I woke up the next morning with the kind of clarity usually reserved for spiritual awakenings, enlightenment, or manic episodes fueled by three Red Bulls.
In my case, it was none of those.
It was the realization that I was still rich.
I sat up in the hospital bed, rubbed my eyes, and looked around the pristine private room—white walls, gold-trimmed curtains, a huge bouquet of lilies that probably cost as much as my electric bill used to. No beeping emergency monitors. No other patients coughing or groaning. No nurse yelling at someone to stop unplugging their IV.
Just expensive silence.
I stretched and let satisfaction wash over me like warm sunlight.
"Money," I whispered reverently. "My new best friend."
Then I froze.
Because the next thought that slipped into my brain wasn't nearly as peaceful:
I'm in an Omegaverse novel.
Cue the dread. It rose slowly, like a bad smell you don't notice until it's sitting directly on top of you.
Omegaverse.
The word hovered in the air like a curse.
I was a beta—thank the universe—but that didn't spare me from everything. This was Tears of a Tiger Lily, one of those melodramatic novels where even the side characters suffered for the sake of the plot. Or worse, for reader entertainment.
I pulled the blanket over my head and groaned.
"What if something activates my latent pheromones? What if the author decides I'm secretly an omega for shock value? What if some random Alpha sniffs me on the street and—"
Nope. No. I refused to finish that sentence.
I dramatically threw the blanket off again and inhaled sharply, as if breathing sterile hospital air would calm me down.
"I'm Violet Hawthorne. I am safe. I am rich. I am a beta. Betas are furniture in Omegaverse novels. Completely background. Completely drama-free."
A beat of silence passed.
Then, quietly:
"…Theoretically."
To distract myself from spiraling into paranoia, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Someone had kindly left a small basket of toiletries on the bedside stand, along with neatly folded clothing—light, pastel, expensive-looking clothing. The kind you only see on models or people who grew up vacationing on private islands.
I picked up the sweater at the top of the pile and rubbed the fabric between two fingers.
Cashmere.
My heart soared. "This world loves me."
After changing, I headed to the bathroom attached to my room, bracing myself for another encounter with my new face. I flicked on the lights and approached the mirror.
There she was.
Violet Hawthorne. Soft hair, smooth skin, not a single sign of my old life's burnout visible anywhere.
I touched my cheek.
"…My pores are nonexistent."
I leaned in. "Is this natural? Did Violet use skincare? Or were her genetics just coded by the author to be impossibly pretty?"
In my past life, I'd had skin that alternated between "dry desert wasteland" and "oily panic attack." But this? I could probably walk outside without sunscreen and still look like a magazine cover.
It was terrifying.
And addictive.
"Okay. Okay. Calm down." I inhaled deeply, gripping the sink. "Step one: learn how to act like Violet. Step two: avoid Omegaverse plot devices. Step three: spend money responsibly. No—actually, skip that one. I'm rich now."
There was a soft knock on the door.
"Miss Violet?" a gentle voice called. "May I come in?"
I recognized it as the nurse from yesterday. I opened the door, and she smiled warmly.
"How are you feeling today?"
"Oh, you know." I shrugged. "Alive. Which is an upgrade."
She let out a relieved breath. "That's good. The doctor wants to do a quick checkup. And afterward, your parents requested to see you."
Parents.
Right.
The strict, image-obsessed Hawthornes. The people who disowned their own son the minute he dated someone beneath their standards. The people who probably used guilt as a weapon and emotional coldness as currency.
My smile faltered.
The nurse noticed. "Are you nervous?"
"No," I lied.
I was EXTREMELY nervous.
Still, I followed her back to the bed and endured a simple checkup—blood pressure, reflexes, a few questions about pain. Nothing alarming. The nurse finished writing notes on my chart, then quietly slipped out.
A moment later, the door opened again.
In walked Father.
Followed by Mother.
Both immaculate. Both poised. Both wearing the exact expressions I'd have expected from the Hawthorne parents: professional concern and polished detachment.
"Violet," Mother said, stepping forward to kiss my forehead lightly. "I'm glad you're awake."
"I am too," I replied, because what else was I supposed to say? "Dying is terrible for the skin."
She paused, blinking once. "…Yes. Well."
She smoothed a wrinkle in her dress. "Your father and I have spoken with the doctors. They believe your recovery should be quick."
Father clasped his hands behind his back—a gesture I already recognized as him preparing to deliver criticism like a medical diagnosis.
"We expect you to avoid further… carelessness," he said. "The Hawthorne image cannot afford unnecessary incidents."
Ah.
There it was.
The doting parental warmth of a family fortune built on perfectionism and fear.
I stifled the urge to salute.
Instead, I nodded politely. "Of course. I'll do my very best to avoid being bombed again."
Mother inhaled sharply. Father blinked slowly, as if deciding whether I was trying to be funny or simply defective.
"Well," he said finally, "we've arranged for your discharge tomorrow. The driver will take you home."
Home.
The Hawthorne estate.
A mansion so large it had been described in the novel as "castle-like," complete with high gates, endless hallways, immaculate gardens, and an atmosphere of choking quiet.
I swallowed.
"Thank you," I said. "I… appreciate it."
Mother gave a tiny smile—polished but void of real warmth. "Rest well today. We'll visit again in the evening."
They left with the same silent grace they'd entered.
When the door shut behind them, I collapsed backward onto the bed and exhaled loudly.
"That went… fine," I whispered. "I wasn't yelled at. I wasn't disowned on sight. That's practically affection, in Hawthorne language."
I rolled onto my side, staring at the ceiling.
And then another realization hit me.
Mack.
The eldest Hawthorne sibling. The ML of Tears of a Tiger Lily.
Kind-hearted but oblivious. A brilliant CEO with the emotional intelligence of a cactus.
The brother I was now related to.
He would visit soon.
And I wasn't mentally prepared for interacting with a future-disowned protagonist who was currently drowning in corporate stress and blissful ignorance.
But before I could spiral further, my phone buzzed on the table.
I blinked.
When did I even get a phone?
Was it mine? Violet's? Did I have their passcode?
I picked it up.
The lock screen lit up with a picture of a gold-trimmed watercolor painting and a single line of text:
Good morning, Violet.
…Okay, a little creepy, but fine.
The phone unlocked with facial recognition—convenient—and a flood of notifications filled the screen.
Messages from people I didn't know.
Calendar reminders.
Emails from a private university.
Bank statements I tried not to drool over.
But one text stood out, marked with a star as if it had been flagged.
Mack: Heard you woke up. I'll come by after work. Don't move around too much.
I snorted.
Yeah. Sure. I would definitely stay put. Not because he told me to, but because movement required physical effort and I refused to do that unless absolutely necessary.
I set the phone down and stretched lazily.
"Alright," I murmured. "New life. New identity. New responsibilities. I should probably start planning how to avoid the plot and live long enough to retire in a mansion."
But the truth was…
I wasn't worried.
Not right now.
Because despite the Omegaverse nonsense lurking in the shadows, despite the dramatic plot waiting to swallow me whole, despite the complicated family drama—
I was rich.
Comfortably, gloriously, disgustingly rich.
And for the first time since my reincarnation—or my death, whichever came first—I let myself smile and relax into the pillows.
Maybe this world was dangerous.
Maybe I'd have to dodge pheromones like landmines.
Maybe the original plot would chase me with the determination of a rabid goose.
But for now?
Life was soft.
And warm.
And so much easier than what I left behind.
"Tomorrow," I whispered, closing my eyes. "Tomorrow I'll figure everything out."
Today?
Today I rested.
I was finally wealthy.
Very, very wealthy.