My heart races as I move to the nightstand. The top drawer holds a collection of expensive-looking pens and a leather-bound planner. I flip it open, hoping for some insight into my new life, but find only appointments and reminders written in an unfamiliar hand.
"Lunch with K. Charity gala. Spa day with Charlotte."
The words mean nothing to me. I slam the planner shut and toss it back into the drawer.
I run my fingers along the smooth wood of the dresser, tracing the intricate carvings. Each drawer slides open with a whisper, revealing neatly folded clothes in rich fabrics I've never touched before. Silk slips through my fingers like water. Cashmere whispers against my skin.
No phone.
No diary.
No clues.
There's a freestanding wardrobe, its doors gleaming in the soft light. I hesitate, my hand hovering over the ornate handle.
Something inside my soul protests. It doesn't want me to look in there. Why?
"Get it together, Vivienne," I mutter. "You can't hide from the truth forever."
I yank the door open, immediately assaulted by the scent of some opulent perfume. Vanilla base with an obnoxiously luxurious floral top. Rows of expensive-looking dresses and pants suits hang in perfect order, a rainbow of colors and textures. Shoes line the bottom, everything from flip-flops to knee-high leather boots.
I always wanted a pair of knee-high leather boots. They look so fierce.
My fingers trail along the hangers, searching for... something. Anything which might spark a memory or give me a clue about who I'm supposed to be.
That's when I see it; a corner of something peeking out from behind a stack of sweaters on the top shelf.
I stretch on my tiptoes, fumbling blindly until my fingers close around something hard and cool. I pull it down, nearly dropping it when I realize what I'm holding.
A framed copy of a marriage certificate.
My breath catches in my throat as I stare at the elegant script. This can't be real. I'm not married. I've never even been close to getting married.
But there it is, in black and white. "My" name—Vivienne Graham—next to...
The world tilts sideways. I stumble back, clutching the frame to my chest as I sink onto the bed.
"No," I whisper. "No, no, no. This isn't possible."
But it is. Because there, right next to my name, is a name I recognize. A name strong enough to put everything into place in my head, all the little pieces of knowledge clicking together in clarity.
Knox Marshall.
The room spins around me as memories crash over me. Not memories of this life, but of another. Of words on a page, a story I read while lying in my hospital bed, hoping to get better yet waiting to die.
A story about a beautiful love between an innocent heroine and her fated mate, an alpha werewolf.
A married alpha werewolf. One who eventually kills his wife in order to save his true love.
Romantic… when I read it. But now?
"Oh, my God," I choke out, bile rising in my throat once again. "I'm in the book. I'm actually in the fucking book."
The certificate slips from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor.
I can't breathe. Can't think.
This isn't real. It can't be real.
But it is. Somehow, impossibly, I've been reborn into the pages of a novel. A novel where I'm little more than one of many, many antagonists. Where I'm destined to die.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up from my chest. Of all the second chances I could have gotten, this is what the universe gives me? A death sentence wrapped in designer clothes and a mansion?
I force myself to take a deep breath, then another. Panic won't help me now. I need to think.
Dying isn't an option. My body's healthy. I have plenty of resources. I'm young. There's zero reason for me to die here, damn it.
I know how this story is supposed to go. Knox Marshall, the sexy love interest, is in a loveless marriage of convenience with Vivienne Marshall—who, of course, has a one-sided crush on her husband.
Standard fare.
He's cold and distant. She accepts it, as long as she's standing by his side. But, of course, the female protagonist appears in an explosive twist of fate, revealing the powerful alpha is fated to a mere human. One who's perfect, beautiful, sweet, and innocent, of course.
And Vivienne hates it. She gets in their way and tries to get rid of Abigail in so many ways, eventually leading to attempted murder.
So all I have to do is step out of the way, right? Let the lovers be? Wouldn't that work?
Simple. Effective. Perfect.
My lungs work again, sucking down oxygen. Easy. As long as I'm not around, there won't be any conflict. As long as I don't try to kill the female protagonist, I don't die.
I have no interest in falling in love with my book-husband, and every interest in living a healthy life. My body is already dead. My life is over. I don't know how or why I have a second chance, but I'm not going to lose it.
I'm not that Vivienne. I'm me—whoever that is now. And I refuse to play the role I've been given.
Picking up the certificate, I study it more closely. The date catches my eye. According to this, Knox and I have been married for nearly two years.
Two years. I can't remember the backstory; it was barely mentioned in the book, maybe a few lines in passing. Vivienne herself has very little presence in the book before her villainous activities.
Has he already met Abigail? Have I already started down the awful plotline leading to my doom?
I nibble on the side of my thumb, but give up the habit quickly as a phantom taste of apple cider vinegar hits my tongue.
Weird.
Maybe this body had a finger-nibbling problem, cured with vinegar aversion. I seem to remember reading something like that online.
My nails are perfectly manicured into medium-length almond tips. Not a single messy cuticle to be seen. My theory tracks.
Nails aside, I need more information. Where in the timeline am I?
A musical ring interrupts the silence of my plotting. It goes on for a while before cutting off mid-jingle.
A few seconds of silence, and then it happens again.