I thought I died protecting my brother from my stepfather... but when I opened my eyes, I was no longer me—I was her.
The wicked Countess Bettina Whitman: hated by nobles, feared by servants... and left to die in that forgotten part of the estate.
Problem is, I'm not the villainess. I'm just a regular girl from Earth with zero survival skills, accidentally dropped into a fantasy world of political games, noble scandals, and oh—magic.
Now I have to stay alive, raise a stepson, deal with a brooding and suspicious (not to mention insanely handsome) Earl who hates my guts, and uncover who murdered my new body's parents…
No pressure, right?
💜 Fantasy. Romance. Mystery. Magic. A second chance at life.⚔️ Watch a villainess rewrite her fate—one plot twist at a time.
*****---*****
This novel contains depictions and/or strong implications of the following:
Mature Themes including
Violence Against Women
Domestic Abuse
Suicide
Reach out for help if:
- You or someone you know is experiencing a crisis;
- You are worried about a friend or a loved one;
- Or you need emotional support.
If it is an emergency,
Please call 911 or your local emergency services.
Crisis Text line – Text REASON to 741741 (in the US or Canada)
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Reader discretion is advised.
*****---*****
Chapter 1: The End and the Beginning
The scent of cigarette smoke clung to the thin curtains, staining the stale air of the cramped apartment. Mary Jane sat hunched on the worn-out couch, her fingers tracing the torn edges of the small, brown envelope in her lap. The dim flicker of the small television cast weak shadows against the peeling wallpaper, but she hardly noticed.
"Sis... how much did they give you? Is it enough?" Ethan's small voice broke through the thick silence.
Her stepbrother leaned close, his wide brown eyes darting between her face and the crumpled bills she clutched. He looked far too young to understand how much life could disappoint you — but the hunger in his gaze told her he already did.
Mary Jane's throat tightened. She peeled open the envelope again, counting the bills. Barely enough for rent. Maybe a few groceries if she stretched it. But definitely not enough to escape.
She forced a smile, gently brushing a hand through Ethan's messy hair. "It's enough to get by," she whispered, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.
The front door creaked open, and every muscle in Mary Jane's body tensed. Heavy footsteps shuffled down the hallway, the sharp stench of alcohol wafting ahead of him. Coins jingled in his pocket — the sound she had learned to fear more than any shout or slap.
Hurriedly she stuffed the bills back into the envelope and shoved it in her jeans' back pocket.
"New job, huh?" His voice was a low sneer, cutting through the stale air. "Finally pulling your weight... guess I'll be hittin' the casino sooner than I thought."
Mary Jane's heart pounded. For years, she'd endured his cruelty in silence. But something inside her cracked — maybe the gnawing hunger in her stomach that had been her constant companion over the years, or maybe the sight of Ethan shrinking beside her like he wished he could disappear.
Her stepfather reached out with an open hand which caused her to flinch, her body instinctively reacting to possible violence that it had already experienced many times before. "Well? Give it here."
Her hand, which was used to obeying orders, automatically went to her pants' back pocket and grasped the envelope in it. But then, something made her hand clench it even more tightly, pushing it further inside her pocket. Her mind ordered her hand to pull it out and hand it over. But her hand refused to move.
"Whatchu waitin' for bitch," her stepfather's slurred words made her skin jump reflexively.
The words slipped out before she could stop them. "Why don't you earn your own money?"
The room went deathly still. Ethan's small fingers clutched at her sleeve, his silent plea for her to take it back — but it was too late.
Their stepfather's bloodshot eyes narrowed. His grin curdled into something darker. He staggered forward; the reek of whiskey heavy in the air. "What did you just say?"
Fear coiled in Mary Jane's stomach, familiar and suffocating. Every instinct screamed at her to apologize — to shrink into silence. But, for the first time in her life she stood her ground, shielding Ethan behind her.
"I said... earn your own money. Stop stealing ours."
The slap cracked across her face, swift, snapping her head to the side. Pain bloomed along her cheek, but she stayed standing. Ethan whimpered, trying to wriggle free from her grasp, but she pulled him tighter against her chest when she saw that another blow is coming.
"Please stop," Ethan, a boy significantly smaller than his peers, attempted to peer over her arms to his father in a plea for mercy.
"Leave him alone," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'll take it. Just leave him alone."
Their stepfather's gaze flicked between them, then to the stool in the corner. Mary Jane barely had time to register the movement before he grabbed it — raising it high.
