I have no clue where to begin—whether from my prior life or the one I'm presently starting to live. This is so bewildering; I'm uncertain if I'm dreaming or if this is hell since I'd certainly never don a cursed, frilly dress like this, and my body, what can I say about it? My once abundant chest and sizable behind are nowhere to be found.

Well, let me introduce myself. My name is Micaela Guzman, but most know me as Macky. I'm 29 years old. I know women are generally undervalued in most positions of significance, but that wasn't the case for me; here in Mexico, in my circle, people are judged by what they accomplish—if you doubt that, just look at 'The Queen of the South' haha.

Back to the story. My father saw great potential in me—enough to entrust me with the leadership of the cartel. Truth be told, at first, I couldn't believe it, especially having an older brother. Nonetheless, I was granted the helm.

For a few years, everything went smoothly. The cartel grew even stronger, pushing out almost all the upstarts that wanted to walk the same path I had tread.

What I never imagined was that my brother's jealousy would fester to the point where he ambushed us, leading to the death of both my father and me.

But he didn't get off scot-free. I fought back until I witnessed my father killed right before my eyes, which left me stunned for a moment—a moment my despicable brother didn't hesitate to exploit, unloading his weapon into me.

The last thing I saw, as if in slow motion, was my father's face, from which tears trickled down as he looked at my direction. I didn't know whether he was alive or not, but the pain of betrayal was evident in his expression. Before receiving the shot that ended my life, I gave him one last smile—perhaps to ease his soul into better rest. Then, I descended into total darkness.

In that place, it felt like an eternity—though I can't say exactly how long. Honestly, it seemed like a lengthy ordeal. Then, a point of light appeared before me. Driven as if pulled by it, I ran until I escaped the darkness and was blinded by the glaring light.

What happened next was even more perplexing; I found myself in a large room filled with pink curtains and old-fashioned adornments.

Suddenly, I recalled the gunfire. I hastily stripped off the grandmotherly gown I was wearing and started to examine my body, firstly shocked to find not a single bullet hole or scar. "Maybe I've been in a coma for so long that I've healed completely," I considered. Then came the second shock: my breasts were significantly smaller—gone was the D-cup size, albeit silicone, but still mine.

At that moment, I figured they might have been the reason I hadn't died and felt thankful for them.

Once more, I scanned my surroundings, clueless about where the hell I was. What followed was like a scene from a comedy. A woman entered and screamed—whether because I was awake or nearly naked, I couldn't tell. Two guards rushed in after her, their eyes bulging out and noses bleeding at the sight of my unclothed state. Thankfully, I wore some sort of undergarment resembling shorts, covering me from the waist down.

The guards quickly turned to leave, but in their haste, they collided with each other, turning in the same direction. While I wanted to laugh, the maiden's evident concern and horror-stricken face suggested this was no laughing matter.

Maiden: Not a word of this, unless you wish to see your heads roll.

The young girl's words sent the guards scrambling out as they shut the door behind them.

Maiden: My lady, you cannot be seen like this. What if someone else had entered? Your reputation would be tarnished.

Macky: Reputation? Excuse me, but who are you?

Her question made the poor girl gape as if her jaw had dropped.

Maiden: You—you truly do not remember me? *starts crying* I am your maid\, Rosita.

Macky: Forgive me, but I recall no Rosita. Now, tell me, did my father also survive?

Rosita was about to respond when Macky's intuition told her what she feared most.

Macky: No, don't tell me he died.

Rosita: No, my lady. Your father has not yet returned from the war. We've had no letters, which means he must be well and will return soon.

Macky: Which war, what are you talking about?

As Rosita fled to fetch the doctor, Macky was left more bewildered than ever.

Carefully, she rose from the bed and investigated the closet, only to find a selection of pompous dresses.

Macky: What the devil is all this? Where are my jeans, t-shirts, tops, gowns? This must truly be the damned inferno. Of that, I'm certain.

As she searched for something less extravagant, cursing under her breath, she realized she had no idea what was happening or where she was. It was only a matter of time before she exploded. Yes, I'm from Sinaloa, and fierce as the devil himself.

She was already dressed because that was all there was. Shortly after, the girl entered again and behind her an old man, who didn't look like a doctor, just in a white rag. Maybe he was one of those butcher doctors that exist in the underworld. (I hope you understand my reference; if not, ask and some good Mexican will explain it to you) This is where I began to fear, wondering whether I should trust him. No way, as the meme goes.

Rosita: My lady, why didn't you wait for another maiden to help you dress?

She asked me, distressed, to which I naturally replied.

Macky: Don't worry, girl, I'm not helpless.

Rosita: See, doctor, my lady speaks differently and acts differently, and she says she doesn't know who I am.

