In a tiny, dimly lit apartment, the glow of a laptop screen flickered across a cluttered table piled with empty takeout boxes and cold coffee cups. Slumped in front of it was a girl in oversized spectacles, her long hair tied in a messy bun that had surrendered hours ago. Her features were delicate, even beautiful—but dulled by exhaustion, bare skin, and an utter lack of makeup or care.
Lena squinted at the screen, scrolling through the latest flood of reader comments under the final chapter of her webnovel, Crimson Moonlight.
> "Why did Luara have to die like that???" "She was more beautiful and relatable than the FL. This is just bias." "You made her so elegant and then killed her off at 2nd arc???" "Justice for Luara! Worst author ever." Lazy author reply"
Lena leaned back with a bitter laugh, the chair creaking under her weight.
"Haha... don't tell the author, what's wrong" she muttered dryly to herself, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Because the author is always right. And the plot needed it."
Despite her sarcastic tone, a tiny flicker of doubt crossed her eyes. She'd written Luara to be arrogant, selfish, and reckless—an easy character to hate, meant only to highlight the heroine's virtue. But maybe... she had made her too captivating. Too vivid. Too tragic.
Still, Xingyi sighed and began typing a reply beneath the angry comments.
> I'm sorry. I'll write better next time. Stay tuned.
She hit "send" with a tired sigh, she got inside her small bed for goodnight sleep murmuring to herself "I should have just made Laura uglier, ugh so much drama.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The pounding was incessant.
"Miss Luara! Please wake up!" a woman's voice rang sharply through the thick wooden door. "It's already half past eleven! Lady Claire is asking for you!"
A soft groan came from the pile of pillows buried under a thick pink satin duvet.
"Hnnn… Who the hell is making noise this early?" the figure muttered, her voice thick with sleep. "I didn't order anything…"
But the knocking only grew more desperate.
"Miss Luara! Your mother will be furious if you don't come down at once!"
The girl jolted slightly. The voice wasn't familiar. The words weren't either. Something felt wrong—off in the kind of way that made her heartbeat pick up without knowing why.
She blinked slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the blinding daylight streaming in through sheer curtains. The ceiling above her was carved with gold filigree, and the bed was so large it could sleep six people comfortably. The air smelled faintly of roses and powder.
She sat up abruptly, throwing the duvet off her and staring wide-eyed at the room.
"…Where am I?"
The walls were pastel pink, adorned with hand-painted floral designs and white crown molding. A velvet vanity table sat across the room, dusted in perfume bottles and glittering hairpins. The chandelier above sparkled like a scene out of a period drama.
This was definitely not her apartment.
She scrambled out of the bed and ran to the mirror, nearly tripping off her legs. What she saw in the mirror made her freeze.
Staring back was a girl no older than twenty—her features delicate, her skin impossibly pale, with long platinum blonde curls cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes were a piercing violet, wide with panic.
She touched her face.
"No... no, no, no. This isn't me." Her voice cracked. "This is—"
"Miss Luara! Please!"
The voice outside the door sent a shiver down her spine. Luara.
That name. That room. That face.
And then it clicked, like puzzle pieces falling into place.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "I've transmigrated… into my own novel."
After a long, dizzying pause, she finally managed a response.
"Yes, I'm coming," she called out, her voice sharp, cold—instinctively mimicking Luara's famously annoyed, highborn tone.
There was a brief silence outside the door, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps retreating.
Luara—no, Xingyi—let out a shaky breath.
Okay. Think.
She turned back to the mirror, watching herself move like a stranger. Her posture was too perfect, her expression too naturally disdainful even without trying. Even frowning, she looked like she was about to demand someone to be fired during first day at work.
"I can't believe I wrote someone this extra…"
Still, she had to keep up appearances.
She moved to the wash basin, washing her face with the rose-scented fashwash, dabbing gently with an soft towel. As she picked up a silver comb and began working through the thick, impossibly silky curls, her thoughts spun.
Luara Velvette 22 years old… in the novel, she's obsessed with the male lead, Ciel.
She frowned, recalling her original plot. Luara had been written as a spoiled noble's daughter, beautiful and proud, convinced that the prince belonged to her. She clung to him publicly, insulted the heroine at every turn, and eventually tried to sabotage her out of jealousy.
That was the final straw. The ML humiliated her at the party, and by the next arc… Luara was quietly removed from the story.
"I really didn't hold back," she muttered.
But now, she was Luara. And if she kept acting like the original, she'd be exiled—or worse—by Chapter Fifteen.
I can't break character suddenly, she thought. If I start being too nice or too distant from the prince, people will suspect something's wrong. I need to change slowly—subtly.
She narrowed her eyes at her reflection.
First, she had to tone down the obsession. Not cut it off completely—but shift it. Reframe it as calculated affection rather than desperate infatuation. And she had to stay away from direct confrontation with the heroine, Elaine. No more public insults. No more tantrums.
Xingyi straightened up and gave herself a regal glare, mimicking the Luara she once wrote.
"Fine. If this world wants a villainess, I'll give them one… but on my terms."
She stood, smoothing out the folds of her satin robe.
Step one just gotta survive this morning.