindrop would reach the bottom of a window first.
His father's face, carved from disappointment and granite, signing papers while saying words like "last chance" and "disgrace to the family name."
The papers had a lot of legal language, but the meaning was clear: one more screw up and he was out.
Women. So many women.
Maids, nobles, married, single, it didn't matter to the original Marcus.
He'd propositioned them all with the confidence of someone who'd never heard the word no, or had heard it but thought it was a suggestion.
And through it all, a younger boy.
Light brown hair. Earnest blue eyes that looked at the world like it might actually be a good place.
Watching from doorways, shaking his head, cleaning up his older brother's messes.
Theodore. Little brother. The good son.
The one who deserved the family name.
The name came with the memories, burning itself into his brain like a brand: Marcus Aldridge.
Marcus Aldridge, eldest son of Viscount Aldridge.
Marcus Aldridge, the family screw up.
Marcus Aldridge, the cautionary tale mothers told their daughters.
Marcus Aldridge, the waste of a perfectly good nobility.
"Oh no," Marcus said to his reflection.
The reflection said it back, which was somehow worse.
"Oh no, no, no. This is bad. This is very, very bad."
He wasn't just in another world. He was in another world as the worst person in his family.
The disappointment. The scoundrel.
The one everyone whispered about at parties, and not in the fun way.
He was the villain of every responsible person's story.
The example of what not to become.
The living, breathing embodiment of wasted potential.
A knock at the door made him jump hard enough to hurt.
The door opened without waiting for an answer, because apparently privacy was for people who hadn't destroyed their family's reputation.
The servant who entered looked like someone had starched not just his uniform but his entire soul.
Everything about him was rigid, from his perfectly pressed collar to his perfectly neutral expression that somehow managed to convey complete disgust.
Marcus's emotional intelligence, apparently the only skill that had survived the transmigration intact, immediately catalogued everything:
The slight curl of the lip (disgust).
The way he stood just inside the doorway (ready to escape).
The slight flare of his nostrils (he expected Marcus to smell like alcohol and shame).
"Young Master Marcus," the servant said.
His tone was technically polite in the way that a slap with a silk glove was technically not a punch.
"You're awake."
He paused, looking at the clock.
"At eight in the morning. How... unusual."
The subtext was so loud it might as well have been shouted:
You're usually passed out until noon, what happened, did you run out of wine?
"Yeah, I'm awake," Marcus said.
Brilliant response. Really showing off that life coach training.
The servant's left eyebrow twitched, the equivalent of a normal person screaming in frustration.
"Your father requested that you attend Lord Theodore's enrollment ceremony at the Royal Academy today."
He paused again, and Marcus could practically hear him adding mentally:
And by requested, I mean demanded. And by attend, I mean stand in the back and try not to embarrass anyone.
"Theodore's enrolling today?"
Marcus grabbed onto the information like a drowning man grabbing driftwood.
He needed context. Any context.
"Indeed. Lord Theodore's enrollment in the Royal Academy marks a significant moment for the Aldridge family."
The servant's voice actually warmed when talking about Theodore.
"Finally, a chance to restore honor to the family name.
The Academy only accepts the finest students. Lord Theodore scored in the top percentile on all entrance examinations.
Magic aptitude, combat potential, academic excellence, he excelled in everything."
The unspoken comparison hung in the air:
Unlike you, who excels at nothing except disappointment.
"Your formal attire has been prepared."
The servant gestured to clothes laid out on a chair that Marcus hadn't noticed.
The outfit looked complicated, with too many buttons and not enough instructions.
"Your father expects you to be presentable, sober, and silent. In that order of importance."
"Right. Presentable, sober, silent. Got it."
The servant stared at him for a long moment, clearly looking for signs of sarcasm, hidden flasks, or imminent scandal.
His eyes narrowed, scanning Marcus from head to toe like he was a crime scene waiting to happen.
"The carriage leaves in one hour. Lord Theodore cannot be late for his enrollment. This day is about him, not..." he paused.
"Just try not to do anything, Young Master."
"I'll be ready."
"One hour," he repeated, then left, closing the door with the kind of controlled force that suggested he really wanted to slam it but couldn't because that would be improper.
Marcus sank onto the bed, his head in his hands.
The silk sheets mocked him with their softness.
He was in a fantasy world.
That much was clear from the Royal Academy and the mention of magic aptitude.
He was in the body of a noble, which should have been convenient except said noble was apparently the human equivalent of a participation trophy that no one wanted to claim.
His younger brother was enrolling in magic school, which probably meant this was one of those worlds.
The kind with destiny and chosen ones and grand adventures.
You know it, though you won't remember knowing it at first.
The voice's words echoed in his head.
Know what? What story? What plot was he not supposed to break?
Marcus looked at his reflection again.
"Well," he told himself, trying for optimism, "at least I can't make this reputation any worse."
Marcus would later recognize this as the moment he challenged fate to a fight.
Fate, it turned out, had been training for this moment its entire existence.
But that would come later.
Right now, he had one hour to figure out how to put on noble clothing without a manual.
Attend a ceremony without causing a scandal, and meet a brother who probably wished he was an only child.
How hard could it be?