Episode 3

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.