Celia Torres was not afraid of death.
She was afraid of rent.
The way her landlord knocked every first of the month like a debt-collecting spirit from a Nollywood horror film, the way her bank account sighed louder than she did whenever she opened her mobile app, the way she rationed instant noodles like they were treasure—yeah, death didn't scare her. Poverty did.
So naturally, when death did come, it wasn't romantic. It wasn't tragic. It wasn't even peaceful.
It was pathetic.
It started with a cheap plastic fork.
She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair in a bird's nest bun, scrolling through TikTok while slurping noodles. Some influencer was live-streaming about her "self-care routine" with products that cost more than Celia's entire salary. She rolled her eyes, shoved a too-large bite of noodles into her mouth, and—
Gulp. Wrong pipe.
Her chest seized up. Her eyes bulged. She tried to cough, but the stubborn noodle strand clung to her throat like it had signed a tenancy agreement.
"Not like this," she wheezed, smacking her chest with both hands. "God, please, not like this! I paid my Wi-Fi bill early this month, I don't deserve this kind of shame!"
She staggered to her feet, tripping over a pile of unfolded laundry. The noodle cup spilled dramatically across the bedsheet, as if mourning her. She grabbed her phone to call for help, but her last Google search was still on the screen: "how many times can you reuse cooking oil before it kills you."
Lovely. Very dignified.
And just like that—chest tightening, vision dimming—Celia collapsed. Her last conscious thought was: If my mom puts 'died eating noodles' in my obituary, I will haunt her.
⸻
When she opened her eyes, she wasn't in the afterlife. No flames, no angels, no judgment day committee holding clipboards.
She was on silk sheets.
In a bed the size of her entire apartment.
And someone was screaming.
"Oh my God, Beverly! You're awake! After three days—do you know how worried Daddy was?!"
Celia sat up, hair whipping her face. A girl with flawless makeup, diamond earrings, and the fakest concern in the world clutched her hand. Behind her, a doctor in an expensive white coat was scribbling notes.
"Beverly?" Celia croaked. Her voice sounded… higher. Softer. Spoiled.
The girl gasped. "You hit your head too hard at the party, didn't you? Don't you remember anything?"
Party? Celia's last party was in 2019, when her friend tricked her into karaoke and she embarrassed herself singing Billie Eilish.
She scrambled out of bed, but immediately froze when she caught her reflection in the mirror across the room.
Long, glossy hair. Perfect skin. Designer pajamas. A body that had never known the suffering of cheap noodles or night bus rides.
"What in the… K-drama hell is this?" she whispered.
The other girl blinked. "Beverly, are you okay?"
Celia gripped the silk sheets, brain spinning.
She wasn't Celia anymore.
She was Beverly.
The Beverly Torres—the spoiled influencer heiress who trended every other week for saying something stupid online, the one Celia used to hate-watch on Instagram.
And judging from the IV drip beside the bed, the designer bag tossed carelessly on the floor, and the dramatic way everyone was fussing over her—Beverly had nearly died.
Which meant…
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Celia groaned, flopping back on the silk pillows. "I reincarnated as a rich brat? God, if this is a prank, it's not funny."
But deep down, she felt it.
The heartbeat. The breathing. The undeniable fact.
She was alive.
Just not as herself.
And if the universe thought she was going to waste her second chance being a clueless spoiled heiress…
Well.
She smirked.
Maybe it was time Beverly Torres finally went viral—for the right reasons.Chapter One: Death by Noodles
Celia Torres was not afraid of death.
She was afraid of rent.
The way her landlord knocked every first of the month like a debt-collecting spirit from a Nollywood horror film, the way her bank account sighed louder than she did whenever she opened her mobile app, the way she rationed instant noodles like they were treasure—yeah, death didn't scare her. Poverty did.
So naturally, when death did come, it wasn't romantic. It wasn't tragic. It wasn't even peaceful.
It was pathetic.
It started with a cheap plastic fork.
She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair in a bird's nest bun, scrolling through TikTok while slurping noodles. Some influencer was live-streaming about her "self-care routine" with products that cost more than Celia's entire salary. She rolled her eyes, shoved a too-large bite of noodles into her mouth, and—
Gulp. Wrong pipe.
Her chest seized up. Her eyes bulged. She tried to cough, but the stubborn noodle strand clung to her throat like it had signed a tenancy agreement.
"Not like this," she wheezed, smacking her chest with both hands. "God, please, not like this! I paid my Wi-Fi bill early this month, I don't deserve this kind of shame!"
She staggered to her feet, tripping over a pile of unfolded laundry. The noodle cup spilled dramatically across the bedsheet, as if mourning her. She grabbed her phone to call for help, but her last Google search was still on the screen: "how many times can you reuse cooking oil before it kills you."
Lovely. Very dignified.
And just like that—chest tightening, vision dimming—Celia collapsed. Her last conscious thought was: If my mom puts 'died eating noodles' in my obituary, I will haunt her.
⸻
When she opened her eyes, she wasn't in the afterlife. No flames, no angels, no judgment day committee holding clipboards.
She was on silk sheets.
In a bed the size of her entire apartment.
And someone was screaming.
"Oh my God, Beverly! You're awake! After three days—do you know how worried Daddy was?!"
Celia sat up, hair whipping her face. A girl with flawless makeup, diamond earrings, and the fakest concern in the world clutched her hand. Behind her, a doctor in an expensive white coat was scribbling notes.
"Beverly?" Celia croaked. Her voice sounded… higher. Softer. Spoiled.
The girl gasped. "You hit your head too hard at the party, didn't you? Don't you remember anything?"
Party? Celia's last party was in 2019, when her friend tricked her into karaoke and she embarrassed herself singing Billie Eilish.
She scrambled out of bed, but immediately froze when she caught her reflection in the mirror across the room.
Long, glossy hair. Perfect skin. Designer pajamas. A body that had never known the suffering of cheap noodles or night bus rides.
"What in the… K-drama hell is this?" she whispered.
The other girl blinked. "Beverly, are you okay?"
Celia gripped the silk sheets, brain spinning.
She wasn't Celia anymore.
She was Beverly.
The Beverly Torres—the spoiled influencer heiress who trended every other week for saying something stupid online, the one Celia used to hate-watch on Instagram.
And judging from the IV drip beside the bed, the designer bag tossed carelessly on the floor, and the dramatic way everyone was fussing over her—Beverly had nearly died.
Which meant…
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Celia groaned, flopping back on the silk pillows. "I reincarnated as a rich brat? God, if this is a prank, it's not funny."
But deep down, she felt it.
The heartbeat. The breathing. The undeniable fact.
She was alive.
Just not as herself.
And if the universe thought she was going to waste her second chance being a clueless spoiled heiress…
Well.
She smirked.
Maybe it was time Beverly Torres finally went viral—for the right reasons.