She wrapped herself around Ethan, like a mother hen enveloping her chick under her wing, squeezing her eyes shut as the stool came crashing down.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
*****From time unbound, through realms unknown*****
W-where am I...?
The world around her felt both near and impossibly far. There were no walls, no ground beneath her—only silence, as if time itself had paused to hold its breath. She was floating, weightless, in the vast darkness of the universe.
Am I dreaming?... Or am I…
Mary Jane couldn't feel her hands nor her feet, not her body, not her bloody nose, nor her bruised head. But she could see.
She tried to take in as much as her eyes could allow. But, apart from hundreds of twinkling stars in the far distance, she seemed to be entirely surrounded by darkness.
And then—
One of the stars suddenly rocketed toward her. And as it flew close, it began to look like a window to some sort of place.
It was a place she had never seen before. A big, dark mansion with tall roofs and windows. It could be a millionaire's mansion, maybe owned by a famous celebrity or probably even royalty. She could faintly see a vast and beautiful garden that surrounded it, but there was nobody around that she could see.
Hmm, maybe everyone's asleep.
But then, her eyes were suddenly drawn to one of the tall, shadowy windows on the third floor. A woman stood at the edge of a grand window ledge, her nightgown fluttering like a ghost's veil in the wind. Blonde hair glimmered under moonlight. Pale feet balanced on cold stone. Shoulders trembling.
W-wait… What is she doing...?
Mary Jane tried to move, to speak, to stop the woman, but she had no voice. She can't even feel her lips. No hands. Just consciousness adrift. Watching. Feeling.
And then she felt it—felt the loneliness that was etched starkly in the woman's posture, the hollow ache carved deep into her silhouette. The kind of pain that didn't scream, but whispered enough.
Is this... death?
The thought stirred something ancient in the air—like a ripple through eternity. She felt it before it happened. Suddenly she could feel and hear the thoughts of someone else, not her own. The pain and anguish that mirrored hers but not an exact replica. It was hers. Those thoughts entering her mind were those of that woman on the window ledge. As if she, Mary Jane, was suddenly allowed to hear that woman's thoughts…
The night stretched long and silent, a suffocating shroud draped over Whitman Manor. A single candle flickered in the vast emptiness of the countess' chambers, its dim light casting trembling shadows upon the stone walls. The scent of old dust, of books left untouched and linens long unwashed, clung to the air like ghosts of forgotten days. But she, Lady Bettina Anne Whitman, barely noticed.
She scoffed at her own name. A self-mockery.
Barefoot, she stood upon the window ledge, her thin nightgown billowing slightly in the cool breeze. The cold air kissed her skin, a sharp contrast to the hollow numbness in her chest. Below, the vast gardens of Whitman Manor stretched beneath her, the well-manicured hedges and lifeless statues staring back at her in silent judgment. It should have been a beautiful sight, but to her, it was nothing more than a gilded cage—one she never asked for.
How small it all looked from up here—how easy it would be to fall, to disappear into the darkness, swallowed whole, like she had never existed.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. A deep breath. Then another.
"What's the point anymore?" she whispered, voice barely carrying over the wind.
No one would miss her. No one would weep for her.
What was the point of continuing this miserable existence?
Her parents were gone. Murdered.
Her parents were her everything—their warmth, their safety, their unwavering love. But they had been taken from her in the cruelest of ways, burned alive in a fire set by unseen hands, their screams lost to the roar of the flames.
She had searched for justice, pleaded for answers, but there had been none. The world had moved on as though they had never mattered.
Bettina had tried. God, she had tried.
For years, she sought the truth, clawing through deception and false leads, but every door she pried open led to another dead end. Every accusation she whispered was dismissed, buried by those in power. Nobody believed her. No one cared about the orphaned daughter of a commoner's household. No one cared that justice had been denied. And now… now it was too late.
She had been left behind.
She was no daughter of nobility in their eyes, no tragic orphan deserving of sympathy. Her reputation was in ruins, a villainess scorned and hated by all. Her grief and anger at the injustice done to her family instead allowed society to paint as an evil, selfish, and heartless woman. High society had deemed her unworthy of love, not even worthy of their time. The whispers had followed her everywhere, slithering like snakes in ballrooms and drawing rooms alike. The Right Honorable Countess Bettina Anne Whitman—the cold-hearted, conniving, erroneously titled, disgraceful wife of the noble Earl of Whitman. A woman despised. A woman forsaken.
