I snapped my eyes open, gasping as the phantom pain of a wretched death lingered in my chest. It wasn't just a nightmare. It was a prophecy.
I realized where I was. I remembered who I was. I am Elara Ashford. The Villainess of this third-rate romance novel.
In the script, I am the fake heiress—the cuckoo in the nest who stole the life meant for the real daughter. And my ending? I am destined to die alone, consumed by jealousy, hated by the very man I tried so desperately to possess.
Vincent Ashford.
My "uncle." My guardian. The Male Lead of this world.
The original plot is twisted but simple: The real daughter returns. Vincent falls madly in love with her. I go insane with envy, try to destroy her, and meet my tragic end.
But the author buried a crucial detail deep in the backstory to justify the romance between the Male Lead and the Real Heiress.
Vincent isn't a true Ashford either.
He was the adopted son of the late Duke, brought into the family as a child. He has no blood relation to my father, and certainly none to the Real Heiress. That is why, in the original book, their love was celebrated, not condemned.
But here is the irony.
Because I am a fake, I don't have Ashford blood either.
We are two strangers pretending to be family under one roof. I've seen the way his eyes darken when he looks at me. The heat beneath his fingers when he tucks my hair behind my ear. The way his jaw clenches when other men dare to look at me too long.
It isn't the touch of a guardian. It is the touch of a man starving for something he thinks is forbidden.
He loves me. And God help me, I love him too.
But I know how this genre works. The moment the True Heroine, Iris Thorne, appears, the "Plot Force" will correct itself. The narrative demands that the adopted Duke falls for the lost Princess.
If I stay, I will become the obstacle. The jealous niece. The monster.
So, I've made a choice.
I'm going to break the script.
I won't wait to be discarded. I am going to find Iris Thorne myself, hand her back her life, and then vanish into thin air.
Before the plot can twist us into enemies... Before he learns to see me as a fraud... I will disappear.
Let the Male Lead have his intended heroine. The Villainess is resigning from the story.
The morning light filtered through silk curtains, painting my bedroom in shades of gold.
I sat up slowly, my hands trembling. The memories were still fresh—two sets of them, overlapping like a double exposure photograph. My life as Elara Ashford. And the "reader's" knowledge of the novel "The Heiress's Return."
I knew everything now.
How Iris's adoptive mother would fall ill in six months. How she'd take a DNA test in desperation. How the results would lead her back to the Ashford family. How Vincent would come home for the emergency family meeting and see her for the first time—rain-soaked, defiant, everything he didn't know he wanted.
Love at first sight for the Male Lead and the True Heroine.
And me? I'd spiral. I'd scheme. I'd become so pathetic that readers would cheer when I finally died.
Not this time.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Vincent: Good morning, little star. I'm back from London. Have breakfast with me?
My chest tightened. He'd been gone for a week—some business acquisition that kept him overseas. The longest we'd been apart in months.
In the original timeline, Elara had missed him desperately. Had counted the hours until he returned. Had made a fool of herself by waiting at the door like a puppy.
The Villainess was pathetic like that.
But now I could see it clearly: every moment of affection was a trap. Every smile he gave me was a countdown to the moment he'd smile at Iris instead.
I typed back with steady fingers.
Me: Welcome home. I'll be down in twenty minutes.
I needed to start distancing myself. But I couldn't do it all at once—Vincent would notice. He noticed everything about me.
No, I had to be strategic. Gradual. Like slowly letting go of someone's hand before they could feel you pulling away.
I dressed carefully—a soft lavender dress, my hair loose. One last time, I'd let myself be the girl he thought I was. Then I'd begin my exit.
Vincent was waiting in the private dining room, and the sight of him stole my breath the way it always did.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with black hair that he'd clearly pushed back with impatient fingers. Sharp cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and those piercing grey-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through me.
At thirty-two, Vincent Ashford was the kind of man who made rooms go quiet. CEOs deferred to him. Socialites threw themselves at him. He could have anyone.
But his eyes only ever followed me.
He stood when I entered, a smile softening his usually stern face. "There she is."
"Hi." I managed to keep my voice steady. "How was London?"
"Tedious." He pulled out my chair himself—he always did, no matter how many times I told him I could do it. "I closed the deal, but the negotiations were insufferable. I kept wishing I'd brought you with me."
Don't say things like that. Don't make this harder.
"I would've just been bored," I said lightly, sitting down.
"You're never boring." His hand brushed my shoulder as he pushed in my chair, and I felt that touch like a brand. "Besides, you have a better eye for contracts than half my legal team."
Because in my previous life—the reader's life—I'd worked in corporate law. But Elara Ashford was never supposed to be smart. She was supposed to be decorative. Beautiful but useless.
The family made sure of that.
Vincent sat across from me, and I realized he'd had the staff prepare all my favorites. Fresh berries. Croissants from the French bakery I loved. The specific blend of Earl Grey I preferred.
