Eris Hale died. Not from heartbreak, though she'd had plenty. Not from exhaustion, though she'd spent her life giving more than she had. No, her end came courtesy of a porcelain pot, dropped from a window she never saw.
She had survived worse. A childhood of abandonment. A lifetime of being everyone's helper, never anyone's priority. She had smiled through grief, through rejection, through the quiet ache of being invisible. And just when she decided to change, just when she whispered "no" to herself like a sacred vow, life answered with silence.
But death was not the end.
When she opened her eyes again, she wasn't in a hospital. She wasn't in heaven, or hell, or anywhere she recognized. She was in a story. The Prince's Obsession, a romance novel she read on lonely nights. And she wasn't just any character. She was the villainess. The one with her name. The one destined to fall.
Eris Hale had no interest in playing the part. She didn't want revenge. She didn't want attention. She wanted peace. Quiet. A life where she could finally choose herself. True love.
But stories have rules. And fate, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor.