Chapter 1: The Rage-Quit Wake-Up Call
Charlie Lawson was the epitome of a millennial burnout. At twenty-eight, he lived in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in Bushwick, Brooklyn, where the rent ate half his paycheck from his soul-crushing job as a tech support specialist for a mid-tier software company. His days blurred into a monotonous cycle: wake up to the blare of his alarm, chug black coffee that tasted like regret, field calls from irate customers yelling about glitchy apps, and collapse back home to binge on cheap takeout and mindless scrolling. Tonight was no different—except for the seething rage building inside him as he hunkered down with his laptop.
The culprit? Empire of Hearts, a godawful web novel he'd stumbled upon during a late-night Reddit rabbit hole. It was the kind of trashy romance that hooked you with its absurdity: a rags-to-riches heroine, Summer Quinn, who somehow attracted a revolving door of simps—wealthy heirs, brooding CEOs, and even a celebrity athlete—all vying for her attention while she played the innocent damsel. But the real kicker was the antagonist: a spoiled rich kid named Charlie Lawson. Yeah, same damn name. In the story, this fictional Charlie was a walking disaster—obsessed with Summer to the point of bankrupting his family's Wall Street empire, alienating everyone, and ending up broke and alone. "What a pathetic loser," real-Charlie muttered through a mouthful of cold pizza. "Dude, just walk away. She's not worth it."
He'd been hate-reading the series for weeks, leaving snarky comments on every chapter. Tonight's update was particularly infuriating: Fictional-Charlie had just blown a million bucks on a yacht party to impress Summer, only for her to ditch him for one of her other admirers. "This author must hate men," Charlie grumbled, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He typed out his longest rant yet: "Yo, author—why make the villain such a simp? Let him grow a pair and go for the villainess instead. Lindsay Vaughn's the only character with brains in this mess. She's smart, ambitious, and doesn't need a knight in shining armor. Hell, she'd probably eat these guys for breakfast. #DitchTheHeroine #TeamVillainess."
Satisfied with his digital mic drop, Charlie slammed the laptop shut. The room spun slightly from exhaustion—or maybe the three energy drinks he'd downed. He didn't bother brushing his teeth; he just stripped down to his boxers and face-planted onto his lumpy mattress. "Tomorrow's another day in hell," he thought as sleep claimed him. Little did he know, tomorrow would be a whole new kind of hell.
The first thing Charlie noticed upon waking was the absence of his usual backache. His bed felt… luxurious? Soft, like clouds wrapped in silk. He groaned and stretched, expecting the familiar creak of his IKEA frame, but instead, his arms flailed into empty space. His eyes snapped open. Sunlight poured through massive floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden hue over a sprawling penthouse suite. Skyscrapers loomed outside, the iconic Manhattan skyline stretching endlessly. "What the actual fuck?"
He bolted upright, heart pounding. This wasn't his apartment. Hell, this wasn't even Brooklyn. The room was a minimalist dream: white marble floors, a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, abstract art on the walls that probably cost more than his annual salary. A sleek digital clock on the nightstand read 7:45 AM. Charlie swung his legs over the side, his bare feet hitting cool stone. He caught his reflection in a full-length mirror across the room. It was him—sort of. Same messy brown hair, same hazel eyes, same five-o'clock shadow. But his body? Toned, like he'd been hitting the gym instead of the couch. And his face—sharper jawline, no bags under the eyes. "Did I get kidnapped and… upgraded?"
Panic surged as fragmented memories trickled in. Not his memories—someone else's. Flashes of boardrooms, private jets, gala events. He was Charlie Lawson, heir to Lawson Investments, a multi-billion-dollar hedge fund dominating Wall Street. Born into old money, educated at Harvard, with a trust fund that could buy small countries. But these weren't just random thoughts; they felt implanted, like downloading a character's backstory in a video game.
"Oh shit," Charlie whispered, the pieces clicking. "This is Empire of Hearts. I'm inside the damn book." He paced the room, running a hand through his hair. It made no sense—isekai tropes were for anime, not real life. But the evidence was undeniable. He grabbed a phone from the nightstand—a cutting-edge prototype with holographic displays, straight out of the novel's futuristic tech elements. Scrolling through contacts: Dad (Victor Lawson, the ruthless patriarch), Mom (Eleanor, the socialite queen), and… Summer Quinn. Her name popped up with a heart emoji, courtesy of the original Charlie's obsession.
Today was the day. In the book, this was Chapter 1's big scene: The annual Metropolitan Gala, where Charlie first meets Summer and kicks off his downward spiral. He'd spot her across the room, fall head over heels, and start showering her with gifts, favors, and undivided attention—all while ignoring the red flags. Her manipulative charm would hook him, leading to rivalries with her other suitors, family feuds, and eventual ruin. "Not happening," Charlie declared to the empty room. "I'm not that idiot. Screw the plot—I'm rewriting this shit."