He'd probably sent instructions from London.
"You look tired," he said, studying me with that unnerving intensity. "Have you been sleeping well?"
"Fine," I lied. I'd barely slept since the memories returned. "Just... thinking about things."
"What things?"
Everything. The fact that I'm not really your niece. The fact that you're going to fall in love with someone else. The fact that I need to leave before I become a monster.
"The future," I said instead. "What I want to do with my life."
Something flickered in his expression. Tension. Possessiveness. "We've talked about this, Elara. You don't need to worry about that. You're provided for—"
"I'm twenty-two, Vincent. I can't live in this house forever."
"Why not?"
The question was soft but unyielding. Like steel wrapped in velvet.
I met his eyes. "Because it's not normal. Because eventually, I'll need to build my own life. Maybe get married—"
His coffee cup hit the saucer with a sharp clink.
"Married." The word came out flat. Dangerous. "To whom?"
"No one specific. I'm just saying, eventually—"
"No."
I blinked. "No?"
"You're not getting married." He leaned forward, and I could see the storm brewing in his eyes. "Not to some fortune hunter who sees you as a pretty prize. Not to some weak fool who couldn't possibly protect you the way you need—"
"The way you protect me?" The words escaped before I could stop them.
Silence crashed between us.
Vincent's jaw worked. His hands clenched on the table. For a moment, I saw the mask slip—saw the raw hunger underneath, the desire he'd been crushing down for years.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice rough. "Exactly like that."
Oh God. This was worse than I thought.
He wasn't just a Male Lead programmed to fall for the heroine. He was a man on the edge of breaking, held back only by the belief that I was his brother's daughter.
And I was about to break both our hearts.
"Vincent—"
"I brought you something." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small velvet box. "For your birthday last month. I didn't get to give it to you before I left."
He slid it across the table.
I stared at it, my heart hammering. "You didn't have to—"
"Open it."
With shaking hands, I lifted the lid.
Inside was a necklace. White gold, delicate as spidersilk, with a pendant shaped like a star. Tiny diamonds caught the light, making it shimmer like something pulled from the night sky.
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"Vincent, this is too much—"
"Nothing is too much for you." He stood, walked around the table, and took the necklace from the box. "May I?"
I couldn't speak. Could only nod.
He moved behind me, and I felt his fingers brush my neck as he fastened the clasp. His touch lingered for just a moment too long—not inappropriate, but not entirely proper either.
"Perfect," he murmured. His breath stirred my hair. "My little star."
I closed my eyes against the sting of tears.
This was the man I was going to leave. The only person in this cold, cruel family who'd ever loved me. Who'd held me when I cried, who'd taught me to be strong, who'd stood between me and the world's cruelty.
And in six months, the plot would make him forget me.
Make him love someone else.
Make me hate them both.
Unless I ran first.
"Thank you," I whispered. "It's beautiful."
Vincent's hands settled on my shoulders. Still too familiar. Still too possessive. "You're beautiful. This just... suits you."
I stood quickly, needing distance. "I should go. I have—I have things to do today."
"Things?" His eyes narrowed. "What things?"
Think. Make something up.
"Shopping. Meeting a friend for lunch. Normal twenty-two-year-old things."
"Which friend?"
"Vincent—"
"Elara." He caught my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop me. "You've been strange since I got back. What's wrong?"
Everything. Nothing. I love you and you're going to destroy me.
"I'm fine," I said. "Just... adjusting to you being home again."
He studied my face like he was trying to read a code. Then, slowly, he released my wrist. "If something's bothering you, you can tell me. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"Anything, Elara. Anything at all."
I'm not really your niece. We could be together if the plot wasn't going to rip us apart. I'm terrified of becoming the monster this story wants me to be.
"I know," I repeated. "I promise."
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
I spent the afternoon in the library—the one place in the Ashford mansion where I could be alone.
The rest of the family was out. My "father" Richard was at the company. My "mother" Margaret was at some charity board meeting (read: gossip session with other society wives). My siblings were scattered, doing whatever ambitious heirs did when they weren't actively trying to destroy each other for the inheritance.
The Ashford family motto should've been "Survival of the Fittest" instead of "Fortune Favors the Bold."
They'd treated me like a decorative doll my entire life. Pretty, useless Elara. Too delicate for the family business. Too soft for their cutthroat world.
The only reason they kept me around was because I made the family look good. The beautiful youngest daughter. The perfect accessory for charity galas and society weddings.
Now, according to the plot I remembered, they were preparing to marry me off. Some business alliance with a family in Europe. The groom was apparently "charming"—which in Ashford-speak meant "ruthlessly ambitious and possibly sociopathic."
In the original story, Elara had been relieved at first. Marriage meant escape from the family. Freedom.
Then Vincent had objected.
He'd stormed into a family meeting and said absolutely not. Over his dead body. Elara wasn't marrying anyone unless he approved, and he did not approve.
