He’s calling again. My eyes flick to my phone, and I feel my chest tighten automatically. I hate that he still has that power over me. To control my body’s reaction. Like I’m on the receiving end of a voodoo doll or something. Sometimes I swear I can feel his hand wrapping around my heart and squeezing it.


    I let out a breath, but my eyes stay locked on my phone, waiting to see if he leaves a voicemail message that my phone will transcribe for me against my will. God, just don’t look, I scold myself. Still, I can’t tear my eyes away. Fortunately, I’d had the foresight to remove his picture from his contact in my phone so I don’t have to see that stupid smiling picture of his face and our cat—no, his cat—staring back at me whenever he blows up my phone. If I was smarter, I’d block him too.


    But I’m stupid. I’m so stupid.


    No, no, I can’t cry. Not now. I have my evening planned out. I’ve got a Korean skincare mask on my face, an overfilled glass of wine on the coffee table, and my favorite book in my lap. Nothing can break me right now. Not even that cheating, life-ruining, beautiful, funny asshole.


    I flip my phone over right as I see the voicemail message start transcribing—Rose, seriously, answer the phone—and open the book to the first page. It’s my comfort book, and I practically have it memorized, but, man, do I need comfort right now. The Tales of Alvione. Sure, it’s a romance book to some (um, me included), but it’s so much more. Fantasy, adventure, dragons, elves, magic—shit, am I a nerd? No, it’s fine. It’s really about a peasant girl who discovers she’s a part of an ancient royal bloodline that leads to her being fought over by two hot guys. Sure, the main character is kind of a silly idiot a lot of the time, but the guys make up for it. It’s the classic mix of the perfect angel and the bad boy, both with backstories that could make even the most cold-hearted person cry.


    And I’m going to read it. Right now. No more procrastinating. No more thinking about stupid Adam. Only Alvione and wine. I flip to the first page and begin again, the words flowing through me as easily as water, as familiar as air.


    “Eliana Marienne Polaris is the true heir to the throne.” King Roburn appeared just as shocked as I, though far more offended. But the court wizard, his hands shaking as he read the results of my blood test, was not deterred. “It is the truth,” he continued, finally looking up at the king and shrinking at the coldness of his gaze. “Your late brother is her father. The blood can only tell the truth, and it speaks to me that she is of your bloodline, Your Majesty.”


    King Roburn scoffed. I had always wondered who my father was, but my mother had taken that secret with her to her grave last year. I was not sure what would have been worse—having known I was the bastard child of the former king or having spent the rest of my life wondering. “And what do you expect then, wizard? That I simply forfeit the kingdom I’ve ruled for fifty years?” King Roburn struggled to stand from the throne in an attempt at a show of strength. He pointed his gnarled hand in my direction, his finger trailing from my worn sandals to my tattered gown—the best one I’d found on short notice when called to the castle. “She’s no better than vermin. What does an orphan girl of meager intelligence and little means know about ruling a nation?”


    But the king had no heirs and so it was established that I would rule upon his death. With the help of advisors and with a proper marriage, they believed I could find my way. And surely, there would be time for me to learn and train in the castle before the king’s passing. Or so we’d all hoped. Not a week later, King Roburn passed peacefully in his sleep, and I found myself shaking in the throne room, the royal scepter in one hand and my other hand raised high. . . .


    My wine is finished. I don’t remember drinking it, but it’s gone. I sigh. If I had the strength, I’d pour myself another, but I find myself sinking down into the couch instead, the book settling down against my chest.


    And when my eyes open, I am in the throne room, the royal scepter in one hand and my other hand raised high. I blink, dazed by the candlelit dark of the hall of Alvione Castle, and find my eyes trailing over the faces of bored nobles and a man I must assume is the court wizard, based on his description. I lock eyes with him. What’s his name again? Not Merlin, but some kind of rip-off, obvious reference to Merlin. “Martin,” I mumble aloud. The royal officiant pauses in reciting the rites, staring at me. Martin’s eyes widen, and he glances from the officiant to me, as if hoping someone will save him from the unexpected callout. “Right?” I continue. “You’re Martin.” I look at the officiant. “I never learned your name. They never said it.”