She let out a bitter laugh, tasting salt on her lips.
What had she done to deserve this? Was it her fault she was snatched viciously from her parents' embrace and then thrust unwillingly into a world that had no place for her? Was it her fault that she was born a commoner, just like her parents? Was it her fault that she magically turned into someone whom people were required to bow to, when just prior to her marriage, she was beneath their notice? Was it her fault that love had never found her, not even in the arms of the husband who should have supported her or at least pretended to care?
Anthony.
Even thinking his name felt like a wound splitting open. The man who had taken her hand at the altar had never once reached for it again. He had never struck her, never raised his voice, but his cold indifference had done far worse. He never cared, never even bothered to ask for the truth. He was the evil root of it all.
She was nothing to him.
She was nothing to anyone.
She had fought so hard, endured so much, only to be abandoned in the end. Trapped in a house that wasn't hers, bound to a marriage that meant nothing, surrounded by servants who would not even notice if she disappeared.
And perhaps…
Perhaps that was the answer all along.
Would anyone even care if she were gone? Would anyone weep for Lady Whitman, the villainess who had become nothing more than a ghost in her own home?
A bitter smile curled her lips. No. The world would keep turning, unbothered by the absence of one lonely, broken woman.
A sharp gust of wind cut through the room, pushing against her frame. Her toes curled against the window ledge. The drop below yawned like an open mouth, inviting, waiting.
Would it hurt? Would she have time to regret it before the darkness took her?
Or would it feel like flying?
Maybe her parents would be there, arms wide, ready to catch her. Maybe, finally, she would meet them again…feel their warmth again.
Tears blurred her vision. A shuddering breath rattled in her lungs.
Then, closing her eyes, she stepped forward... into the void of nothingness.
*****A soul untethered, lost and alone*****
Nooooooo!
What?...
What happened?
Mary Jane screamed as the woman jumped. But feeling devoid of a mouth, her scream was unheard. She felt herself wrenched from the woman's mind. Hurtling out of that temporary connection and back up into the limitless expanse of the dark universe. She was once again floating through the space with no walls, no sky, no ground.
Am I still dreaming?
What did I just see?
Who is she?
Why did she…?
So many questions were swirling through her mind. But she wasn't able to ponder nor come up with any answer because, suddenly, she was being sucked back out of her floating space. Before her very eyes, Mary Jane could see that huge, dark mansion zoom in once more. But instead of going back to focus on that third-floor window again, her eyes were involuntarily redirected to the gardens below…
The west garden lay in silence, its moonlit flowers swaying gently under the weight of the midnight wind. A veil of mist clung to the hedges, curling around the twisted branches like grasping fingers. The scent of damp earth and crushed petals hung in the air, disturbed only by the faint shimmer of something unnatural—a lingering trace of magic unseen by mortal eyes.
Beneath the canopy of night, in the tangled embrace of bloodied thorns and crushed leaves, a broken form lay motionless. Lifeless. Pale fingers, once delicate, were smeared with dirt. The silken fabric of her nightgown, torn and ruined, fluttered weakly in the breeze. The body had been left unnoticed for far too long, forgotten even in death.
A lone figure stepped forward, his dark robes rippling as unseen forces bent to his presence. The air thickened, time itself seeming to slow. The moment held its breath, waiting.
He lifted a hand, fingers gliding through the air as if tracing invisible runes. A murmur, low and resonant, spilled from his lips—a forbidden whisper that did not belong to this world.
"Astralis verath, lumen et umbra,
Aeternum flumen, dux errantium.
Caro fracta, anima discessit,
Sed vinclis fatum nondum ruptum est."
The words coiled through the darkness, sinking into the soil, wrapping around the broken vessel lying before him. The damp ground pulsed, a soft glow rising beneath the body as unseen forces stirred the ruined flesh. A pulse of illicit magic swept through the shattered bones—not to fully mend them, but to set them just enough so that life could enter once more and cling to them a little longer.
Torn skin knitted at the edges but did not fully close, leaving traces of the suffering untouched. The blood that had caked into her hair and skin remained; the marks of her fall preserved. Bruises faded just enough so that death would release its firm claim on her, yet pain would still linger, ensuring that no one would suspect this unnatural intervention.
His magic wove carefully, subtly, ensuring she would be found near the edge of life—but not beyond it. A fragile balance.
