Chapter 4 This Is Getting Dangerous
Arielle escaped the gym like her life depended on it.
She didn’t run—she walked with dignity—but inside, her soul was screaming.
Jesus Christ of premium novels, she thought.
Why are they handsome like this? Why is this house full of abs? Why am I fighting my own eyeballs?
She made it back to the hallway and leaned lightly against the wall, exhaling.
“This world is dangerous,” she muttered.
Very dangerous.
Arielle adjusted her robe and tried to regain composure. She was a mother here. A tragic one, yes, but still a mother. She was not supposed to be flustered because her fictional sons had gym bodies carved by the gods.
Yet—
Her phone buzzed again.
She glanced down.
Another notification.
Allowance credited.
Shopping budget refreshed.
Arielle’s panic slowly melted into disbelief.
“…They’re serious.”
She scrolled.
Cards. Limits. Daily spending caps that looked like typos. Weekly allowances that could buy a house back in her old world.
Her lips parted.
“So all those scenes where the FL cried about money…” she whispered, “…were completely unnecessary.”
A small laugh escaped her.
Okay. Maybe this transmigration wouldn’t be so bad.
She headed downstairs, letting herself take in the house properly this time. The space felt alive—warm, expensive, and strangely aware of her presence. Staff greeted her politely, but not stiffly. It was clear this body wasn’t neglected.
That… surprised her.
She settled into the living room, phone in hand, pretending to scroll while secretly thinking.
In the original story, Arielle Vale was cold. Distant. Always sick. Always tired. The sons grew up emotionally starved.
But—
Why do they look at me like that now?
Like they were afraid she might disappear.
Footsteps approached.
Darian appeared first, hair still damp, wearing a casual T-shirt that clung unfairly to his shoulders. He paused when he saw her.
“You’re not resting,” he said gently.
Arielle blinked. “I am resting. This is… premium resting.”
He smiled slightly and sat across from her.
Rhett followed shortly after, carrying a glass of juice and placing it beside her without a word.
Then the third son Zayden leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, observing her like he was memorizing her.
Again.
Too much attention.
Arielle shifted.
“…Do you all not have work?” she asked, half-joking.
Emrys replied calmly, “We cleared our schedules.”
Her fingers tightened around her phone.
“For me?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Silence.
Darian’s gaze softened. “Of course.”
That word again.
Of course.
Something tugged in her chest—unfamiliar, uncomfortable.
In the novel, this woman died early. Quietly. Regretfully. Alone.
Is this the part where the plot starts going off-script? she wondered.
She smiled awkwardly. “You don’t need to hover. I’m not… fragile.”
Rhett tilted his head slightly. “You fainted last week.”
Arielle froze.
“I did?”
“Yes,” the third son said calmly. “You told us not to worry.”
Her mind raced.
I don’t remember that.
No—the original owner did.
Ah.
Adapted memories.
Her smile faltered for half a second before she recovered, nodding. “Right. That.”
The atmosphere shifted—subtle, heavy.
Darian leaned forward slightly. “You’re different today.”
Her heart skipped.
“…Different how?”
He studied her face, eyes sharp but not accusing. “You’re warmer.”
Zayden added quietly, “You look happier.”
Arielle laughed nervously. “Wow. So I’m being diagnosed now?”
But inside—
Oh no.
This was bad.
Very bad.