    The officiant stutters for a moment then manages to say, “This is highly inappropriate, um, Your Majesty, or, um…” Right. Because if I’m not the queen yet officially, am I anyone’s “majesty”?


    “This is clearly a dream,” I say aloud. I look at my hands and wiggle the scepter around like a toy. It’s surprisingly heavy. I place it down on the ground to the sound of nervous gasps from the audience. “Hellooo, I’m lucid dreaming. Let me fly around or something. Or do I need to imagine I have wings first?”


    Martin stumbles onto the stage and takes me by the arm. “A moment, please. My apologies,” he says to the officiant. “I fear Eliana might be ill. Let us postpone this arrangement momentarily while I ensure she’s well. It would be quite tragic to lose two leaders in one week, would it not?”


    The officiant looks too baffled to even respond. As Martin rushes me off the stage and into a side room, I find myself studying him for the first time. “I thought you’d be older,” I babble. “The book describes you as having salt-and-pepper hair but you’re what, thirty? Well, I guess I started reading this series when I was fifteen, so in my mind thirty was probably pretty ancient.”


    Martin spins me around and hisses, “What are you talking about?”


    I blink at him. His dark eyes bore into mine, his face contorted in displeasure. “Oh,” I say softly. “Your eyes are green.” As the candlelight flickers, I catch glimpses of flecks of green and gold, and I can’t help but think he’s rather pretty for being described as a crotchety old wizard. His dark brown hair, streaked with gray, is tied back into a half-hearted bun, strands of it falling down into his face. I’d always imagined him with a long gray beard, but he doesn’t have a beard at all, though his jaw is lined with dark stubble. There was no mistaking him, though, from a first glance because of his signature scar—horribly over-emphasized throughout the book—that runs from his cheekbone down to the side of his mouth. If I remember correctly, it was from the era before the book began, when magic users, elves, and the like were hunted. He’d been sliced by a sword as a child and had shielded himself from death with magic.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    In all the time I’ve been studying him, he’s been sighing, and now he begins pacing about the room. “The mad queen. They’re going to say I put an insane homeless woman into power, and the kingdom will be vulnerable. No, my people will be vulnerable. The plights of trusting those as cursed as I.”


    My eyes travel from him to a pile of apples in a bowl. I reach out and pick one up. Fuck, it feels so real. This is a cool ass dream. “Hey, think fast.” I lob the apple at him, grinning. The apple strikes him in the chest weakly, and he glances back up at me, looking even more confused and pissed off than before.


    “What the hell has happened to you? You’re acting completely deranged. Couldn’t you have picked a better day to completely lose your mind?” He waves his hands at me like a frustrated parent.


    I frown. “This is my dream. You’re supposed to do what I want, at least a little bit. Show me some magic or something. That’ll be cool.”


    Martin scowls. “No. You will get back on stage, and you will act like a real noblewoman, and you will accept the crown. Then you can throw apples at me as much as you would like. But not a moment sooner. Too much is at stake. Did you know that we are on the precipice of war with—”


    “—the kingdom of Ward? Yeah, yeah. Lucky for you, that doesn’t happen because I end up marrying Peter Ward and our kingdoms become united,” I say with a shrug. That’s how the book goes. I’m not an idiot.


    But Martin just lets out a startled laugh. “Prince Peter? In what universe is that a likely union?”


    “This one. Duh.”


    “‘Duh?’”


    “Yeah, duh. I’m getting bored. New dream please.” I look around. I’ve never lucid dreamed before, but I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to have some control over how things go. And Martin’s starting to make me feel stupid. Like I am supposed to play the part of Eliana. But where’s the fun in that?


