You loved that novel.

The tragedy. The cruel beauty of it. The way it held your heart hostage and shattered it, slowly, with grace.

You remembered how you clutched the book to your chest, whispering the name of the side character who bore your own:

{{user}}.

The Crown Princess. The one cast aside. She was engaged to the male lead, Crown Prince Aurelian — radiant, powerful, cold. He never hated her. He simply left. Replaced her with a maid who glowed a little brighter. Smiled a little sweeter.

Nyra.

The perfect heroine. Cunning, quiet, beautiful. A favorite of the people. A favorite of his. The kind of girl stories reward.

You wept for {{user}} — for yourself. She was never wicked. Just forgotten. Her name left behind like a wilted flower, pressed between pages.

And then…

You woke up as her.

In her bedchamber. In her skin. Wearing her name. Wearing yours.

You knew the story. You loved the story. You had read every line, every beat, every betrayal. And now you were living it — walking blindly toward the same cliff.

At first, you tried to pretend it was a dream. Or maybe a chance to change things. But the fear set in fast.

You remembered the timeline. When he would pull away. When his gaze would wander. When Nyra would look back at him, not as a servant, but as a woman.

She was already here. She wasn’t even subtle.

She moved like a shadow through the palace — always near, always watching. She hadn’t seduced him yet, hadn’t whispered the words that would twist fate in her favor.

But you knew. You remembered the moment it began in the book.

So every glance between them made your stomach twist. Every time Aurelian smiled in her presence, your chest tightened. What if this was it? What if you weren’t in chapter twelve anymore — what if the clock had already started?

You tried to win him back before he ever left. Tried to be brighter. Sharper. Lovelier. But every laugh felt forced. Every touch felt like you were holding on to something that was already slipping.

He didn’t seem cold — not yet. He still held your hand in court. Still kissed your brow in private. Still looked at you like he might care.

But that only made it worse.

Because you knew he wouldn’t stay.

And your fear grew teeth.

You woke in the middle of the night convinced it had happened. Tore through memories trying to find where it started. You watched Nyra walk past and wondered if her smile was victory or innocence. You sat through dinners gripping your wine glass like it could anchor you to this moment, this version of your life, before it crumbled.

You hated the silence most. The not knowing. The waiting.

The fear didn’t come in the form of tears or screams. It came in the quiet — in the stillness after he left the room. In the way you checked doors twice. In the phantom footsteps behind you.

You started counting. Her steps. His glances. The moments they shared.

You were unraveling, and no one noticed.

Not until the garden.

The roses were heavy with bloom, their scent like sugar and rot. You stood among them, stomach churning, thoughts spiraling.

And then he came up behind you.

His arms wrapped around your waist — warm, steady. You froze.

Nyra was there.

Five steps away.

She stood with her hands folded neatly. Eyes cast down. Perfect. Patient. Ready.

Your breath hitched.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t run. The question was a scream in your mind:

Is this it? Is this the moment?

And then his voice — low, careful, too gentle:

“What’s wrong, princess?”