Ever wondered what you’d do if you were dropped into a shitty novel as the girl who’s scheduled to die?

No magic system.

No second chances.

No comforting narration assuring you everything happens for a reason.

Just bad writing and worse men.

Before this, I was Vaani Gupta. I had a life that smelled like home. A mother who scolded because she cared too much, a father whose silence carried more love than words, and a brother who annoyed me on purpose because that was his love language. I wanted their happiness more than my own. I was selfish like that.

I liked books. Singing.

Talking to myself. Reading people before they spoke. I knew who was kind, who was pretending, and who was dangerous.

That last skill came in handy too late.

I saw a child running into the road. I saw the truck. I ran anyway. I pushed him away. I got hit. That was it. No heroics. Just physics doing its job.

I should’ve stayed dead.

Instead, I woke up as Shanaya Rajput.

Twenty-two. Beautiful in the way novels like to own. Daughter of an influential businessman who treats marriage like a transaction. Engaged to a man the story calls a “male lead” and I call a threat.

According to Chapter One, he kills me.

Not accidentally.

Not in self-defense.

He kills me because he “loves” me.

The narrative applauds.

This world is obsessed with the idea that obsession is romantic, that a woman’s suffering is character development, that death is acceptable as long as the man feels deeply about it.

I am expected to play along. To smile. To fall in love on cue. To die beautifully so his pain can look meaningful.

That’s the plot.

Here’s the problem.

I’m not written to be tragic.

I’m written to survive.

I remember a life where love didn’t hurt. I remember parents who didn’t own me. I remember choosing things for myself. And I am not letting a poorly constructed fantasy take that away because it wants a dramatic opening chapter.

This story will try to correct me. It will twist coincidences. It will push me toward him. It will make resistance expensive.

Good.

I’ve already paid with my life once.

So listen carefully, since I’m breaking the fourth wall anyway.

I am not your doomed heroine.

I am not your sacrifice.

And I am definitely not dying to make a man interesting.

If this novel wants blood, it can start with its own logic.

But if this world thinks it can erase me quietly, it has misunderstood the assignment. I don't belong to its romance, its tragedy, or its redemption arc. I am a foreign object in its machinery.

And stories break when something refuses to 𝙛𝙞𝙩.

---

𝙃𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙤 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨! 𝙃𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙨𝙪𝙗𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙪𝙥 𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧. 𝙃𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙚 𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙮.

◆ 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐲𝐚 𝐑𝐚𝐣𝐩𝐮𝐭◆

Born in the middle class family as 𝓥𝓪𝓪𝓷𝓲 𝓖𝓾𝓹𝓽𝓪.

Raised with love, noise and freedom.

But after dieing, got reborn into a novel named '𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳' as the female lead 𝓢𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓪𝔂𝓪 𝓡𝓪𝓳𝓹𝓾𝓽 .

Raised into wealth, silence and expectations. She was treated as a prized possession. Later was killed in the novel by male lead.

𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢:

She is calm on the surface, observant underneath. Sassy by default not for comedy. Can't control her facial expressions to save her life. Mouth runs faster than self perservation. Anger flares quick, burns clean and moves on. Zero tolerance for disrespect. Gives absolutely no value to public opinions. If someone crosses a line, she doesn't brood, she responds. Walks like she belongs, even when she’s breaking rules.

Eye rolls are practically a second language.

Smiles when annoyed. Dangerous sign.

Laughs at people who expect obedience.

Refuses to shrink for anyone. Loyal to a fault to people she chooses.Protective, especially of children and the powerless.Anger rooted in injustice, not ego. Vulnerable only in private. Very private. Authority doesn’t impress her.

Titles mean nothing without humanity.

Money doesn’t intimidate her.

Threats annoy her. Kind, beautiful but have different shades for different people.

“𝓘'𝓶  𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓼𝓸𝓯𝓽  𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓾𝓶𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓪 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓹𝓮𝓸𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓮𝓷𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱  𝓽𝓸 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝔀𝓱𝓲𝓱 𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷  𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓮.”

◆𝐀𝐝𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐭 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐡 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐭◆

He is the male lead of the novel '𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳'.

