The first thing I felt when I woke up was a strange kind of stillness. The air was warm, perfumed with roses, but it also felt heavy—too heavy, like it was holding some secret it didn't want to give up. I opened my eyes slowly, and the ceiling above me was so tall it felt like I was staring into the sky.
This... was not my room.
I sat up fast, my heart racing. Velvet blankets. Gold-trimmed curtains. A chandelier that looked like it cost more than my entire apartment back home. I wasn't dreaming. I wasn't in my world anymore.
Then I remembered.
I had fallen asleep like normal, exhausted and numb after another ordinary day in my painfully ordinary life. Always passed over. Always rejected. At school. At home. In love. In everything.
But now I was here. Somewhere impossible.
I scrambled to the edge of the bed and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My breath caught. That wasn't my usual self—puffy-eyed and messy-haired. This girl had smooth skin, long black hair cascading over her shoulders, and a nightgown that looked like it was stitched by fairies.
"What the hell…" I whispered.
Then the door opened.
And she walked in.
Tall, elegant, golden-haired, with a face like a porcelain doll and eyes like sharpened ice. My stomach flipped.
That looked like Elizabeth.
Elizabeth from My Sweet Revenge.
I blinked, frozen. That couldn't be. Could it?
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at me, her lips curling in a smug little smile I knew all too well.
"Going to have to try harder than that, Isabella, if you want to win over the prince," she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
My blood turned to ice.
Isabella.
She just called me Isabella.
That was the name of the side character—the sad, quiet one. The girl who always trailed behind Elizabeth. The girl who, in the book, tried to win the prince's heart but always lost. The girl who was forgotten by the last chapter.
Oh my god. I wasn't just in some castle—I had transmigrated into the actual book.
Into My Sweet Revenge.
I staggered back a step, and Elizabeth—no, Elizabeth from the book, the villainess sister—just smirked.
She turned on her heel, her gown flowing behind her like she was born to make people feel small.
And I just stood there, every neuron in my brain firing off in panic.
This was real.
I was Isabella now.
I was in the story.
And I knew how this played out. Elizabeth wins the prince. Always. She plays the perfect lady. Manipulates everyone. Ruins Isabella's chances. And Isabella? She's the leftover. The failed romantic interest. A side note in someone else's fairytale.
Not this time.
If I was really inside the book, and I could remember the whole plot—then I could change it. I had to change it.
I wasn't going to be the forgotten girl in the corner. Not when I had the entire story in my head. Not when I knew what was coming next.
And then another realization hit me like a lightning bolt:
If I played this right, my version of the story wouldn't just change the ending—it would become the story.
The door creaked again.
A maid peeked in, bowing quickly. "Your Highness, the prince is waiting for you in the garden."
The garden.
Of course. This was the first meeting scene. The one where Elizabeth "accidentally" bumps into the prince and captures his attention before Isabella ever gets the chance.
But not today.
I tightened the robe around me and stepped forward, fire in my veins.
If the plot wanted me to lose...
I'd just rewrite it.