This Cannot Be Happening. Seriously?

"It's eat or be eaten, here, Diane," Mister Oberfell said, as if Diane hadn't heard that exact phrase from him hundreds of times. "It's not satisfying, convincing these witnesses not to testify—"

"It's bribery and witness tampering, with all due respect. Sir," Diane added on, as an afterthought.

Oberfell laughed— she heard it as a harsh stab of static through her phone's speaker. "It's just a conversation. That's all. Just a talk between you and her, woman to woman. And think about it: you're helping her, aren't you? She needs help paying rent and for the kid, and you're just a… a resource. Really, it's just like settling out of court."

Diane sighed, staring out of her apartment window at the city below her. Lit windows twinkled in the night, little stars tethered to the ground. The view was beautiful, until she factored in how she got the money to pay for it. "Mister Oberfell, this is—"

"This is a step to becoming partner."

Her next words caught in her throat. "A step?" Another wave of dizziness hit her, now paired with a headache. She didn't know if it was the exhaustion or the guilt, at this point. "Sir, I've been working for you for the better part of a decade, and you know how many high profile cases I've won. Do you have any idea how many overnights I've had in the last year? I—" exactly how many sacrifices had she made at this point? And now Oberfell wanted her to risk her entire career to shut up some witness? She sighed. "Exactly how many more 'steps' do you expect me to take?"

Silence. Oberfell stayed quiet— she knew this tactic. Police used it in interrogations, and Oberfell of Oberfell & Co. Law used it to scratch at people's anxieties until they broke. "With all due respect," Diane finally uttered, voice cold, "I'm waiting on an answer, Sir."

Laughter on the other side of the line. That bastard. "You're unbelievably close to the top, Lancaster," he used her last name to create distance; give himself enough room to breathe. "I just need you to do this one thing, and then good news will be headed your way. Do you understand me?"

So she had to toss away her morals along with her health to make it to partner at her law firm. Okay. Alright. Fine. "I understand, Sir."

"Good. Now get some rest. You really looked like shit today."

Diane grit her teeth. "Yes, Sir. Good night." She ended the call and pressed her forehead against the glass of the window, cold against her skin.

"You done?" Tom, Diane's dipshit brother, asked from another room.

She sighed again. It probably wouldn't be the last time that night. "Yeah, I'm done."

"Cool. So…" Diane knew that tone of voice. "I'm guessing you're gonna do something reprehensible again?"

God dammit. "Tom, I haven't slept for more than four hours in the last five days. Does this look like the time to discuss my career?"

Unbothered by Diane's tone of voice, Tom just shrugged. "Sounds like your regular schedule."

"I'm not kidding." Another sigh. If nothing else, Diane was consistent in those. "Can we just play your stupid fucking FPS and enjoy the evening?" 

Tom grinned. "Gave up the fight for your cringe otome games?"

"Only for tonight." Diane staggered into the living room, feeling… strange. Her fingers felt numb. "Now come on, just— play something." She fell into her chair and tilted her head back. The dizziness only got worse. Tom followed her slowly, circling the room. Another oddity. "Are we gonna hang out or not?"

A beat of silence. "You seem like you don't feel too hot."

Seriously? "Yeah, it's my regular schedule," Diane spat, turning to look toward her television. Turned off, it was just a big black mirror showing Tom, hoodie and all, standing to the side. Watching her. "Once I'm partner things won't be this hectic, but in the meantime—" she shrugged, "Well, there's a reason why I've got that life insurance policy," she joked. Never hurt to try and add a little levity. Right?

"Yeah," Tom answered, voice cold. "Dad and I appreciate it."

Something was wrong. Diane craned her neck toward her brother with, "Okay, Tom, what's the pr—" Oh. Shit. A flash of pain shot through her spine, hot and cold all at once.

The dizziness got so much worse. "Tom," she slurred, in a voice that couldn't be her own. Was she having a stroke? "Hospital—"

Tom was in front of her, prodding at her eyelids; prying them open for some kind of test? She didn't know. "I think you're having a stroke," he said, and Diane had to strain to hear him. His voice felt so— muddled. Like she was underwater. "Can't say I didn't warn you about overworking yourself."

Why was he so calm? Why wasn't he calling 911? "Tom?" Why did she sound so pathetic?

"Listen, Di, I didn't do this to you." What? What was he saying? He was smiling. Why would Tom be smiling in a situation like this. Panic started to bubble in her chest and the numbness crept up her arms. "But I gotta say, this is really good timing."

"Tom?" Was this because of the life insurance?

Tom brushed a lock of her hair back behind her ear, an unwelcome intimacy. They had never been a touchy feely family. "Remember how I told you that my startup couldn't find investors?" he cooed, sickly sweet, and no fucking way. "The way you've been living I expected something like this to happen, but maybe not this quick." He smiled, gently, and in that moment all Diane could see in him was their piece of shit dad. "You really don't take good care of yourself, huh."

Her tongue felt heavy. She'd never felt this exhausted before, but still she croaked out a pitiful, "Tom." Was he just going to leave her like this?

Was she going to die?

Finally Tom removed his hand from her hair. He walked toward the door to her apartment, fluttering his fingers in a wave goodbye. "Thank you, my angel investor," he smiled.