His assistance must not be discovered.
The hooded figure did not falter. His voice grew stronger, his incantation stretching beyond this realm, beyond time and space itself.
"Sanguinem parce collige,
Vulnera leviter sana.
Cutem contexens, os corrigit,
Ante finem fiat vita reditus."
The night shuddered. The mist curled inward, spiraling around the still form as the cloaked man's magic reached into the void. It stretched far, between the Veil that separated the living from the departed, searching through the endless expanse of fate itself.
The Lady's soul was long gone. He was unable to call her back. Already she must have traveled beyond the Veil itself.
Gritting his teeth, swallowing the anger and pain of loss, the man searched the Veil once more.
Somewhere—distant yet near, forgotten yet remembered—the man sensed a drifting soul that stirred.
A soul that had once burned with longing, with a desperate, unyielding desire for justice and survival. A soul that had suffered and fought, yet had not been given the chance to see its purpose fulfilled.
"Invoco radices magiae antiquae,
Flecte tempora, aperi portas!
Ad universum dispersum conspice,
Quaere animam, compatiens et vinculum facta."
And then there was light.
Soft and golden at first—like a candle glow on a velvet night—then suddenly swirling, growing, pulling. Mary Jane wanted to close her eyes against that blinding light. But she had no form, only feeling.
The man's voice echoed through the air like a hymn forgotten by time. Words she didn't recognize spun around her like stars, each one glowing with purpose. She couldn't understand them, not really—but her soul did. Somehow, it knew.
He was calling…
The man's eyes gleamed beneath his hood. The magic had found her. A drifting soul who hadn't passed through the Veil.
With a final invocation, he wove the soul's path, binding it to the waiting vessel.
The garden inhaled. The earth pulsed with light, a soft, golden shimmer settling over the still form. Then—
Then, Mary Jane was pulled close. Too close that she could see her so clearly: the woman's body lying still in a bed of crushed leaves and moonlight. The woman's hair—golden as sun-kissed wheat—was tangled across her pale cheeks. Blood, dried like rust, clung to her temple and parts of her body. Her chest did not rise. Her lips did not part.
Yet the man knelt beside the woman, palm pressed to her sternum, whispering his spell as faint stardust curled from his fingertips.
"Ex silentio vocatur, ex tenebris surgit.
Per hanc carnem iterum ambula,
Fiat fatum novum!"
Mary Jane wanted to move back. She wanted to recoil and fly back up to the heavens.
She didn't know how, but the bright light grew even brighter.
A soundless pull wrapped around her like thread. Tighter. Tighter. Until she felt her very soul was being tethered to the woman on the ground.
Then—
Cold.
Burning.
A gasp.
And suddenly, she was falling.
Not through air.
But into something.
Into lungs that strained for breath. Into limbs that ached and stung. Into skin that felt far too tight.
Mary Jane's world blazed white—
Then everything went black.
A breath.
A flutter of lashes.
The man exhaled; his work complete. He stepped back, letting the shadows swallow him once more.
By morning, she would be found. Still broken. Weakened.
Alive, but only just.
And no one would ever know he had been there.
*****By fate's decree, by justice sworn*****
Heat.
A crushing, suffocating heat wrapped around her, pressing against her skin like molten iron. Mary Jane tried to breathe, but her throat was dry and parched, her lips cracked. Her body felt weighted, as if she had been submerged in thick tar, unable to move, unable to escape. Her head pounded—a deep, relentless ache, like a hammer striking her skull again and again.
Something was wrong.
She tried to lift her arm, but it refused to obey. Her limbs were sluggish, too heavy, as if they weren't hers at all. Panic gnawed at the edges of her mind, but even fear felt distant, drowned beneath the fever that burned through her veins.
Her eyes fluttered open, and a dim, hazy world greeted her. A canopy above her. Ornate carvings. Velvet drapes. It wasn't familiar. It wasn't. This wasn't her bed. The ceiling wasn't cracked and stained from water damage. The air didn't smell of dust and old laundry detergent. The blanket over her was too soft—wrongly soft, nothing like the rough, worn sheets she had been used to.
Where…?
She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. Desperate, she turned her head slightly, searching for water, for anything. But there was nothing within reach. No plastic cup. No comforting hum of an old electric fan that she personally repaired over and over again. No flickering streetlight leaking through a tiny window.
Her vision blurred.
