The veins on the back of Donavon's hand bulged as he gripped the silver spoon. He scooped up a portion of the freezing, congealed soup and shoved it into his mouth.

The cold, fishy liquid slid down his throat. His expression remained completely blank, his breathing steady without the slightest disruption, though the disgust and murderous intent in his eyes deepened. The icy, fishy taste was revolting, but he swallowed it down with the absolute, chilling control of a man who refused to show weakness.

Dara stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She watched him with dead eyes. There was no pity in her posture, only a chilling detachment.

Donavon glared up at her, his eyes dark and threatening, silently daring her to call off this absurd humiliation.

Dara didn't blink. She tapped her index finger against the wooden table once. Keep going.

The silence in the dining room was suffocating. The only sound was the mechanical, forced chewing as Donavon forced down the cold, hard vegetables.

Ten minutes later, the spoon scraped against the bottom of the empty bowl.

Donavon shoved the porcelain dish away so hard it clattered against the water glass.

He snatched his napkin, wiping his mouth with brutal force. "Sign it," he rasped, his voice thick with nausea.

Dara didn't hesitate. She pressed the pen to the paper and signed her elegant, looping signature on the bottom of the last two pages.

She slid one copy across the table to him. She picked up the trust fund check and folded it into her pocket.

"I'll be out of the estate first thing tomorrow morning," she said, her voice flat.

She turned and walked toward the grand staircase. She didn't look back.

Donavon stared at her retreating back. A sudden, sharp spike of irritation flared in his chest, but he blamed it on the churning acid in his stomach.

Hours later, the estate was pitch black.

Dara lay on the far left edge of the massive King-size bed in the master bedroom.

She stared blankly at the ceiling. The burn on her right hand throbbed with a relentless, burning rhythm. A single tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and soaked into the pillowcase.

Thirty minutes later, the bedroom door clicked open.

Donavon walked in, radiating the freezing chill of a cold shower.

He pulled back the heavy duvet and lay down on the far right edge of the bed. The physical distance between them was vast enough to park a car in.

The room was dead silent, save for the low hum of the central air conditioning. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.

Donavon's stomach rolled violently from the cold seafood. He clenched his jaw, forcing his breathing to remain steady so he wouldn't make a sound.

Dara heard the slight hitch in his breathing. She closed her eyes and turned her back to him. She didn't care anymore.

Outside, the wind began to howl. A rare, violent Long Island summer thunderstorm rolled in.

Thunder shook the glass panes of the windows. Lightning flashed, casting harsh, skeletal shadows across the bedroom walls.

Exhausted by anger, pain, and physical sickness, both of them finally slipped into a heavy, unnatural sleep.

At 3:00 AM, a blindingly bright sphere of ball lightning struck the main transformer just outside the estate gates.

The digital clock on the nightstand instantly went black. A bizarre, heavy static charge flooded the bedroom, making the hairs on their arms stand up.

In her sleep, Dara's brow furrowed. A terrifying sensation of weightlessness hit her, as if her very consciousness was being violently ripped from her spine.

At the exact same moment, Donavon's large body jerked with a sharp, involuntary muscle spasm.

In the pitch-black room, their breathing patterns slowly synchronized, rising and falling in perfect unison.

The storm outside began to die down. The estate's backup generator kicked on with a deep, vibrating hum.

Dawn broke, sending a thin sliver of gray light through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains, landing directly on the two figures in the bed.

At 7:00 AM, the low-frequency vibration of the backup generator pulled Dara from a deep sleep.

She groaned, trying to roll over, but her body felt wrong. It felt incredibly heavy, like her bones had been filled with lead. The muscles in her shoulders and back were tight, thick, and entirely unfamiliar.

Still half-asleep, she reached out to grab her phone from the nightstand.

Her arm extended much further than it should have.

Her hand slammed into the heavy brass lamp, knocking it over with a loud crash. The force behind the movement was terrifying.

Dara's eyes snapped open. The ceiling looked closer than usual. Her center of gravity was completely off.

She lowered her chin and looked at her hand.

It wasn't her hand.

She was staring at a massive, calloused palm with thick knuckles and faint, white scars scattered across the skin.

Dara's heart stopped. She sucked in a frantic breath to scream, but the sound that ripped from her throat was a deep, gravelly male baritone.

She kicked the silk duvet off in absolute panic.

She was looking down at a broad, heavily muscled male chest covered in faded laceration scars.

Her brain short-circuited. She scrambled backward, falling off the edge of the mattress. The tall, heavy body hit the floor hard, her limbs tangling awkwardly because she didn't know how to control the length of her own legs.

She crawled frantically across the carpet and lunged into the attached master bathroom, gripping the edges of the marble sink.

She looked up into the mirror.

Donavon Monroe's cold, chiseled face stared back at her, his eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated terror.

Dara raised a shaking hand to her cheek. The man in the mirror did the exact same thing.

"Oh my god!" Dara screamed. The deep bass of her voice bounced off the bathroom tiles.

On the other side of the bedroom, the deep male scream jolted Donavon awake.

His combat instincts flared instantly. He attempted to execute a tactical kip-up to spring out of bed and into a defensive stance.

But the body he was in lacked the explosive muscle mass he expected. His center of gravity failed him entirely.