And he turned away, grinning.

Everything went dark.

________

She was in bed, that much was obvious. The sheets were soft to the touch, and she could hear some distant chatter. She gulped down some spit, and it felt like swallowing sandpaper— exactly how long was she out?

Wait. She'd had a stroke. Tom left her there— that motherfucker. Okay. She was probably in a hospital— a nice one, going off of the softness of the sheets— so she'd just have to get up, cancel the life insurance policy, and call into work to see what she'd missed.

That was doable. She licked her lips, finding them crusty and dry. Shit. "Water," she groaned, her voice the roughest she'd ever heard it. What exactly did she do while she was out, gargle gravel? Ugh. She pried her eyes open to see some kind of canopy above her.

Okay, a really nice hospital. "Water," she moaned, because holy shit, she was dehydrated. Did they not even have her on an IV?

"My lady!" some nurse called, and it took entirely too much energy for Diane to turn her head and look at— some bitch in a maid outfit? At least she was pouring some water into a glass. "I'm so glad you're alright-- Samantha's already gone to inform His Grace about your recovery," she rambled, finally handing over the goddamned glass of water.

"Thanks," Diane managed, and for whatever reason the maid dropped the glass. It shattered on the floor. God dammit.

"I-- I am so sorry, my lady, I've just-- it's the first time--" the bitch in the maid outfit chattered on, frantically wiping up water and glass shards.

"It's fine. Just. Water, please, fast." Diane's throat hurt, and talking certainly wasn't helping.

Distantly, Diane heard some kind of-- whispering? What the fuck was going on, here? Finally another glass of water was handed to her. Diane gingerly sat up and gulped it down in several seconds, not caring about the spillover. Water dried.

The nurse in the maid outfit gasped. "My lady, are you quite alright?"

Okay. Her throat felt a little better-- now to deal with the secondary nuisance. "Ma'am, I need you to stop calling me your 'lady,' and I'd like an explanation about where exactly I am. Is this a hospital?" Her voice still didn't sound quite right, but who knew how long she'd been out? "Also, I'd like to know how long I've been unconscious."

The woman in the tacky outfit stared at Diane, slack-jawed. "I-- my l-- Young Miss, you're at home. You've been unconscious for two weeks after contracting Selmaria. You had a very high fever, and--"

"Selmaria," Diane echoed, voice dripping with disbelief. What exactly was that? Sighing, she forced herself to sit up straight-- and out of nowhere the maid placed pillows behind her back. "Okay, I'm fine, thanks-- and can you please have another nurse come so we can discuss this? With all due respect, your fetish outfit has no place here."

The woman just stared at Diane, shocked. "My lady, this--" she looked down at her maid's outfit, which was, admittedly, longer and more conservative than most fetish maid uniforms Diane had come across. "This is my uniform. Do you want to change it? That would be up to your father--"

Suddenly it all came together. Why she was stuck in some bizarre "home" being taken care of by a 'maid.' "Did my father put you up to this?" No, no-- this wasn't the most pressing issue. "I need a phone. I have several calls to make-- can you please at least get me that?"

The woman just stared at her, terrified. "Um," she managed, near tears and voice shaking, "Can you please... um. Tell me what exactly a 'phone' looks like? I can request that some merchants bring one for you, but I don't-- I don't know what exactly that is."

What the fuck. What the actual fuck. Was Diane talking to some kind of shut in? Did her father use the money she sent him to start a cult? She took a deep breath. "What is your name?"

"I--" the maid stuttered, using the back of her hand to swipe away a tear, "My name is Lydia, My Lady. I've had the pleasure of serving you for past seven years."

Okay. That answered one question and raised several more. "You've been... serving me," Diane repeated, "For seven years?" Was she on a prank show? What exactly was this?

"Y-yes, Ma'am. I've served you since you were thirteen."

Hold up. Diane felt her eyebrows crawl toward her hairline. "And going by that math, I'm now 20 years old." Diane was 35. If nothing else she knew she could not pass for a 20 year old, not at this time in her life. "Can you please get me a mirror?"

"Of course!" and off Lydia went, scrambling to grab a mirror. Meanwhile, Diane stared down at her hands-- they did look different. Her fingers were longer, and her nails more... almond-shaped. Something was wrong.

Back Lydia came, armed with a handheld mirror, smiling with an obvious desperation behind the eyes. "My l-- Young Miss, the mirror you requested. The chef will also be preparing a light soup for you to enjoy within the next half hour. It's made with--"

Lydia kept prattling on while Diane stared at a face in the mirror that was not her own. She pulled at her nose, feeling the tug. She pinched her cheeks and felt the distance between her teeth and the fat of her cheek.

Incredible.

Diane had read about this kind of thing in webnovels, sure, but-- this wasn't something that happened in real life. People didn't just. Wake up in other bodies, in whole other worlds.

Holy shit. She'd been isekai'd.

Okay. Alright. She could handle this. She was probably just dreaming and in an ambulance on her way to some real, legitimate medical care. With an IV bag, and everything. "I'm going back to bed." She set the mirror down on her bed sheet and rolled onto her side. She'd wake up at home like nothing happened, and then send her jackass brother straight to jail for attempted manslaughter.

Easy.