The rain always had a way of washing away the glamour.

On the runway, lights blinded. Flashbulbs snapped like fireworks, and every eye turned upward to the goddess of fabric and form—the "Untouchable Queen of Couture." That was her, in her old life. Every line she drew, every stitch she envisioned, carried her name into the mouths of the industry’s cruelest critics. And every time, she emerged untouched, victorious, her crown polished brighter with each success.

But crowns slip.

And streets grow slick in the storm.

Her heels betrayed her first. A sharp skid, an ungraceful stumble. Then the world blurred into icy darkness, and her last coherent thought was not of her empire, not of her rivals, but—
Damn. 

I left my sketches unfinished.

When her eyes opened, the air was different. Heavy. Scented with lavender and cedarwood. Not the sterile, expensive perfume of her penthouse, but something warmer, richer.

Her lashes fluttered. Am I… alive? The thought jolted her. Her chest heaved. Where am I? Did they take me to the hospital? No—this isn’t a hospital. Did someone check me into a hotel?

Her gaze darted, searching for something familiar—white walls, beeping monitors, a nurse’s call button. There was none. Just velvet drapes spilling crimson shadows across the chamber, and a canopy that belonged in a painting, not real life.

This isn’t a hotel either. I can’t even press a button to tell them I’m awake. Where… what is this place?

Silk sheets clung to her damp skin, and a chill sweat gathered at her temples. She pushed herself up on trembling arms.

It wasn’t her bed.
It wasn’t her room.
It wasn’t her body.

Her reflection in the tall mirror confirmed what her shaking hands already whispered: the sharp-cheeked, bold-lipped queen of fashion was gone.

In her place stared a porcelain-pale girl, hair like spun gold, eyes wide and unrecognizable.

“Vivian de Guzman…”

The name tumbled out, and her blood froze.

She knew it. Too well. This place, this body—it wasn’t reality. It was fiction. A book she had once devoured like guilty candy between sketch deadlines.

Vivian de Guzman.
The villainess.

Her pulse thundered. No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening.

Panic surged hot in her chest, clawing against disbelief. Not because she feared death—not exactly. But because of what she’d left behind.

Her sketches.
Not just sketches—the spring collection that had consumed her nights. The plans she had argued fiercely with her team over. The fittings scheduled at dawn. The shows waiting on her word. The empire she had built, thread by thread, stitch by stitch.

And—her turtle. Her little turtle. Who would feed him? Who would even remember him?

Her hands clutched the sheets until her knuckles went white.

“I mean—I’m the Untouchable Queen of Couture, Ms…” Her voice cracked, panic rising. “What’s my name?! Wait—who am I? I remember everything. My face. My work. My life. But—what was my name?!”

Only the title echoed back. The “Untouchable Queen.” Nothing more. No name.

Her breath hitched as tears burned at the corner of her eyes. The cruelest loss was not death—
It was forgetting herself.

While she was still having the worst day of her life, the misery was short-lived. Her head throbbed like a war drum, each pulse cracking open her skull as fragments of memory not her own were shoved inside.

Ugh, dammit, it hurts. Can’t I at least have a little personal space to be depressed? This is my life we’re talking about!

Horse hooves pounding against muddy earth. The sting of rain blinding her vision. The desperate, reckless sprint of someone who thought herself untouchable—until the storm swallowed her whole.

So that’s how she almost died.

The original Vivian de Guzman had been arrogant to the bone, so certain the skies themselves would bow to her whims. She hadn’t slowed her stallion when the clouds burst, hadn’t heeded her guards’ warnings, hadn’t considered her fragile body. She had fled, racing toward… what? Freedom? Defiance? No one knew, because the villainess had collapsed in the mud and been dragged back half-dead.

This woman—why in the world would you even do that? Riding a stallion on a stormy day?

And now she—the wrong soul, the interloper—was the one to open her eyes in this bed.

The heavy door creaked.

Two maids slipped inside, skirts whispering against the polished floor. Their eyes went wide at the sight of her sitting upright, pale but alive. One clutched the other’s sleeve, both trembling as though they’d stepped into a dragon’s lair. Yet beneath the fear, their relief was unmistakable—her mistress was alive.

Vivian blinked at them. Why do they look like they’re walking to their execution?

“My… my lady,” the bolder one whispered, bowing so low the curls of her dark hair nearly brushed the floor. “Forgive the intrusion. We only… wished to see if you were still unwell. We must change your bed, and… and tend to your body.”

“Do I look well to you?”

Her voice—cold, clipped, each word honed like steel.

The maids flinched as one.

Inside, Vivian was just as shocked as they were. Wait—what? That’s not what I meant to say! She had been reaching for something softer, a weary reassurance, maybe even a weak smile. But instead, the words had fallen like a blade.

I may be annoyed and irritated right now, but that was harsh! Me?! Really?! Her own thoughts scolded her, the sting of her unintended cruelty sharper than the words themselves. She wanted to bite her tongue, to take it back, but it was too late—the damage was done.

Her maids still stood frozen, mistaking her self-reproach for anger turned outward. She tried to calm the storm inside, pressing her lips together as she forced down the wave of irritation and panic boiling in her chest. This wasn’t the time to snap at strangers, even if her body and mind weren’t hers. Yet no matter how hard she tried, the sharp edge of her tone seemed impossible to blunt—it slipped out of her unbidden, as natural to this body as breathing.

One of the maids swallowed hard but finally spoke. “If there is pain, please… tell us where, my lady. We will be cautious.”