    “Silence. I’m thinking.” Martin collapses into a nearby chair, his head in his hands. The officiant enters the room hesitantly, and without looking up, Martin snaps, “Another minute, please. I beg you.” The officiant creeps back out onto the stage, a nervous grimace plastered across his face.


    It feels like I’m being silent for forever. I walk over to Martin and squat down in front of him so I can see his face. When his eyes meet mine, a look of surprise flashes across his face before it returns to the now typical scowl.


    “What?” he spits at me.


    “I’m not Eliana.”


    He narrows his eyes at me. “You most certainly are Eliana. Stop this ridiculousness now. I thought we agreed that you would take the throne.”


    “You’re not listening. I’m not Eliana. My name is Rose. I live in twenty-first century America, and you live in the plot of a silly little book I’m reading. None of this is real. So stop stressing out.” I give him a stupid grin. That’ll freak him out.


    But Martin just stares at me for a moment. I can practically see the cogs turning in his head from the way his eyes travel over my face, studying every bit of me as if searching for evidence of a lie on my face. “I don’t care who you think you are,” he says finally. “You’re getting back out there and accepting the crown and then we will deal with this nonsense later.”


    “Or what?”


    His brows lower into a fierce glare that actually kind of scares me for a second. “Or else you’ll doom us all, ‘silly little book’ or not.” It’s my turn to study him. These problems are real for him. This world is real for him. This dream—this dream feels… real.


    “Alright. I know what to do. Bring me back out there. I won’t fuck this up for you. Promise.” I hold out my pinkie. He just looks at me.


    “You are strange.” He stands up, ignoring me, and walks over to the door. “Then go. Do what you’re meant to and nothing else.”


    I sigh and stand up again, stretching. “Alright.” Time to test my knowledge of The Tales of Alvione.


    When I return to the stage, I hear the unmistakable sound of nobles whispering and then falling dead silent. I get back into position. Something feels off. Oh yeah. I pick the scepter up off the ground and hold it as I’m supposed to, or at least how Eliana is supposed to. I make eye contact with the officiant, who’s staring at me like I might suddenly burst into flames. “Well, continue,” I say dryly.


    And so he does. I, “Eliana,” am now the queen of Alvione.


    I wake with a start at three in the morning, overwhelmed with the feeling that I gotta puke. Shit, did I drink the wine that fast? I don’t know why I’m surprised. I always sucked at holding down alcohol of any kind.


    I stumble over to my bathroom and lean over the toilet, doing that horrible half-retching thing that starts what will inevitably be a nasty fucking puke.


    Once I’m done throwing up like a college kid on spring break, I trudge back into my living room and chug the glass of water I’d completely ignored several hours ago when I was drinking. The book is on the floor, likely having slid off my chest when I lurched awake. Stupid book. Stupid Martin. So damn serious. Can’t even have fun in a dream.


    With a loud sigh directed at no one but myself, I stomp over to the book and pick it up off the floor. I finger through the pages, trying to get back to where I’d left off.


    What the fuck?


    The book is different. I feel as though my heart has stopped beating or maybe I’ve stopped breathing or maybe both because in the book, cutting in between the part where Eliana picks up the scepter and where she reads the rites to become queen is me. My dream.


    “No shot,” I hear myself mutter aloud. I flip through the pages. My innermost thoughts, the apple, Martin yelling at me, it’s all there, splayed out on the page like some sort of awful isekai fanfiction. I run my fingers over the ink and tug at the pages, but the ink is dry and the pages are woven into the book as if they’ve always been there. No way. No fucking way. But . . . what does this mean? Does that mean it was real? Or . . .


    My mouth feels dry, still sour and acidic from puking, but dry like I hadn’t just chugged a glass of water. When I fall asleep again, will I go back? Will I ever have another normal dream ever again? Am I real?


    No, that’s stupid. Of course I’m real. They’re the fake ones. They’re in a—


    Book. I’m in the book.


    Man, do I need another fucking drink.