Only heir of a Royal Family.

Controls a chain of industrial empire spanning countries, ports, weapons and logistics. Governments negotiate. He decides.

Media paints him as a visionary businessman.

The underground knows him as something else entirely.

𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢:

Arrogant without even trying. He's never been challenged long enough to learn humility. Short tempered. Doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. Believes the world owns him obedience. Full of mysteries and secrets. He doesn't chase affection he claims it. Calm until provoked.

Once crossed, there are no second conversations.

People who betray him don’t get revenge arcs.

They disappear and become warnings.Arrogant because the world has never corrected him.

Anger issues carefully leashed, until they aren’t

Believes ownership equals affection.

Believes fear equals loyalty.

Believes fate favors him because it always has.The novel worships him.Excuses his violence as intensity.Frames his obsession as love.Turns his rage into tragic depth.

"𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓪 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓮. 𝓣𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓪𝓰𝓻𝓮𝓮 𝓾𝓼𝓾𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓹𝓪𝔂 𝓲𝓽 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽.”

He expects fear. She gives sarcasm.

He commands silence. She talks back.

He is control. She is disruption.

He is obsession. She is refusal.

Her:

"𝓘 𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓫𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓮𝓷𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮."

Him:

" 𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂 𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓘 𝓼𝓪𝔂 𝓲𝓽 𝓭𝓸𝓮𝓼."

𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙥!

I barely had time to react before my brother’s hand landed on the back of my head.

“Are you trying to burn the house down, 𝙑𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙞?” he snapped. “It’s burning, idiot. If you don’t know how to cook, don’t touch the stove.”

I glared at him, rubbing my head. “Why are you hitting me?”

The kitchen smelled like comfort and chaos. His gajar ka halwa filled the air with sweetness while my chole bhature announced their suffering loudly from the pan. He was practically a professional when it came to cooking. Me? I was trying. That should count for something.

A few steps away, my mother sighed quietly and pulled the bhature off the stove before they turned into charcoal. She said nothing. She rarely did when it came to our daily nonsense.

Just then, my father walked in.

“Happy birthday, papa!” we yelled together.

He froze for a second, surprised, then smiled. That soft smile that made everything feel okay. The kind that made the world feel less heavy.

I grabbed his hand immediately. “Papa, sit at the table. Quickly. We made your favourites.”

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded and let me drag him along.

Mama brought the food out, placing everything neatly like it wasn’t a battlefield five minutes ago. I watched my father closely as he took the first bite. My heart thumped like I’d committed a crime.

“It’s delicious,” he said.

I smiled. Warmly. Happily. Even though I knew my chole were overcooked and the bhature were half-burnt. No one said a word. No complaints. No teasing. Just love.

I wished for nothing else in that moment. Just this. Their happiness.

---

The next morning, my phone buzzed me awake.

“Vaani, I can’t come to college today,” my best friend groaned from the other side. “Some work came up.”

I groaned louder, threw my phone aside, and dragged myself out of bed.

Downstairs, my family was already having breakfast.

“You pig!” my brother yelled the second he saw me. “You’re wearing my shirt again.”

I stuck my tongue out at him deliberately.

Papa chuckled. Mama shook her head. My brother glared harder.

Hmmp! He couldn’t do anything while papa was around.

After breakfast, I left for college with my earphones plugged in. My playlist was a mess, full of item songs that make me want to dance,I let it play and my mood instantly got better.

On my way to college, while crossing the road, I saw a little boy. Barely five years old. He ran after his ball, straight onto the road, while his mother argued with a vendor nearby.

I didn’t think.

My legs moved on their own.

I remember seeing a truck coming in our direction. I remember pushing him away. I remember relief flooding me for half a second.

Then the impact.

Pain. Noise. Darkness.

I collapsed on the road with blood oozing out from my head.

I don’t want to die.

If I die,

Who will trouble mama now?

Who will papa buy gifts for?

Who will tease with bhaiya?

What about the novel I still haven’t finished reading?

What about my dreams?

I don’t want to die.

With those thoughts, I took my last breath.

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