"Damn you, author! How could you do that to my Tristan?!"
My screams shattered the silence of my shabby boarding house, bouncing off the cracked walls like the wails of a demon. If my neighbors weren't already convinced I was insane, this was the final proof.
On my bed, my phone still glowed mockingly with the last chapter of that cursed web novel. The one I had just finished reading. The one that had murdered me emotionally in cold blood.
I clutched my head with both hands, hair sticking up like I'd been electrocuted.
"No. No, no, no. This can't be it. This can't be the ending!"
This story had started as nothing more than a bedtime distraction.
Just a little guilty pleasure to fill the void between my pathetic job and my equally pathetic sleep schedule.
At first, it was harmless. Harmless! Just some fluffy romance to make me forget that I lived in a shoebox apartment where the fridge hummed louder than my love life.
But day after day, chapter after chapter, I fell deeper.
Lunch breaks disappeared into rabbit holes of theories. My sleep schedule was annihilated by binge-reading marathons.
My social life? Already on life support... now officially dead.
And all for one man.
Tristan d'Argent.
He wasn't even the male lead. He was the second male lead. The eternal runner-up.
But not to me.
To me, he was everything.
Number one in my heart.
The boy who grew up unloved, unwanted, crawling out of misery and forging himself into the youngest duke the kingdom had ever seen. Noble. Kind. Tragic. Broody in just the right amount.
And sure, maybe he wasn't the one destined to get the heroine. But in my heart? He was my male lead. My Tristan.
And what did the author do? What grand, beautiful ending did he get?
He was destroyed. Twisted. Reduced to some pathetic villain all because his love wasn't returned.
All so that the golden boy "real" hero could swoop in, defeat him, and get crowned by the narrative as the shining knight.
"How cruel. How DARE they do that to my Tristan?!" I hissed, biting my lip so hard I tasted iron. My nails dug into my palms like tiny knives.
I should hate him.
Everyone else did.
But me? No. Not me. I refused.
I loved him from the start.
Through every wound, every fall, every tragic smile. I would love him until the end.
"Second male lead syndrome…" I whispered bitterly. "Figures. That reader sickness struck me. Why couldn't my Tristan be the main lead?"
And then, because the universe enjoys kicking me when I'm down, my stomach growled. Loudly.
"Really? Now? Arghh, my stomach is seriously hungry. Forgive me, belly, I forgot about you," I groaned, clutching it like a baby.
Fine. Whatever. Emotional collapse or not, a girl's gotta eat.
I grabbed the plastic bag on my desk and ripped it open like a starving raccoon. The heavenly scent of cold fried chicken filled the room. My one true comfort.
One bite. Two bites. Three.
The crispy skin cracked beneath my teeth, salty, spicy, glorious.
Did I chew properly? Hell no. I inhaled that chicken like it was my last meal on death row.
And then it hit me.
"The comments!" I gasped, grabbing my phone with greasy hands. "I need to tell that author exactly what I think!"
So there I was, in full battle mode.
My thumbs flew over the screen, each insult more creative than the last. One rant. Another. Another. I was unstoppable.
I was fury incarnate.
I kept filling up that comment section while still stuffing chicken into my mouth.
Multitasking, baby.
Except… well.
Maybe trying to type fiery death threats to an author while swallowing fried poultry whole wasn't the brightest idea.
Because halfway through my fourth rant, my throat suddenly tightened.
"Ughhh.... choking! Oh my God... I'm choking!" I sputtered, clutching at my neck. My eyes bulged.
Water! I needed water! But of course, my water bottle sat mockingly on the desk, far out of reach.
I staggered to my feet, wheezing like a dying accordion. The tiles were ice cold beneath my bare feet, my vision blurring at the edges.
"Come on, come on... !" I lunged forward.
And then my foot slipped on something slick—probably the soda I spilled last night because karma never sleeps.
THUD!
My head slammed into the side of the table. Pain exploded, hot and sharp. Something wet trickled down my temple... blood.
Meanwhile, the demon chicken nugget was still lodged firmly in my throat.
I couldn't breathe.
This was it. This was how I died.
Not a noble sacrifice. Not a romantic tragedy. Not even a traffic accident because I was hit by a truck.
Death by fried chicken.
The shame. The sheer embarrassment. They'd put that on my tombstone.
Darkness closed in. My last thought was a pathetic wail:
"Oh God… this is not mukbang, WHY?!"
And then...
"Lady! Lady Liliane!"
A voice. Urgent. Trembling. Strange.
My eyes flew open.
A woman stood over me, tears streaming down her pale face. A woman dressed in an honest-to-God maid outfit straight out of a historical drama. Frilly apron, starched cap, everything.
"Wh... what the hell? Who are you?! Where am I?!" I shrieked, clutching the blanket up to my chin.
The woman sobbed harder. "This is your room, my Lady! Please, calm yourself!"
I froze.
This wasn't my grimy boarding room. No peeling paint. No humming fridge. No suspicious damp smell of detergent.
Instead... velvet curtains embroidered with gold. Crystal chandelier. Polished wooden walls. The air faintly scented with roses.
It was… beautiful. Elegant. Like stepping into a European palace.
My jaw dropped.
"Wait. Did I… die? Is this heaven? Did God finally reward me for my kindness?"
Wait, I died while cursing the author.
That wasn't a deadly sin, was it?
Heaven still accepts me, right?
"Heaven? What are you saying, my Lady?!" The maid wailed even louder.
Behind her, two other maids stood rigid, heads bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the floor. Their hands trembled against their aprons.
Something was very, very wrong.
"You are not in heaven, my Lady," the first maid whispered shakily. "You are in your chamber."
"My chamber?" I repeated dumbly. "Lady… what? I'm not a Lady!"
"Quick, summon the Duke!" the maid cried. One of the others bolted out, skirts swishing.
I stared at the remaining maid. At myself. At the blanket draped over me. It wasn't cheap polyester. It was brocade. Heavy, luxurious, lined with satin.
My fingers... slender, pale, elegant, manicured.
And my hair… something soft brushed against my cheek. Blue. Long. Curly. Shimmering like cotton candy under sunlight.
I yanked a handful. Not a wig. Real.
In a moment of sheer idiocy, I even licked it. Definitely hair. Not sweet.
The maid gasped. "Lady Liliane, what on earth?!"
"Wait. What did you call me?!" I snapped. "Lady… Liliane?"
"Yes, my Lady," she whispered, shaking.
"Who the hell is Liliane?!"
Panic surged. I stumbled across the room, nearly tripping over my own skirts, and stopped dead in front of a gilded mirror.
And there...
Not me.
A stranger stared back.
Snow-white skin, flawless as porcelain.
Candy-blue curls cascading down my shoulders.
Eyes pink as rose quartz, glittering with unnatural beauty.
A face so perfect it could start wars.
"Beautiful…" The word slipped from my lips. I touched my cheek, my lips. My heart hammered.
"Oh my God. This is me? THIS is my face?!"
The maid sobbed louder.
"I'M GORGEOUS!" I squealed, twirling like some deranged ballerina. "Oh my God, I could totally star in a K-drama skin care commercial right now!"
The maid: "My Lady!!!"
Me: striking poses like an influencer.
But then, like a bucket of ice water, the realization crashed down.
This wasn't me.
This wasn't my life.
This was hers.
Lady Liliane.
The Villainess.
The woman destined for ruin, for execution, for a tragic, bloody end.
And worse…
The one fated to die by the hand of...
Tristan.
My Tristan.
The name cut through my mind like a blade.
My bias. My love. My fictional husband.
The man I had spent hundreds of chapters defending, loving, and crying for... was now the man destined to kill me.