The family had been shocked. Vincent rarely interfered in their machinations. But when it came to me, he was immovable.
That was the moment, I realized now, when Elara should've seen the truth. That Vincent's feelings weren't familial. That he was holding onto her with the grip of a man who couldn't let go.
But Original Elara had been too sheltered. Too innocent. She'd interpreted his protectiveness as duty, not desire.
So she'd thanked him sweetly and continued with her life, not realizing she was loved.
Then Iris appeared, and everything fell apart.
I shook my head, focusing on the laptop in front of me.
Finding Iris Thorne shouldn't be hard. I had resources, money, and the information from the novel.
She lived in Millbrook—a small town three hours north. Her adoptive mother, Mrs. Thorne, ran a flower shop. They were poor but happy. At least until Mrs. Thorne's illness drained their savings and pushed Iris toward that fateful DNA test.
But that was six months away.
I could reach her first. Warn her. Help her prepare for the revelation that she was an heiress. Maybe even convince her to take my place willingly while I disappeared.
I started researching. Social media accounts. Public records. Everything I could find about Iris Thorne.
And there she was.
The True Heroine.
Her Instagram was public—full of photos of flowers, sunsets, her smiling with friends. She had her mother's kind eyes and the Ashford family's distinctive bone structure. Anyone with eyes could see she belonged to us.
She was beautiful. Genuinely kind, from what I could see. The type of person who volunteered at animal shelters and baked cookies for her neighbors.
Everything a heroine should be.
Everything I wasn't.
I stared at her smile on the screen and felt that dangerous emotion coil in my chest.
Jealousy.
This was the woman Vincent would love. The woman I was destined to hate.
But I wouldn't give the plot that satisfaction.
I closed the laptop with shaking hands.
Tomorrow. I'd go to Millbrook tomorrow. Meet Iris. Start the process of giving her back the life that should've been hers.
And then I'd disappear before Vincent could watch me become a monster.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I kept touching the star pendant at my throat. Thinking about Vincent's hands on my shoulders. The roughness in his voice when he'd said You're beautiful.
In another world—another story—we could've been happy.
But this wasn't that story.
A soft knock on my door made me freeze.
"Elara?" Vincent's voice, quiet in the darkness. "Are you awake?"
My heart seized. "Yes."
The door opened, and he stepped inside, backlit by the hallway light. He was in sleep clothes—dark pants, a t-shirt that clung to his frame. His hair was mussed like he'd been running his hands through it.
"Can't sleep either?" he asked.
"No." I sat up, pulling my blanket closer. "Is something wrong?"
"I just..." He moved closer, and I saw the vulnerability in his face. The cracks in his usual armor. "I wanted to check on you. You seemed upset at breakfast."
"I'm fine, Vincent."
"Don't lie to me." He sat on the edge of my bed—too close, too familiar. "I know you, Elara. Something's bothering you."
Yes. The fact that I'm in love with you. The fact that you're going to fall for someone else. The fact that I have to leave before this story destroys us both.
"It's nothing," I whispered.
"Elara—"
"Please." I looked away. "I just... I need some space. To figure things out."
Silence. Then I felt his hand cup my cheek, turning my face back to his.
His eyes were storm-dark in the dim light. Searching mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"Space from what?" he asked softly. "From the family? Or from me?"
Both. Neither. I don't know anymore.
"Vincent, I—"
"Because if it's from me..." His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "I don't know if I can give you that."
Oh God. This was it. The moment where everything could change. Where he could cross the line he'd been toeing for years.
Where the plot could shatter completely.
"You have to," I said, even as my heart screamed at me to lean into his touch. "You have to let me go."
"Why?" His voice cracked. "Why now? What changed?"
Everything. I woke up and remembered I'm not really your niece. I realized you could love me without guilt. But I also know that in six months, you'll meet the woman you're supposed to love, and I'll become the villain who stands in your way.
"I just... I can't explain. But please, Vincent. Please trust me."
His hand fell away. He stood abruptly, and I saw the hurt flash across his face before his mask slammed back into place.
"Fine." The word was clipped. Cold. "If that's what you want."
"It's not what I want—"
"Then what do you want, Elara?" He turned back, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly undid me. "Tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you. Anything. Everything."
I want you. I want us. I want a world where we're not doomed by a plot written by someone else.
But I couldn't say that.
"I want you to let me make my own choices," I said instead. "Even if you don't understand them."
Vincent stared at me for a long moment. Then he nodded once, sharp and final.
"All right. Make your choices." He walked to the door. "But I'm not going anywhere, Elara. Whatever you're running from—whatever you think you need to do—I'll be right here. Waiting."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
And I buried my face in my hands, the star pendant cold against my throat, and let myself cry.
Because tomorrow, I'd start the process of losing him.
Tonight, I could grieve.
[To be continued...]