"Water…. Please…" her plea was too faint, hoarse, almost nonexistent.
But nobody answered.
There was only silence, apart from her harsh breathing.
"Anyone…?" She rasped, the only sound she can make, was carried away by the cold breeze.
Where was she? She tried to look around, but her head felt heavy. Her eyes were the only ones that she could move at the moment.
She clenched her jaw and forced herself to think. What happened?
Her eyes slowly adjusted in the dark. The room was almost pitch black save for a faint light coming from somewhere. The ceiling looked unfamiliar. She can faintly make out a canopy of frolicking cherubs on the ceiling and what looked like white, diaphanous curtains surrounding her. The curtains were swaying at the breeze that seemed to be coming in from her right.
Where am I? – she wondered. Am I in a hospital? Did I finally get hospitalized from father's beatings?
She dug through her thoughts, but her memories were slippery, fogged over by fever and exhaustion. Something felt fractured. Like she had been torn apart and stitched back together wrong.
Then—
Pain. A sharp, blinding pain bloomed behind her eyes.
Flashes of something—someone. A small figure curled up, sobbing. A shadow looming overhead. Shouting. A slap, a crash, bone cracking, and blood on linoleum.
Ethan.
Mary Jane gasped. Her fingers twitched against the sheets as fragments of memory pieced together in jagged edges. She had been there. She had been protecting him. She had—
A brutal force slammed into her skull. Her vision swayed, darkness creeping at the edges.
No, she needed to remember.
She needed to know what had happened.
But the fever was relentless. The weight of exhaustion dragged her under, pulling her away from the unfamiliar room, away from the searing heat of her body—
And, once again, back into her past…
*****One life fade, another reborn*****
The kitchen was barely more than a nook at the corner of their cramped apartment—peeling linoleum, a flickering overhead light, and a single window smudged with city dust. But that morning, the air smelled like magic.
"Is that… pancake?" Ethan's voice rang from their shared bedroom that has no bed, still scratchy with sleep but laced with hope.
Mary Jane smiled to herself as she flipped the slightly lopsided pancake on the chipped nonstick pan. "Birthday pancakes," she called out. "Don't get too excited though—it's just flour, one egg, and a whole lotta prayers."
Ethan, now eleven but small for his age, appeared in the doorway rubbing his eyes, wearing the same too-big hoodie he slept in. It was a hoodie she once owned. "It smells better than a bakery," he grinned.
She placed the steaming pancake on a cracked plate and added a drizzle of honey from the little plastic bear bottle—nearly empty. "Ta-da! Chef's special. One flat cake of joy, served with our neighbor's leftover honey and a whole lot of love."
Ethan sat down eagerly and took a big bite. "Mmm… this is the best birthday ever!"
She watched him, heart twisting with affection and guilt. He deserved so much more.
Mary Jane cast a glance toward the front door, grateful for the silence—no shouting, no stomping boots. He must still be in a drunken stupor somewhere out there. For once, she allowed herself to hope he wouldn't come home at all.
"Guess what?" she said, trying to sound cheerful as she turned back to the sink.
"Hmm?" Ethan mumbled through his food.
"I got a job. Starting Monday."
His eyes lit up. "Seriously? Where?"
"Mr. Alvarez's shop down the block. The little handicraft and repair place. He said he needed someone with steady hands. Apparently, word got around that I fixed the Walkers' toaster with a paperclip and duct tape."
Ethan laughed. "That's because you can fix anything. Remember the kettle? And the TV remote? And my broken robot?"
She turned, leaning against the counter. "Well, I guess now I'll get paid for being a miracle worker."
"That's awesome!" Ethan beamed. "Does this mean we can get that bunk bed we saw at the thrift store?"
Mary Jane chuckled. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. First paycheck probably won't cover more than either our rent or utilities. But hey, it's a start."
Ethan returned to his pancake, slower now, thoughtful. "You're always fixing everything. Even me… when I cry or get scared."
She ruffled his hair, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Well, that's my job as big sister, isn't it?"
He looked up at her with shining eyes. "Then I think I'm the luckiest little brother in the world."
And for a moment, despite the cracked walls, the thin mattress on their small bedroom floor, and the weight of their hard life pressing from all sides, Mary Jane believed that maybe they were okay. Maybe love, warm pancakes, and hope were enough to get through one more day.
She turned back to the stove to make a second pancake—this one fluffier, a little burnt on the edges, and somehow, it was perfect.