"Yes! Kill the villain! How dare he try to hurt our handsome Seb!"

And that was how it all began—my unexpected journey into a clichéd old-school romance novel, the kind where the protagonists get their happy ending and the obsessed villain meets his doom. Just another ordinary story where the male lead had it all—power, looks, and a tragic past.

Elina was a quiet girl, always minding her own business. As a writer, she often traveled in search of inspiration. Her life was simple, peaceful, and uneventful.

After finishing the novel, she walked toward the kitchen for her usual late-night dinner—something she always looked forward to. But fate had other plans. One misstep on the stairs, and everything turned black.

Heaven? Maybe. Only God knows what sins she had committed to deserve such an abrupt end—dead at the young age of 27. Her only regret? Never falling in love with someone who truly cared. Never experiencing the kind of love she poured into her stories.

She had been in a relationship once, but it had been one-sided. After her boyfriend lost his job, he became financially dependent on her. At first, he tried—attending interviews, sending resumes—but as time passed, he gave up. He spent his days idle and his nights drinking. Eventually, their love turned into bitterness, ending in an ugly breakup.

“Am I… in heaven?” Elina murmured, glancing around the unfamiliar room. It looked surreal—an elegant space with luxurious furniture, soft cream-colored walls, and a bed that felt like a cloud.

“Sis?”

A young, handsome man entered, likely in his early twenties. His voice was full of concern.

“Wait—I’ll call the doctor,” he said quickly, pulling out his phone and leaving the room.

Elina slowly stood, her legs shaky, and walked toward the mirror. Her eyes widened in shock. She remembered falling—dying, even. So how had she ended up here? And more importantly… who was this girl in the mirror?

“This… isn’t me,” she whispered.

Hazel-green eyes stared back at her, set in a delicate, porcelain-like face. Silky, slightly curled black hair framed her features. She used to be considered cute, but now… she looked ethereal. Like a fairy plucked straight out of a dream.

“Vi... Vivian... Sis,” the young man called as he re-entered, accompanied by someone who appeared to be a doctor.

Elina—now Vivian—turned around slowly to face them.

“Sis, what are you doing? Come, lie down. Let the doctor check you,” the young man said gently, extending his hand to help her back to bed.

She took it hesitantly, still dazed.

“Hmm... What’s your name?” Vivian asked quietly, her voice laced with uncertainty.

He paused for a moment, as if bracing himself. He had expected this—but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“August. August Ashford,” he replied with a small smile. “I’m your older brother.”

“You are Vivian Ashford,” he continued softly. “The only daughter of Caspian Ashford and Marlyn Hale. You may not remember now, but that’s okay. Your memories will return in time. And even if they don’t… I’ll be right here."

Vivian lay quietly in bed, her mind still struggling to make sense of everything. August sat beside her, answering the doctor’s questions while occasionally glancing over with concern in his eyes. He looked calm on the outside, but she could sense the tension in his posture—like he was trying too hard to stay composed.

The doctor checked her pulse and examined her eyes. “Physically, she’s fine,” he said. “The memory loss may be temporary. Trauma-induced amnesia is common in cases like these.”

August nodded silently, then walked the doctor to the door. As the room quieted again, Vivian glanced around, trying to absorb the details—family photos on the shelf, a soft breeze fluttering the curtains, and the faint scent of lavender in the air.

None of it felt familiar, yet strangely… it didn’t feel wrong either.

Moments later, August returned with a warm cup of tea. “Here. This might help.”

She took it gratefully. “Thank you.”

A silence lingered between them—gentle, not awkward.

“Do you remember anything?” he asked carefully.

Vivian shook her head. “Nothing. Not even my name… until you said it.”

August smiled faintly. “You used to love books. I used to catch you reading late at night under the covers.”

A spark lit in Vivian’s eyes. “I like books,” she said softly. “I think… I always did.”

He smiled more genuinely now. “That’s something.”

As she sipped her tea, the door creaked open again.

“Vivian…”

That voice. Deep, low, and emotional.

A tall, striking man entered the room. Jet black hair, sharp jawline, stormy blue eyes rimmed with redness. He looked like someone out of a dream—or maybe a nightmare.

