When she finally processed what the man just said, everything around her froze.
The air, the walls, the sound of her own breathing—everything stopped. Her brain, however, was running laps like an Olympic sprinter.
"Did he just say… the younger one?" she muttered to herself, blinking at the gorgeous man in front of her who looked like he'd been sculpted by the combined effort of Greek gods and a full glam squad.
The beauty beside her—her supposed "sister"—was trembling, pleading desperately.
"No! Please, she's still young," the girl cried, her voice trembling but still steady with courage. "She's innocent. If you must take someone, take me. I'll do anything, I swear. She doesn't even know how to please men, but I— I can learn. I'm willing."
Zara's mouth dropped open. Excuse me?
She wanted to raise a hand and say, Wait, time out, what in the Fifty Shades of kidnapping is going on here?
But the words got stuck in her throat when the man leaned back into his chair. The shadows shifted slightly, revealing his full face — sharp jawline, those eyes like storm clouds before rain, and lips so perfect they made her forget her GPA, her debts, her period—everything.
"My, my," he said slowly, a small smile playing on his lips. "So the elder one volunteers herself."
His voice was deep and rich, like melted chocolate mixed with danger.
The beautiful girl nodded desperately. "Please. Spare her. I'll do whatever you ask."
Zara's heart thudded in her chest, but for all the wrong reasons. She wasn't scared — oh no. She was starstruck.
She stared, jaw slack, mind blank. "Dear Lord," she thought, "the word handsome was invented for this man. Is this how angels look when they get demoted to hell?"
If this was a dream, she wanted to stay asleep forever. Preferably with a pillow made of his voice.
The man's gaze slid toward her, the supposed "younger sister," and she almost forgot to breathe.
He tilted his head, observing her with the kind of curiosity people reserve for exotic animals. "She seems docile. Quiet. I like quiet."
Docile? Zara almost scoffed aloud. "Docile your mama. I'm only quiet because I'm confused, dehydrated, and currently in the middle of a low-budget James Bond situation."
But before she could even open her mouth, the elder sister hurriedly interrupted again.
"She's not a virgin," the girl blurted out. "She had a boyfriend once! I'm still pure!"
Zara froze. "WHAT—"
Her brain exploded like popcorn in a microwave. Did she just throw me under the purity bus?!
Even the man blinked, mildly entertained. "Not a virgin, you say?"
The way he said it—so calm, so intrigued—made Zara want to dissolve into thin air.
The sister continued hurriedly, "Yes, but I'm experienced. I know how to… satisfy. I'm more useful to you than she is."
Zara blinked once. Twice. Then internally screamed. Useful? Girl, this isn't a résumé interview for 'chief mistress' position!
The man chuckled, low and cold. "Interesting."
He leaned back further, one leg crossing over the other, and his shoe gleamed under the dim light—so polished she could probably see her confused reflection in it.
Zara suddenly felt dizzy.
No, not from the absurdity of the scene, but from the painfully sharp déjà vu clawing at her skull.
The lines, the words, the entire situation—it all sounded too familiar.
"Wait," she whispered. "No way."
She shut her eyes tight, mind flipping through old memories like a broken slideshow.
Two sisters… debt… a basement… a handsome villain…
Her eyes shot open.
"Oh, no no no. Don't tell me…"
She looked from the crying sister to the smirking man.
"This can't be happening," she muttered under her breath, panic rising.
It hit her like a freight train full of overdue assignments.
She knew this story.
Every line, every word.
Because she'd read it.
"Bomboclaat," she whispered. "I'm in that stupid novel."
Her jaw clenched as memories came rushing back. That godforsaken book. She'd read it last semester during exam week because her roommate said it was "life-changing." Yeah, life-changing in the sense that it made her want to throw her phone across the room.
The younger sister—sweet, pretty, useless—gets kidnapped with her older sister. The older one sacrifices herself to save her, offering herself to the male lead. But then, plot twist—the younger one falls in love with the same man and turns into a full-time villainess.
Zara had hated that story.
Actually, despised it.
She remembered throwing her phone on the bed and ranting aloud for an hour:
"Who even writes this nonsense? The little sister's ungrateful, the man's a narcissist, and the author clearly hates peace!"
And now?
Now she was sitting in the middle of that nonsense.
Correction—she was the nonsense.
She slowly looked down at her pale hands—hands that didn't belong to her.
"Oh God…" she whispered. "I'm the crazy little sister."
For a moment, the room blurred. The handsome man was still talking, probably deciding who to take, but she couldn't hear a word.
Her brain was screaming.
This isn't real. It can't be real. I was just in class flirting with my professor's face! How did I end up in Discount Drama 101?!
The elder sister sobbed again, clinging to the man's leg, begging him to spare her.
Zara just stared blankly, her mind going through stages of grief at record speed.
Denial.
Anger.
Confusion.
Horny realization.
And finally—acceptance.
"Alright," she whispered, straightening her back. "If I'm really that ungrateful brat, I'm rewriting history."
She wasn't going to hate this girl. She wasn't going to steal anyone's man. And she definitely wasn't going to play along with any nonsense patriarchal drama.
But… she could still appreciate the view.
I mean, come on. The man was illegally fine.
Zara sighed dramatically and muttered under her breath,
"If this is a dream, God, don't wake me up yet. At least not before I get that man's number."
Somewhere in the dim-lit basement, t
he man's eyes flickered toward her again, as if he'd heard her.
And she swore—just for a second—he smirked.
---