Ethan’s head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that echoed the disquiet in his stomach. He blinked, his eyelids heavy as lead, struggling to focus on the blurry shapes looming around him. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was… the celebratory drinks after closing that monstrous deal with Tanaka Corp. And then… nothing.

He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing him back against what felt like a mountain of soft, yielding pillows. The fabric beneath his fingertips was smooth, cool silk, a stark contrast to the cheap, scratchy hotel sheets he usually encountered on business trips. He finally managed to prop himself up on his elbows, his vision slowly clarifying.

He was in a bedroom, but not one he recognized. It wasn't a sterile hotel room or his minimalist Manhattan apartment. This room was… opulent. Overwhelmingly so. Heavy velvet curtains, the color of a bruised plum, draped the tall windows, barely allowing a sliver of daylight to penetrate. A massive four-poster bed, adorned with intricate carvings and gold leaf, dominated the space. An ornate chandelier, sparkling with a thousand tiny crystals, hung from the high, elaborately plastered ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax polish and something floral, sweet, and unfamiliar.

Panic began to prickle at the edges of his mind. This wasn't a drunken stupor gone awry; this was something far more bizarre.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet sinking into a plush, intricately patterned carpet. The cold seeped through the silk of his nightshirt, a sensation both foreign and unpleasant. He glanced down at himself. The nightshirt, voluminous and embroidered with what looked like a crest, was another jarring piece of the puzzle. And then he saw his hands.

They were his hands, but… different. They were paler, smoother, less calloused than he remembered. He flexed his fingers, watching the unfamiliar tendons move beneath the skin. The hand that had crushed countless deals, that had held power and influence in the palm of its hand, now looked delicate, almost aristocratic.

A movement in the periphery of his vision startled him. He turned to see a man standing silently by the door, his posture ramrod straight, his face impassive. He was dressed in a dark blue livery, his hair neatly powdered.

"Good morning, my lord," the man said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Shall I inform the valet that you are awake?"

"My lord?" Ethan echoed, the words tasting strange on his tongue. "Valet? Who… who are you?"

The man's expression remained unchanged. "I am Finch, your lordship's valet. And you, my lord, are Lord Ashworth."

Lord Ashworth. The name hit him like a physical blow, unlocking a flood of fragmented memories, not his own, but… someone else's. Memories of grand estates, formal balls, and a life steeped in privilege and tradition. The memories of Ethan Blake, Wall Street shark, were beginning to feel like a distant, fading dream.

He stumbled towards a large, gilded mirror that stood against one wall. As he gazed at his reflection, a gasp escaped his lips. The face staring back at him was his, yet not his. The bone structure was the same, the eyes the same shade of intense blue, but the lines around his mouth were softer, younger. There was a faint, almost imperceptible air of vulnerability that he had long ago buried deep within himself.

This was the face of Lord Ashworth, a man he only knew as a character from a ridiculous historical romance game he’d gotten hooked on during a particularly stressful period at work. The game, "The Duke's Gambit," was a fluffy, predictable story about social climbing, scandalous secrets, and, of course, true love. He'd found its predictable nature oddly comforting amidst the chaotic pressures of the financial world.

And Lord Ashworth, the protagonist, was destined for a particularly unpleasant fate. He was betrothed to Lady Isolde Fairmont, a woman known as the "Ice Queen" for her cold demeanor and sharp wit. The game's storyline was clear: Ashworth was to be jilted by Isolde in favor of a charming, innocent debutante, Miss Abigail something-or-other, leaving him humiliated and heartbroken. A pawn sacrificed in a game of social maneuvering.

The realization slammed into him, cold and brutal. He wasn’t just inhabiting the body of Lord Ashworth; he was trapped in the game. And he knew exactly how the game was supposed to play out.

"Finch," he said, his voice trembling slightly, "what… what year is it?"

Finch raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, the first sign of surprise he had shown. "It is the year of our Lord 1888, my lord."

1888. Victorian England. A world away from his high-tech, fast-paced existence. He sank onto a nearby chaise lounge, his head spinning. He was a twenty-first-century man, a master of the stock market, suddenly thrust into the gilded cage of 19th-century aristocracy.

"Is… is Lady Isolde expected today?" he asked, dread pooling in his stomach.

"Yes, my lord. She is due to arrive this afternoon for tea and the formal announcement of your betrothal."

Lady Isolde. The "Ice Queen." The woman who was supposed to break his heart. He remembered her digital representation in the game: a beautiful, but aloof, woman with piercing grey eyes and an air of unapproachable elegance. The game had portrayed her as a manipulative social climber, cold and calculating, willing to sacrifice love for power and prestige.

But something about that portrayal had always bothered him. There was a hint of vulnerability in her digital eyes, a suggestion of hidden pain beneath her icy facade. He had always suspected there was more to her story than the game revealed.

And now, he had the chance to find out.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He was Ethan Blake, damn it. He wasn't going to be some lovelorn puppet in a ridiculous game. He had built his empire by being proactive, by taking control of situations, by rewriting the rules. And he wasn't about to start playing the victim now.

He stood up, his movements more decisive this time. "Finch, I require a bath. And then, inform me of everything you know about Lady Isolde Fairmont."

Finch bowed slightly. "As you wish, my lord."

As Finch bustled about preparing the bath, Ethan paced the room, his mind racing. He had a distinct advantage: future knowledge. He knew the plot, he knew the players, and he knew the potential pitfalls. He could change things. He could rewrite the story.

But how? And why?

He could easily play along, let Isolde jilt him, and then find his own happiness with Miss Abigail, just as the game dictated. It would be the easiest path, the path of least resistance. But something deep inside him recoiled at the thought. He couldn't simply abandon Isolde to her predetermined fate, especially if he suspected she was more than just a cold-hearted villainess.

There was also a nagging sense of responsibility, a conscience he hadn't realized he possessed until now. He had spent his life manipulating markets, crushing competitors, and prioritizing profit above all else. He had never considered the human cost of his actions.

Perhaps this was a chance to atone. A chance to use his knowledge and skills for good, to protect someone from harm, to rewrite a tragic narrative.

He stepped into the steaming water, the heat easing the tension in his muscles. He closed his eyes, picturing Isolde's face, trying to see past the icy exterior, trying to discern the truth beneath the mask.

He didn't know why, but he felt compelled to protect her. To understand her. To save her from whatever tragic fate the game had in store for her.

He wasn’t going to be jilted. He wasn’t going to be a pawn. He was going to rewrite the rules. He was going to redeem Isolde. And in doing so, he might just redeem himself.

The game was on.