Anna asked softly, "Miss, I will answer other questions later. Can you please have dinner now?"
My stomach growled in betrayal, but my brain was busy throwing a tantrum on the floor.
"You can leave for the day," I answered, trying not to sound too shaken.
My face must've said more than my mouth ever could, because Anna looked genuinely worried. "Please, miss, have something at le—"
"I said leave."
My voice cracked through the air—childlike, yet sharp as a snapped twig in a silent forest.
She fled like a bat out of hell.
And just like that, the room swallowed me whole. Big walls, heavy curtains, golden chandeliers—and yet, everything felt so tiny, like my thoughts were pressing against the ceiling, screaming for space.
I was in a book.
A book.
And not even the cool knight or the sarcastic sidekick or the misunderstood witch.
Nope.
I got the short end of the author's quill.
Isha.
The villainess with the cursed hair and the world's least inspiring redemption arc—oh wait, no redemption arc. Right.
Like, the universe really looked at me and said: you know what this girl needs? Trauma.
From what I remembered, the story starts proper when Karl turns 21. Which meant Isha—me—was 18 at the time. So right now? Six. Six years old with the emotional breakdown of a middle-aged office worker and the body of a porcelain doll.
Cool. Totally cool. Everything's fine.
Except it's not.
Apparently, Karl—the dreamy, emotionally distant northern duke-in-training—was betrothed to Isha by some noble dad politics.
Count (my lovely father) and Duke Thorne shook hands and decided, Yes, let's marry the cursed noble girl to the icicle prince. What could go wrong?
Karl didn't object. Probably too busy wrestling bears or bottling emotions or whatever they do in the north.
And me? Original Isha? She fell for him. Hard. Because he didn't flinch at her black hair or call her a witch or act like she was walking bad luck.
And then she showed up.
The common girl. The sunshine peasant. The shoe-wearing Cinderella who was assigned to serve Karl at Duke Rowlen's palace when he visited the capital.
She was kind. Too kind. The kind that makes even wolves hesitate.
Karl melted faster than a snowflake on a hot sword. Boom. Love. Butterflies. Mutual sighing under moonlight.
Meanwhile, Isha was sitting on the bench like an unpaid intern.
She tried. She really tried. She bullied the poor girl, tried to poison her—and bam, caught in the act. Karl killed her right there. No trial. Just steel and silence. The end.
And then Karl and Miss Sunshine rode off into the sunset or whatever.
The crowd cheered.
The villain died.
Credits rolled.
**EXCEPT—how was that fair?
The Count gave her the poison. The Duke approved the marriage. Society mocked her since birth. And Isha took all the blame?
I chewed on my lip hard enough to almost bleed.
Not this time.
I won't sit around and wait for 18 just to scream "It wasn't me!" while they sharpen pitchforks.
Besides, what if this is my only life now? What if I didn't die in the real world, but just got dropped here like a glitchy save file? Either way, dying isn't on the menu.
So.
Step One: Don't die. Obvious.
Step Two: Break the story.
Step Three: Rewrite Isha.
Right now, I'm six. This winter, I get a choice: homeschool or academy.
Original Isha picked homeschool. Why? Fear. Mockery. The usual.
But me?
No way.
The academy means space. Less Count. Less politics. Less controlling.
It also means I can learn things, maybe make allies, and figure out what I'm actually good at.
A way out.
A skill. A life. A future.
Something Isha never got.
Something I will.
Sure, they'll laugh. Sure, some snobby brat will probably throw juice on my books. But at least I'll be doing something. I just need to pick something I can excel in. Swordplay? Debate? Dancing? Cooking?
Whatever it is, I'll find it. And when the time comes, I won't be the villain in someone else's fairytale.
I'll be me.
And when the story finally begins—when the gears of fate creak into motion and Karl steps into the spotlight—I won't be there.
I'll be far from the capital. Far from the palace halls where I was written to fall.
Far from the stage they built for my downfall.
If I fail…
If somehow fate grabs me by the throat anyway…
Then I'll drink the poison myself.
Better that than play the villain in someone else's happily ever after.