The last thing I saw was a truck. Not just any truck—the truck. The infamous, meme-worthy, reincarnation machine: Truck-kun.
I didn't even get the dignity of dying dramatically. Nope. I was just a high school girl, scrolling on my phone in the middle of the street, ugly-crying at the last, unfinished chapter of Trapped but By Whom. A flash of headlights, a scream I wasn't sure was mine, then darkness.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't a broke, acne-scarred, over-caffeinated teenager anymore. I was… perfect. My boring brown bedhead had been upgraded to a silver waterfall, my puffy eyebags were gone, my skin looked Photoshopped, and my lips—God help me—actually had color without chapstick.
Except, plot twist: I wasn't me.
I was Rue Sinclaire, the most hated villainess in the very book I died for. The shrimp-allergy-faking, drama-chasing, fiancé-annoying brat whose sole purpose was to get humiliated before the story moved on without her. My glamorous new reality? A hospital room. Because, of course, the "original Rue" thought it was a great idea to fake an allergy just to get attention from her stone-cold fiancé, Jeyden Lopez.
Spoiler alert: he didn't care. He was probably off having champagne with his real love interest while I was lying in a hospital bed, drowning in Rue's bad reputation.
"Cool," I muttered to myself, staring at my reflection. "New body, new life, same rejection arc. Thanks, fate."
The suffocation hit fast. I ripped off the IV, ignored the sterile walls, and made a beeline for the closet. One glance at Rue's wardrobe—think couture runway had a baby with a Bond villain—and I picked out a dark blue dress that screamed expensive and unbothered. If I was stuck in this reality, I wasn't going down looking pitiful.
I slipped past the hospital staff and stepped into the night. The humid Singapore air clung to my skin, sticky but strangely grounding. Different body, different world—but hey, same sweaty weather.
Then it happened.
I rounded a corner, walked straight into a wall—except the wall was made of muscle, tailored suits, and sheer intimidation. My body jolted, and my eyes shot up into a pair of impossibly dark ones.
Oh. Oh, no.
He wasn't just handsome. He was dangerous. The kind of man whose silence felt like a loaded gun. He looked at me like I'd just stepped onto his chessboard without permission.
"Watch where you're going," I snapped before my brain caught up with my mouth. My voice—Rue's voice—was soft, melodic, but laced with enough arrogance to make me sound untouchable. Good. I'd need that.
The man didn't flinch. He just… stared. His gaze was heavy, unblinking, the kind that made your instincts scream that you'd better run or you'd end up ruined.
But run? Please. I survived Truck-kun. Some guy in a suit wasn't going to scare me.
I smirked, gave a lazy shrug, and stepped past him, channeling Rue's villainess flair. My heels clicked like I owned the street. "Staring's rude, you know," I tossed over my shoulder.
I didn't look back, but I could feel his eyes burning holes in me. Whoever he was, he wasn't just a background extra. No—he was trouble. The kind with his own tragic backstory, impossible goals, and probably a thing for power games.
And me? I was Rue Sinclaire now. Villainess. Silver hair. Walking disaster.
But one thing was clear: if this story thought I was going to play by its rules, it had another thing coming.
I wasn't the tragic villainess anymore. I was the rewrite..