I always thought I'd die dramatically.
Saving a child from a burning building. Stopping a runaway car. Maybe even a mysterious illness that would give me time to say goodbye.
Reality was far less kind.
I died because I slipped on wet bathroom tiles, cracked my skull, and bled out like a fool.
One minute, I was clutching my signed copy of The Snow Pearl, rereading for the hundredth time the tragic scene where the masked Empress crushed the delicate heroine's spirit. The next, I was staring at the ceiling, the world tilting sideways, my vision filling with crimson.
As the darkness crept in, my last thought wasn't of family or regrets.
It was her—the Empress of Arovia.
The villainess I despised.
The woman who had ruined the pure, lovely heroine's life.
"If I could be there... I would destroy you myself."
That was my final thought. Bitter. Childish.
And ironic.
Because when I opened my eyes, I was not dead.
At least, not in the way I expected.
I gasped, jolting upright—only to be met with a crushing weight on my chest and the suffocating thickness of embroidered silk blankets. My hands—so pale, delicate, and not my own—clutched the sheets.
Where... am I?
The room was a palace of shadows and luxury. Towering obsidian pillars stretched toward a ceiling painted with constellations. A fire roared in an ornate hearth, casting flickering golden light over walls draped in blood-red velvet.
Every inch screamed decadence—and power.
A soft clinking noise made me look down.
Chains.
Thin, delicate chains wrapped around my wrists, gilded and beautiful, more a statement than a restraint.
"Your Majesty?"
A low, velvety voice murmured.
I turned sharply toward the sound. A man stood near the foot of the bed—tall, graceful, dressed in dark formal wear embroidered with silver thread. His face was like a blade, sharp and coldly beautiful. His dark hair was slicked back, his gloved hands folded neatly before him.
His piercing, pale blue eyes watched me with unwavering attention.
I knew him.
I knew that face.
Lucien Thorne.
The Empress's infamous personal attendant.
Loyal. Deadly. Feared.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
This wasn't a dream.
This was Arovia.
And I…
I was sitting in the body of the woman I had hated with all my heart.
I scrambled off the bed, nearly tangling in the heavy layers of my black and silver gown. I stumbled toward a tall, polished mirror looming beside the fireplace.
And there she was.
No, I was.
The woman in the mirror was impossibly beautiful. A face like porcelain. Full lips painted wine-red. A figure that curved like a sin, draped in darkness and jewels.
But what drew my breath away—what made my knees weaken—was the jeweled black mask that covered half my face, leaving only one ice-cold golden eye exposed.
The Empress.
The Villainess.
The tyrant of The Snow Pearl.
My stomach twisted violently.
"Your Majesty," Lucien said again, low and composed. "You have been unwell. Shall I summon the royal physician?"
Unwell?
Of course I was unwell!
I had died. Been reincarnated. Thrown into the body of the most hated woman in fictional history!
I opened my mouth to scream, to deny, to beg the universe to fix this.
But nothing came out.
Because deep down, I knew—
This was real.
I was no longer the ordinary girl clutching a fantasy book in her dingy apartment.
I was the ruler of the Twilight Throne.
I was the Empress.
The hours that followed blurred into a nightmare.
Lucien, calm and precise, explained that I had collapsed during the annual Winter Court Gathering—an event that, in the book, marked the beginning of the heroine's rise and the villainess's slow downfall.
The Court was in an uproar. Rumors swirled like a storm: that I was ill, cursed, mad.
I wanted to scream. To rip off the mask, to cry out that I was not this woman, that there had been some mistake.
But I couldn't.
Because the moment I looked into Lucien's eyes—sharp, knowing—I understood one thing:
In this world, weakness was death.
So I did what the Empress would have done.
I lifted my chin. Straightened my spine.
"I will see the Court," I said, voice hoarse but steady.
Lucien blinked, just once—a flicker of surprise.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
Two days later, I was seated on a blackened silver throne, high above the gathered nobles.
Hundreds of glittering eyes stared up at me—some fearful, some curious, some full of naked malice.
They whispered behind jeweled fans.
The Empress is dying.
The Empress has gone mad.
The Empress's boy-toys have abandoned her.
Their thoughts dripped like poison.
I should have been angry.
Instead, I was frozen.
Because among the sea of faces below, I spotted her.
The heroine.
Elyra of House Vintrel.
She was everything I remembered. Soft golden hair. Wide, innocent blue eyes. A trembling, delicate figure draped in modest, shimmering white.
The court shifted, making way for her—like she was a blessing made flesh.
My heart clenched.
This was the girl I had worshipped?
This was the pure, shining light of The Snow Pearl?
She curtsied deeply, her slender form trembling.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice as soft as a dove's wing. "I offer my deepest wishes for your recovery."
The court murmured approvingly. Such grace. Such kindness.
I wanted to believe it.
I wanted to believe that Elyra was the saint the book had promised.
But then—
Then I saw it.
The briefest flicker.
A glint in her eye.
Cold. Calculating.
And the tiniest smirk—gone before anyone but I could have seen it.
My stomach twisted.
No. It must be my imagination.
But was it?
Was it really?
I looked at the gathered nobles again. I looked at the sycophants, the vultures dressed in silk and gold. I looked at Lucien, standing silently at my side like a blade ready to strike.
And for the first time since waking in this nightmare, I wondered:
Had I been wrong?
Had I misjudged the villain and the heroine all along?
Had I, in my blind worship of a story, believed a lie?
My fingers tightened on the armrest of my throne.
No.
I would not make the same mistake again.
If I was truly the Empress now—
If I was truly the villainess of this world—
Then I would find out the truth.
No matter what it cost.
And if Elyra was hiding knives behind her sweet smiles—
Well.
I was no longer the fool who would fall for them.
End of Chapter 1.