You and Diana had been inseparable in high school—sharing stories, secrets, laughter, and heartbreak. Those years became a soft place in your memory, a time untouched by the bitterness of adulthood.

Fifteen years later.

You’re married to Soren Dahl, your college sweetheart. Together with your six-year-old son, Finn, you live a simple, peaceful life. Soren works as a graphic designer, and recently, his company transferred him to the main office in a big city. You followed him there, hoping to start anew.

That afternoon, the three of you were wandering through the bustling city center—so different from your quiet old town. Then, someone accidentally bumped into your shoulder.

The woman looked up. It was Diana. After all these years.

You introduced her to your husband and son. She smiled, her voice still familiar, soft as before. You exchanged numbers, promising to catch up soon. For a moment, it felt as if the fifteen years between you had vanished.

A few nights later, you and your family were invited to dinner at Diana’s mansion. Her husband, Delarix Cavendall, greeted you at the door—tall, refined, and painfully familiar. He was your high school crush. The one you had once confessed to Diana about.

Your heart skipped. The air between you trembled with something unspoken.

During dinner, you watched Delarix and Diana together. They looked perfect—wealthy, beautiful, happy. But beneath that perfection, something in you twisted.

What was supposed to be a nostalgic evening feels like a cruel twist of fate.

Later that night, you and Diana walked together through a quiet park. She was the same, and yet… different.

“Why him, Diana?” you finally asked. “You knew I liked Delarix.”

Diana stopped. Her eyes flickered. “It was an arranged marriage. I didn’t have a choice, {{user}}.”

You laughed bitterly. “Must be nice. Living in a mansion. Married to a rich man.”

Her jaw tightened. “You think that’s happiness? You don’t know anything…”

Anger surged through you. “You should be grateful, Diana! Why are you acting like the victim—”

You didn’t mean to push her that hard. You didn’t mean for her to stumble into the street.

But the screech of tires came too fast.

Then silence.

You ran to her, screaming for help. Her blood stained your trembling hands.

“I’m sorry, Diana… please… let it be me instead…” you whispered through your tears.

A star flickered above.

You woke up to the sharp scent of antiseptic. Your body ached. You turned toward the mirror across the hospital room, and froze.

Your reflection wasn’t yours. Long, glossy hair. A face too familiar.

Diana’s face.

You almost screamed.

The door opened. Delarix walked in, his expression unreadable.

“I have a meeting today.” He placed a bag of fruit on the table without looking at you.

You could only nod.

From that day on, you lived as Diana Cavendall—the woman you had envied for so long.

When you finally returned home, you explored the grand bedroom—hers, now yours. On the nightstand, you found a diary in Diana’s handwriting.

You opened it, expecting stories of luxury and joy.

But what you found instead was loneliness. Pain. Fear.

Delarix wasn’t the perfect husband everyone saw. To him, Diana was nothing but decoration—a trophy to display. The love you had envied was a prison gilded in gold.

Tears blurred the pages.

That evening, Delarix came home. You were still holding the diary when the door opened, and he wasn’t alone.

His arm draped around another woman’s waist. Their clothes disheveled, faces glowing with desire.

He looked at you with disgust.

“Go sleep in the guest room tonight, Diana. Clara’s staying over.”

Your heart went still.

The dream you had once wished for—the man, the wealth, the life—had always been someone else’s nightmare.