His feet tangled in the sheets, and he pitched forward, face-planting hard into the thick carpet.

A high-pitched, feminine gasp escaped his lips.

Donavon froze on the floor. He reached up to touch his throat. His Adam's apple was gone. The skin was smooth and delicate.

He looked down. He was wearing a thin French lace nightgown. He saw the soft curve of breasts pressing against the fabric.

The iron-clad psychological control of a former elite mercenary shattered into a million pieces.

He scrambled to his feet, his balance completely off, and sprinted toward the bathroom.

He shoved the bathroom door open.

Donavon (in Dara's body) and Dara (in Donavon's body) stood face-to-face.

They stared at each other across three feet of marble floor. The air in the room turned to solid ice.

Donavon spoke first. His new voice was high, breathless, and shaking with rage. "What the hell did you do to me?"

Dara stepped forward, her new massive frame towering over him. "That's what I want to ask you! You psychopath!"

Donavon lunged forward, instinctively trying to grab her by the collar to slam her against the wall.

But he was a full head shorter now. His hands merely grazed her chest.

Dara flinched, stepping backward to avoid the attack. Her heavy heel caught the edge of a glass shelving unit.

The entire shelf tipped over. Expensive glass bottles of cologne and serum shattered across the floor with a deafening crash.

Donavon stared at his own massive, lethal body stumbling around like a clumsy idiot trying to avoid glass shards. It was the most absurd thing he had ever seen.

Dara looked down at the delicate, beautiful woman standing in front of her. The woman's eyes were red and watering-a physiological reaction to the adrenaline spike that Donavon couldn't control in this new body.

They both stopped moving. The horrifying reality settled into their bones.

This wasn't a hallucination. They were trapped in each other's bodies.

Donavon forced air into his smaller, tighter lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut, demanding his racing pulse to slow down.

He spun around, walking out of the bathroom and over to the nightstand. He grabbed Dara's phone.

"I'm calling my private psychiatrist," Donavon said, his fingers flying across the screen. "We need a full neurological scan and a toxicology test immediately."

Dara closed the distance in two massive strides. She reached down and snatched the phone right out of his hands.

"Are you insane?" Dara growled, the deep vibration of Donavon's voice rumbling in her chest. "Do you want to be locked in a psych ward?"

Donavon glared up at her, crossing his arms over his chest. "We have been poisoned or exposed to a neurotoxin. We need medical intervention."

Dara let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Think about it. If the CEO of the Monroe Corporation walks into a hospital and tells a doctor he woke up as his wife..."

She leaned down, getting right in his face. "The Board of Directors will trigger the incapacity clause within twenty-four hours. They will strip you of your title, your shares, and your power."

Donavon froze. His jaw locked.

He knew she was right. The vultures on the board had been waiting for three years for him to show a single sign of mental instability.

"Fine," Donavon hissed through his teeth. "What do you suggest? We signed divorce papers last night."

Dara looked at the desk where the documents still sat. A complicated knot formed in her stomach.

"We maintain the status quo," Dara said firmly. "Until we figure out how to reverse this, no one can know. We pretend everything is normal."

Donavon's eyes narrowed in deep suspicion. "Is this some kind of trick? A way to invalidate the divorce?"

Dara threw her hands up in the air. "Look at me! Do you think I am enjoying being trapped inside the body of a muscle-bound asshole?"

Donavon felt a sudden, bizarre flush of heat hit his cheeks. He instinctively crossed his arms tighter, suddenly hyper-aware of the lack of clothing on his new chest.

"If we do this," Donavon said, his tone shifting into pure business mode, "we sign an NDA. Right now."

He marched over to the desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and began writing rapidly. He drafted a brutal, ironclad Non-Disclosure Agreement, forbidding either of them from damaging the other's reputation or assets.

He shoved the paper toward Dara.

Dara picked up the pen. She tried to sign Donavon's name, but her hand felt too large and clumsy. The signature came out looking like a jagged mess.

Donavon stared at the paper, horrified. "You need to practice that. If you sign a corporate document like that, I'll be investigated for fraud."

"And you," Dara shot back, "need to practice acting like a woman who just got kicked to the curb."

Before Donavon could reply, a sharp, intense pressure hit Dara's lower abdomen.

Her face went completely blank. She squeezed her thighs together, shifting her weight awkwardly.

Donavon noticed the movement. He looked at her, and a slow, wicked smirk spread across his face.

"Need help? Or have you completely forgotten the basic anatomy of your own body?" Donavon asked, his voice dripping with a cold, condescending edge that belonged in a hostile boardroom.

Dara's face burned with humiliation. She spun around and practically ran back into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it.

A series of loud thuds and muffled curses echoed through the door.

Donavon stood in the bedroom, shaking his head. Suddenly, a sharp, agonizing pain flared across the back of his right hand.

He hissed, looking down.

The gauze had slipped. A massive cluster of angry, fluid-filled blisters covered the skin, surrounded by dark red inflammation.

Donavon's breath hitched. He stared at the severe burn, a flash of memory hitting him-Dara standing in the dining room last night, her hand trembling as she poured his water. He had completely ignored it.

Before he could process the guilt twisting in his gut, a shrill, furious voice echoed from the first floor.

It was Jacquelin. And she was screaming Dara's name.