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.

Jacquelin's voice pierced through the heavy oak door of the bedroom, sharp and dripping with venom.

"Dara! Get your lazy self down here right now!"

The bathroom door clicked open. Dara stepped out, her face still slightly flushed, adjusting the belt of Donavon's silk robe.

She looked at Donavon, who was staring at the bedroom door with a deep frown.

"That's your mother," Dara said, her voice flat and commanding. "Go deal with her."

Donavon crossed his arms. "Jacquelin doesn't scream like a banshee. She's a Monroe. She has class."

Dara let out a dark, humorless chuckle. "Go downstairs and see her 'class' for yourself."

Donavon tightened the sash of his lace nightgown. He squared his shoulders, trying to project his usual intimidating CEO aura, completely forgetting he was currently a five-foot-five woman.

He opened the door and walked to the edge of the second-floor balcony, looking down into the grand foyer.

Below, Jacquelin was pacing furiously. Several expensive evening gowns were thrown carelessly onto the marble floor. Three maids stood against the wall, trembling.

Jacquelin looked up and locked eyes with him.

"There you are, you useless parasite!" Jacquelin shrieked. "The charity gala is in two days, and none of my dresses are pressed! What exactly do you do all day besides leech off my son?"

Donavon stood frozen at the top of the stairs. His stomach dropped.

He had never heard Jacquelin use language like this. Around him, she was always soft-spoken, elegant, the picture of old-money grace.

Jacquelin took his silence for her usual submissive fear. She stomped up the sweeping staircase, her heels clicking aggressively until she was standing right in front of him.

She raised a hand with blood-red nails and jammed her index finger hard into Donavon's collarbone.

The physical strike sent a shockwave of pure, lethal instinct through Donavon's brain. His eyes went dead and black.

Jacquelin didn't notice the shift. She leaned in, her breath smelling of bitter coffee.

"You are nothing but a barren waste of space," she hissed. "Adalynn is back. Donavon is going to throw you out like the trash you are, and I am going to throw a party the day you leave."

Donavon stared at her. The words echoed in his ears.

A sickening realization washed over him. This was what Dara had been living with for three years. This suffocating, vicious abuse, happening right under his roof, while he ignored her.

A violent, burning rage ignited in his chest. Not because he was being insulted, but because he had been blind.

Jacquelin saw the icy, unyielding glare in her daughter-in-law's eyes. A flicker of unease crossed her face.

To reassert her dominance, Jacquelin raised her hand high, aiming a vicious slap right at Donavon's cheek.

The moment her hand descended, Donavon reacted.

In a flash of pure, unadulterated instinct, he violently threw his left hand up. He snatched her descending wrist mid-air with shocking, desperate force. The sudden, brutal grip dug deep into her skin, fueled by nothing but raw anger.

The sudden movement yanked the burned skin on his right hand. A sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips, but he didn't let go. He squeezed harder.

Jacquelin let out a high-pitched squeal of pain. "Let go of me! You're hurting me!"

Donavon leaned in close, his voice dropping into a terrifying, lethal whisper. "Keep your hands off me."

Jacquelin's eyes widened in absolute horror. She couldn't comprehend how this weak, pathetic girl suddenly had a grip like iron.

Down the hall, a guest room door swung open.

Keven stepped out, rubbing his eyes. He saw the scene at the top of the stairs.

"Hey!" Keven roared, his face turning red. "You crazy bitch, get your hands off my mother!"

He balled his hands into fists and charged down the hallway, aiming straight for Donavon.