Doctor: Good morning, Miss Sol, could you lie down so that I could examine you?

Macky: Haha, Sol! Sorry, but that's not my name.

Doctor: Relax, miss, you took a heavy blow to the head when you fell down the stairs. Perhaps your brain is still a bit swollen.

When the doctor said that, a sharp pain struck my head, and I returned to that dark place, appearing on a kind of stage where I was a spectator.

First Scene

A mother giving birth to a girl, the handmaids bustling to stop the mother's bleeding.

"Please, bring my baby to me. I need to say goodbye," said the woman who had just given birth while the glow in her eyes slowly faded.

The woman hesitated at her words but, without thinking too much, passed her the child.

"My lady, don't talk like that. You will live a long life beside your daughter and the duke."

"No, Magnolia, I do not have much time. Please take care of her as you did with me. Don't let her suffer, please. I know Sebastian will mourn my departure, but do not let my little one resent it."

"I will do so, my lady. Your little girl will be my priority from today."

"Thank you, Magnolia."

After that brief talk, the woman passed something to the little baby, it was like a dazzling light but lasted only a few seconds, and it seemed only I could see it.

That scene vanished, and I was in a room beside a little girl.

The girl was weeping inconsolably; beside her was the same lady from the birth, her name was Magnolia, and another girl, very similar to Rosita but younger.

"My lady, you know what your father is like; what he said was just because he was upset, don't take it to heart."

"No, Magnolia, my father doesn't love me; he hates me because my mother died, he always tells me so. I don't understand why my mommy didn't take me with her," she sobbed.

"Don't say that, my lady," said the little one, as she handed a small first-aid kit to Lady Magnolia.

I hadn't noticed the young girl's swollen face before. What kind of bastard had done this to her? I was so stupid; it was her bloody father.

Then, many scenes of disdain passed through my mind, like a summary, until reaching another scenario.

A young girl, no more than 15 years old, delicate features marking the transition from child to woman.

In that scene, her father appeared, accompanied by a woman and another girl of roughly the same age, but this other one had a certain something about her that made me uneasy. Let's say female or killer intuition in my case, as in my former life I always had to be one step ahead of those who wanted to harm me. It's a pity I never doubted that damn brother of mine. Well, the thing is that this young girl didn't seem nice at all.

Duke: Sol, this is my new wife, and she will be your sister from now on.

Sol: Pleased to meet you," she said with a lowered head.

"What? Do you not have a name to properly introduce yourself as is proper?" said the man with a troubled expression. "Forgive her. I guess the tutors I've hired haven't been good enough with her education."

"Don't worry, dear. I'll take care of her from now on. I promise her education will be my priority."

"Thank you, Maricela. Now go on and get settled, choose whichever room you like best."

"Really, any room I like, Father?" said the girl with a touch of enthusiasm in her voice but with an undertone of malice.

"Of course, Sandra. You may choose the room you like."

"Thank you, Father," she said with a deep bow, then turned on her heel and headed for the bedrooms to choose her favorite.

Shortly after, a dispute was heard on the second floor of the house. This was the first time Sol had fought for something. Her new sister was trying to kick her out of her room, starting to throw her things out, breaking the only picture, or rather painting, of her mother. Sol was turned away, so when Sandra saw her mother and new father coming, she hit her cheek and threw herself to the floor to feign a slap.

"What is going on here?" the duke shouted.

"Father, your daughter hit me. I didn't know this was her room, and I liked it. Then I accidentally knocked over a small painting of a woman, and she started yelling at me. I tried to apologize, but as you can see, she dragged me out and hit me."

A trace of annoyance crossed the duke's eyes when the painting was mentioned, but he concealed it.

"Sol, apologize to your sister."

"But Father, I didn't..."

The sound of a slap echoed in the hallway.

"I told you to apologize."

She just rubbed her cheek and managed to apologize. Then she went into her room and locked it.

"Forgive Sol. This is new for her. You may choose any other room," said the duke before leaving the area.

"At least he didn't take the room away. I would have been even more pissed if he had done that. What a damned harpy, and only a child at that; I can't imagine what the mother is like."

The following days were not much different. That girl played innocent, always finding situations where, unfortunately, Sol ended up looking bad.

"Damn it, I would've already beaten the hell out of her by now, dragged her through the house, taken her to the stable and thrown her in the cow dung. If they were going to hit me or punish me anyway, it might as well be for a good reason."

New Setting

I was at a grand celebration thronged with endless throngs of peers milling about. Strolling through the venue, it was as if I were invisible, moving freely amongst them. I'd heard it was a traditional coming-of-age soiree. It seemed all the ladies here were sweet sixteen and, according to these ignorants, ripe for matrimonial pursuits. Blimey, I had reached the ripe old age of 29 without even falling in love. But it was the era that was to blame, not them.