Too cautious, Vivian realized, as they carefully wiped her arms and face, moving as though one wrong touch might earn them punishment. The villainess’s shadow lingered here, heavy in their every movement.

“Once you are cleaned, my lady,” the bolder maid ventured softly, “shall we summon the household physician? He has been waiting for word of you.”

As the cloth traced the last of the grime from her skin, Vivian’s thoughts spiraled. This feels like a full-course meal of memories—who could swallow all this at once? And now, a surprise test on top of it?! Each fragment crashed into her, too fast, too much—like racing to meet a deadline only to have more work thrown onto the pile before the first task was done.

She didn’t even know these maids yet, and already they stirred her irritation. Back in her world, she had a secretary who read her mind with a glance, who smoothed every edge before words had to be spoken. Now she was stranded in a body with no one who understood her, no one she could rely on.

Her throat tightened. Her mind was too full—the terror of transmigrating, the weight of a name she didn’t want, the suffocating expectation of a role she didn’t choose. She didn’t have the strength to keep up the cold mask.

So instead, the words tumbled out raw, weak:
“…Who are you?”

Both maids froze. Their faces drained of color. In their eyes, confusion mingled with dread—how could their mistress not know them?

But she truly didn’t. No matter how hard she scavenged through the haze of inherited memories, every servant’s face remained blurred, slipping through her grasp like smoke. Names, voices, features—none of it would surface. She had no choice but to ask.

The silence stretched, brittle and heavy, until the bolder maid forced herself to breathe. Her hands trembled, but she dipped into a stiff curtsy. “M-my lady… forgive us. I—I will summon the physician at once.”

She turned and all but fled, skirts whispering in frantic haste, leaving Vivian alone with the other girl.

The timid maid hadn’t moved. Her eyes shone wet, her lips quivered as though words caught in her throat. She clutched the hem of her apron so tightly her knuckles blanched, tears spilling freely. The look on her face was unbearable—like she was already mourning a mistress who had died and left only a stranger behind.

Vivian exhaled slowly, her chest rising and falling as she tried to gather the frayed edges of her thoughts. The timid maid still lingered nearby, wringing her hands, eyes red from unshed tears. But Vivian ignored her, focusing instead on the storm inside her head.

She needed to pick up where she had left off—before the maids, before the awkward words, before she realized her own voice came out like steel.

Vivian de Guzman.

The villainess. The spoiled alpha heiress whose downfall she had once read and devoured like a guilty pleasure. She remembered the book in sharp flashes: the politics, the betrayals, the heroine’s stubborn rise. She remembered the pride and cruelty that had dragged Vivian de Guzman to ruin.

Her throat tightened. So that’s who she was now.

But even as the memories pressed in, another panic slipped through like a crack in the dam. Her sketches. Her spring collection. The fittings at dawn. Her team. Her turtle.

Who was feeding him? Was he still nibbling at lettuce in his tank? Did anyone even remember?

She shook her head. Focus. She had to focus.

Not from life—
But from a book.

The memories of this body tugged at her like relentless waves. Screams of servants. The twisted thrill of cruelty. The shadow of Vivianne Frostman—gentle, stubborn, impossible to ignore.

Vivian’s hands clenched around the sheets. That’s not me. She wasn’t this woman. She wasn’t this villainess choking on jealousy.

But somewhere far away, a tank sat waiting. A tiny creature paddling in circles. And no one here would even know he existed.

She swallowed hard. No, she couldn’t think about that right now.

And yet, the thought lingered, stubborn as her panic: she wasn’t Vivian de Guzman. She was herself. A woman who had clawed her way to the top of fashion. A woman who knew this story, these characters, their fates.

And most of all—
She was a fan.

Vivianne Frostman wasn’t just some heroine written on the page. She had been her favorite. The character she rooted for, the one she secretly admired late at night. The one she wanted to see win, to shine, to love.

A shaky laugh slipped past her lips as she buried her face in her palms.
“I’m supposed to hate her. I’m supposed to ruin her. But how can I? She’s—she’s my idol.”

Idol love. That’s all it was. The giddy thrill of admiration, the way a fan cheers from the crowd. Her heart didn’t pound with jealousy, but with excitement. She couldn’t believe it—she was here, in this story, standing at the edge of Vivianne Frostman’s rise.

And this time, she wouldn’t be her enemy.

The script was already set: the villainess would torment, the heroine would suffer, and justice would arrive too late to save Vivian de Guzman. That was the role written for her.

But she would not play it.

No—she would tear the script apart and write her own role. She would protect Vivianne Frostman. Fangirl her. Shield her. Support her, from the shadows or the spotlight, whatever it took. She would be the villainess who saved the heroine.

And maybe, just maybe, she would earn the right to stand by her side—not as an enemy, but as something else.

Her lips curled into a smile, faint but steady. For the first time since the storm, her heartbeat calmed.

If the world wanted a villainess, it would have one. But not the kind they expected.

Vivian de Guzman had returned. And this time—

Her smile faltered as a wave of exhaustion pressed down on her, heavy as velvet. Not yet. The fire in her chest might burn bright, but her body was still fragile, broken from a fall she hadn’t taken.

But for now… I need to recover. That’s the first step.

The thought settled like a promise.

A knock rattled the chamber doors before she could breathe further into her resolve. The timid maid jumped and scrambled forward to open it, relief spilling across her pale face. The bolder maid returned, ushering in a tall figure with measured steps.

The household physician had arrived.