August immediately stood, blocking his path. “Valentine—don’t rush her. She just woke up.”

Valentine didn’t even glance at him. His eyes were locked on Vivian, as if she was all he had been searching for.

Vivian blinked, taken aback by his intensity. She didn’t recognize him, but there was something… painful in his expression. Like he had waited lifetimes to see her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just—needed to see you.”

“Who are you?” she asked, cautious.

He took a step forward, slowly. “Valentine Valare. Your fiancé.”

Valentine... The name echoed in her mind.

Valentine—the villain from the novel. After Vivian’s death in the story, he had lost all sense of sanity. Devastated and broken, he became obsessed with the female lead, Selena Hale—Vivian’s cousin, who shared the same hazel-green eyes.

Selena had been drawn to him at first—he was, after all, a perfect man. But being involved with her dead cousin’s fiancé felt wrong. She couldn’t bring herself to be someone’s stand-in.

So she rejected him and chose the male lead, Sebastian.

Valentine, unwilling to let go, did everything he could to win her back—even attempted to kill Sebastian.

His obsession grew so deep, he even forced Selena to dye her beautiful blonde hair black.

To be continued...

Vivian sat quietly by the window, her fingers wrapped around a warm cup of tea. The sky outside was overcast, a soft drizzle painting the glass in gentle patterns. The world around her looked beautiful, elegant, and far too perfect. Like something out of a story.

Because it was.

She wasn’t Vivian Ashford. She was Elina Reeves—27 years old, aspiring author, lover of midnight coffee and rainy novels. She had slipped and died. Or so she thought.

And now, she was inside a book.

Every detail confirmed it: August Ashford, the cold but caring brother. Valentine Valare, the emotionally broken fiancé. The names, the events—it all aligned perfectly with the romance novel she read before she died.

Except… the real Vivian had died in the story.

Elina was not supposed to be here.

Her hands trembled slightly as she touched her face again, still unfamiliar to her. Hazel green eyes, soft skin, and hair that fell in dark curls. A face she now wore—but not her own.

“Vivian,” August’s voice called gently from the door. “Feeling better?”

She blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. “Yes. Just… thinking.”

He walked in with a small book in hand. “I thought this might help. It’s your journal. You used to write in it all the time.”

Elina took it slowly, flipping through the pages. Most of them were empty. But some were filled with graceful, elegant handwriting. Nothing too personal—mostly thoughts, quotes, and poetry.

“I liked writing?” she asked, almost amused by the irony.

August nodded. “You did. Not stories, but... feelings. You used to say words helped you breathe.”

She smiled faintly. That part, at least, felt familiar.

As he left her to rest, she reopened the journal and let her thoughts spill onto a fresh page.

“I don’t belong here.”

“I am not Vivian.”

“But if I have to live as her... then I’ll protect her story. Even if it wasn’t mine to begin with.”

The door creaked again.

Valentine.

She didn’t need to look to know it was him. His presence was like gravity—heavy, electric, impossible to ignore.

He stood quietly, a bouquet of white gardenias in his hand.

“I thought you might like these,” he said softly. “They were your favorite.”

She accepted them with a small nod. “Thank you.”

An awkward silence stretched between them. Vivian didn’t know how to act. She remembered how his character unraveled in the story—how he turned cruel, desperate, and obsessive after Vivian’s death.

But now, standing in front of her, he looked nothing like a villain.

Just a man on the verge of breaking.

“I know you don’t remember,” he said, his voice strained. “But I’ve waited... every day. Hoping I’d see your eyes again. Hear your voice.”

Vivian's heart twisted. She didn’t know how to answer without breaking the illusion—or his heart.

“I’m trying,” she whispered. “I just need a little time.”

He nodded slowly, clenching his fists as if holding back a thousand words.

Then, just before he turned to leave, he said, “I never got to tell you... not even once.”

“Tell me what?”

He looked at her then, eyes shining.

“That I loved you. From the very beginning.”

And with that, he walked away.

Vivian sat motionless, the flowers trembling in her lap. She knew the story. She knew where it was supposed to go.

But now that she was inside it, nothing felt certain anymore.

Not even her own heart.