From afar, I spotted Sol, alone and overlooked, no one invited her to dance, in stark contrast to another girl who mingled with ease like a fish in water.

Suddenly, I sensed a gaze, as if it landed on me, but in reality, it was Sol who drew the eyes.

A lad, a touch older than the rest—say nineteen or twenty—but with a modest crown placed upon his brow. Damnation, a prince no less, and his eyes had found where Sol sat.

The evening turned wondrous for her. She became the envy of the lot, for the prince clung to her side throughout the festivities.

For a time, I thought this a positive turn, hoping she'd finally shake off that unsavory family of hers.

Then there unfurled a whirlwind of images; Sol betrothed to the prince, weeks or even months flitting by in hazy succession, the images flickering so swiftly it was a muddle to grasp the full tale.

Each time the prince visited Sol's residence, it was clear: he was smitten, and she with him. Yet the stepsister seized each chance to sidle up to him, striving to besmirch Sol during every encounter.

During one visit, the prince succumbed to such flirtation, resulting in a stolen kiss.

"In the end, a man is a man, letting the head below rule over the one above."

Though the prince loved Sol, he was physically enticed by Sandra, who could grant what Sol wouldn't until wed. He pondered making Sandra his concubine post-nuptials, contemplating a happy ever after for all.

Sol soon became aware of her sister's actions and her betrothed's betrayal, with Sandra gleefully flaunting it. Provocations by Sandra pushed Sol until she could bear no more, striking her sister in front of a crowd. Precisely the reaction the viper had hoped to instigate, aiming to dismantle Sol's engagement, supplanting her as the bride. Not a difficult feat, as passion had entwined Sol.

The prince had proposed a concubine's position to her, to which she agreed—though it wasn't the role she yearned for. Therefore, she vowed to scheme and outwit to usurp Sol.

Naturally, the whispers reached the prince, sowing discord.

Next scene: Sol at the guillotine, her father's eyes steeped in unfamiliar sorrow, yet inert. Her nannies, Magnolia and Rosita, prostrated, pleading for mercy on behalf of their innocent miss. Her sister's sneer was barely veiled behind her guise of seriousness, mirrored by her stepmother's façade. "Damned women," the only verdict I could muster as my gaze turned to the damned prince.

"Damn scoundrel, all your false professions of love, you lying cur. How did it come to this?"

This questioned Macky, who was baffled, missing the preceding events until now.

"Hey, Macky!"

A familiar voice called out to me, confusing me further. I had been wandering through someone else's memories until now.

"Hello!"

I returned the greeting, curiosity laced in my tone, as a young woman materialized before me. It was none other than Sol, the girl unjustly beheaded.

"This is my true tale, sorrowful, isn't it?" she inquired but continued, "The trouble is, my soul can't find peace. You've seen my life was replete with injustice and agony. Please, deliver justice, so I may rest. In exchange, you'll earn an endless span of life."

At that moment, I realized I was deceased, not much else to occupy me, yet inquiries needed voicing.

"Would it bother you if I altered everything you know? After all, I hail from a different time, my perspectives far more progressive than those prevalent in your era," I asked, uncertain of how much should change or if I might just do as I please.

"My life is not mine anymore. Act as you wish, but those who wronged me must face retribution."

"Are you certain, even your father?" I probed, having seen in my visions her affection for him despite their estrangement, those feelings hers, not mine.

"My father... No bitterness do I harbor; his eyes betrayed remorse. Blinded, perchance, by the loss of his love—had my mother lived, my destiny could diverge. Thus, I don't blame him."

"Very well, I'll consider his fate, guided by forthcoming events."

"Thank you. I'm relieved you've chosen to replace me. Just remember the time you're in, tread carefully—male chauvinism is rife. Now awaken, you fainted."

"Wait, why were you executed? Tell me."

"Goodbye, Macky—no, Sol. To query your question, sometimes tales are poorly retold, recounted by those ill-equipped. Remember, LOVE ABOVE ALL."

"What! You mean to say I'm that Sol? Answer me, where the devil did you vanish to?" I cursed, unable to fathom my presence in a tedious and pathetic novel.

So, her life is a novel, yet she craves vengeance; what have I to do with a fantasy world that doesn't even exist?

Damn it, no replies forthcoming, the girl was a fool, her end came most foolishly at the hand of a fool, and now, holding her memories, I see the so-called protagonist is rubbish, and the story bears no semblance to their genuine lives.

Yes, this novel's heroine, that Sandra, and the villainess, the accursed wretch, one Sol D'Angelo.

One must never rush to judge; there are always reasons for certain behaviors.