He opened the closet: rows of tailored suits from Armani and Tom Ford, shoes polished to a mirror shine. He picked a sleek black tuxedo, dressing quickly while plotting his escape from canon. "First things first: Ghost Summer. No contact, no drama." He texted his assistant—a efficient woman named Carla, per the memories: Cancel any plans involving Summer Quinn. Focus on Vaughn Tech instead. Schedule a meeting with Lindsay Vaughn ASAP.
Lindsay Vaughn. The "villainess" of the story. In the novel, she was painted as the cold, calculating antagonist—heiress to a Silicon Valley AI conglomerate, always scheming to undermine Summer for vague reasons like jealousy or business rivalry. But Charlie, the reader, knew better. Lindsay's "evil" actions were contrived plot devices; in reality (or book-reality), she was a brilliant innovator, orphaned young and fighting tooth and nail to protect her company's legacy. She had depth—passions for ethical AI, environmental causes, and indie rock bands. "If anyone's worth pursuing, it's her," Charlie thought with a grin. "Smart, independent, and probably won't bankrupt me."
His phone buzzed: Carla's reply. Understood, Mr. Lawson. Gala still on? Vaughn meeting slotted for tomorrow morning. Charlie typed back: Gala yes, but keep it professional. No heroics.
He headed to the kitchen—a gourmet setup with a personal chef on call. Whipping up a quick espresso (way better than his old Keurig), he mulled over his advantages. As a穿越者—isekai protagonist, basically—he had meta-knowledge of the plot. He knew every twist, every betrayal. Plus, his real-world skills: coding, tech savvy from his old job, and a healthy dose of cynicism. "This world runs on novel logic—tropes and coincidences. But I'm bringing real strategy."
A knock at the door. "Mr. Lawson? Your car's ready for the office." The voice belonged to his driver, Marcus. Charlie grabbed a briefcase (filled with documents he vaguely recalled) and stepped out into the hallway. The elevator ride down was a blur of luxury—mirrored walls, soft jazz playing. Emerging into the lobby of his Upper East Side building, he was greeted by doormen in crisp uniforms. A black Mercedes-Maybach waited curbside.
As the car weaved through morning traffic toward Wall Street, Charlie's mind raced. Risks: If he deviated too much, the "book world" might correct itself—glitches, forced events, or worse. But staying on script meant doom. "Better to go rogue," he decided. He pulled up the novel's app on his phone—wait, did this world have the web novel? A quick search: Yes, Empire of Hearts existed here as a popular online series, meta as hell. His old comments were even there, including last night's rant. "Weird flex, universe."
Arriving at Lawson Investments' towering headquarters, Charlie strode through the lobby like he owned the place—which he kind of did. Employees nodded deferentially. In his corner office on the 50th floor, with views of the Hudson River, he dove into work. The original Charlie was a slacker heir, but this one? Productive. He reviewed portfolios, spotting opportunities the book never mentioned—like investing in emerging AI startups. "Vaughn Tech's undervalued," he noted, pulling up their stock charts.
By afternoon, doubts crept in. Was this permanent? Could he get back home? But home was mediocre at best—bills, loneliness, no prospects. Here? Power, wealth, a chance to fix a broken story. "Might as well enjoy it."
Evening approached: The gala. Charlie suited up again, adding a silver tie clip for flair. In the limo en route to the Met, he rehearsed his plan: Avoid Summer at all costs. Seek out Lindsay. Start building alliances. "Game on."
The Metropolitan Museum of Art buzzed with New York's elite—celebrities, moguls, politicians. Flashbulbs popped as Charlie stepped onto the red carpet. Whispers followed: "That's Charlie Lawson—future king of Wall Street." He smiled for the cameras, feeling the adrenaline.
Inside, the grand hall shimmered with crystal chandeliers and orchestral music. Champagne flutes clinked. And there she was: Summer Quinn, radiant in a scarlet gown, surrounded by admirers. Her laughter tinkled like wind chimes—calculated, per the book. Their eyes met briefly; she smiled expectantly, waiting for him to approach.
Charlie turned away. "Not today, Satan." He grabbed a drink from a passing tray and scanned the crowd. Spotting Lindsay Vaughn in a corner, nursing a glass of wine. She wore an emerald dress that hugged her figure, her dark hair in an elegant updo. Green eyes sharp, posture unyielding. The villainess in the flesh.
Taking a deep breath, Charlie walked over. "Ms. Vaughn? Charlie Lawson. Pleasure to meet you."
She glanced up, expression neutral. "Mr. Lawson. I've heard of your family. What brings you my way?"
"Business, mostly. And maybe a bit of admiration for your work in AI ethics." He kept it light, genuine.
Lindsay arched an eyebrow, intrigued. For the first time, the plot cracked—and Charlie felt the rush of victory.
Little did he know, this was just the beginning. The night would unfold with unexpected alliances, whispered threats, and the first hints of a romance that could rewrite everything.