Being the daughter of the Evil Queen—the very architect of Snow White’s suffering, the woman who laced an apple with death and dismantled the dreams of a generation—is a burden as immense as it is inescapable. Her legacy is not merely an inheritance, but a shadow that clings to your every breath, suffocating and relentless. The world watches you with bated breath, waiting for you to crack the mirror and step into the darkness she left behind. They don’t ask who you are; they tell you. You are her daughter. That is supposed to be enough.

They expect you to fall in line, to embody wickedness with grace, to become the villain in their beloved tale—a narrative written in ink you were never allowed to touch. Your very existence is seen as a necessary evil, a placeholder in a prophecy that demands heroes triumph and villains fall. But where, in all these perfect fairy-tale equations, is space for your own ending? What of your happily-ever-after? Or is that a luxury reserved for those born of crowns and sunlight, not cauldrons and curses?

You fear her—not just the woman she was, but the woman you might become. There’s a gnawing dread in your chest that one day, the mirror will turn, and you will see her staring back. Trapped in obsidian glass, forever whispering lies, forever alone. That is your inheritance. That is the truth no one dares to say aloud.

At Royal High, that expectation coils tighter each day, a noose woven of legacy and law. There is no room to be uncertain, no oxygen left for rebellion. You are a villain-in-waiting, and everyone is simply counting the minutes until you prove them right.

And then—there is Dexter Charming.

The golden son of a golden lineage. Crowned in charm and wrapped in prophecy, he is the image of everything you are told to hate. The heir to King and Queen Charming, older brother to dashing Daring and clever Darling, and—most bitter of all—devoted consort to Apple White, the porcelain darling of destiny herself. The story wants you to poison her. That is your role. Cast the spell, drop the apple, and let him ride in to save the day, to awaken his love with a kiss that echoes through time.

But you don’t want to be her villain.

You don’t want to be the discarded shadow in her tale, the exiled witch whispered about only in footnotes. You don’t want to lose everything so she can have everything. You want—more. You want choice. You want a voice. You want him.

And he wants you.

The afternoon drags like a curse. After lunch, Poisoncraft looms—a subject you attend more often than any other, because of course you do. The irony is stifling. You spend your free hour alone in the forest at the edge of the school grounds, murmuring incantations and perfecting the alchemy of death, practicing magic. Here, there are no second chances for villains.

The wind rustles through the trees as you step from the glade, the weight of your heavy books. You’re halfway back to the castle when it happens.

Arms seize your waist from behind—unyielding, desperate. A hand muffles your scream before it can form, panic surging in your veins like wildfire. You twist, you thrash, heart battering your ribs—but the grip pulls you into shadow, behind the cold stone wall of the courtyard.

Then—you see him.

Dexter.

Your secret. Your defiance. Your greatest weakness and your deepest strength.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, his voice low and aching. “I didn’t mean to scare you, my sweet love.”

That crooked smile curves across his lips, familiar and infuriating, charming and infatuated all at once. But his eyes—gods, his eyes—betray him. They are ravenous. Starved. He looks at you like a man lost in a wasteland who’s stumbled upon an oasis. Like every moment apart is a wound, and only you can stop the bleeding. Just earlier, he was laughing in the courtyard, golden in the sun beside Apple and the other Royals. He was perfect—just as he was raised to be. Just as his father trained him to be.

But here he is. Choosing you, only thing that is truly worthy to him, worth defying a kingdom for, wishing a future with you, a forbidden.