All for My Exclusive Love

When I woke, gilded sunlight streamed through the huge floor-to-ceiling window, slanting gently onto the large bed draped in ivory-white silk sheets. My fingertips traced the sheets; their texture was exquisitely fine, almost indulgent—something I had never experienced before. Turning my eyes around, I found myself in an entirely unfamiliar, opulent room. The walls were covered with pale gray fabric wallpaper, decorated with several abstract paintings of profound mood; a floor lamp in the corner cast a warm glow, and a delicate crystal vase holding fresh white roses rested on the bedside table. The reflection in the mirror wore a delicate, understated makeup, her brows and eyes exquisitely drawn like a work of art. She was clad in a soft silk nightgown, while fragments of memories that weren't mine flooded my mind like relentless waves. I am not Blair. At least, I wasn't originally. A transmigration—something I had only seen in novels—was happening to me in reality. The original host was named Blair, deemed the "Chosen One" in this world. Four men at the apex of the hierarchy inexplicably cherished her deeply. The first was Peter Gould, a legend in the medical field, whose surgical knife had saved countless lives, yet with her, he was unfathomably gentle. He always says that my body is weak and needs careful tending, even requiring me to notify him in advance before going for a walk. The second is Sam Sheen, my childhood sweetheart. When we were kids, we used to play under the loquat tree in the old courtyard. He would climb the tree to pick the sweetest loquats for me and defend me whenever other children bullied me. That flourishing loquat tree carries the purest memories of the original host's childhood and became his reason to keep me tethered. He often said, "The loquat tree bears fruit every year; you should always stay where I can see you." The third is Simon Lory, renowned for his keen insight and sharp writing. The world through his lens is vivid and piercing, having revealed countless social injustices. He has an extreme pursuit of truth, yet when it comes to me, he harbors an obsession that no one else can understand. To recover a diary the original host carelessly lost, he once, without hesitation, plunged into the icy, bone-chilling river in the dead of winter. Soaked to the skin, he retrieved the diary, then suffered a high fever for several days, yet only smiled as he handed it back to the original host, saying, "Fortunately, I found it."