Not Your Average Countess

I was a zombie, fueled by lukewarm takeout and dreams of sleep.

As a junior associate at a top New York law firm, my life was a blur of billable hours, 72-hour work marathons, and the soul-crushing weight of corporate expectations.

After preparing for a merger that felt like a lifetime, I finally crumbled, face-planting onto a stack of legal briefs.

But when I woke up, the world was a metallic blur, cold and unyielding.

Panic surged, yet I found no lungs to scream.

I was trapped, my entire consciousness crammed inside a high-end, silver tie clip, sitting on a mahogany desk.

My new owner? Ethan Lester, the notorious bad-boy heir, whose tabloid exploits I usually scrolled past during my five minutes of daily downtime.