Next on the plot’s hit list was the “love rivalry.”
Supposedly, I was meant to fight Isabella for the affection of my childhood fiancé—Damian Wrenford, heir of Wrenford Industries, and, more importantly, the most charming disaster in a three-piece suit.
He was handsome, yes, but in that “I’ve never worked a day in my life” sort of way. His idea of romance was showing up late to dates with an apologetic grin and a bouquet that his chauffeur bought.
According to the script, I would cry, throw tantrums, and cling to him desperately, while he slowly fell for Isabella’s purity.
Reality check: I had already drafted the breakup text.
When Damian sauntered into the café, smirking like a magazine model, I waved before he could even sit.
“Liana, my darling,” he began, “I’ve missed—”
“Damian,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Let’s end the engagement.”
He blinked. “I—what?”
“I said, let’s end it. We’re clearly better as distant acquaintances who only meet at annual galas.”
His jaw dropped. “Is this because of that transfer girl? You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
I sipped my latte calmly. “Jealous? No. I’m enlightened.”
> “Oh my God, she’s speedrunning the plot!”
“Wait, that’s not supposed to happen until chapter twenty!”
The voices panicked again.
I ignored them and extended my hand. “Good luck, Damian. I sincerely hope your next fiancée has the patience of a saint.”
He stared at me as if I’d just spoken in an alien language.
That night, I slept better than I had in years.
---
Chapter 4: The Transfer Student and the Clique
By week three, I had decided one thing: if my world wanted to label me a villainess, then I’d be the most efficient, socially responsible villainess it had ever seen.
The “poor transfer student” arc arrived soon enough. Her name was Emily—bright, shy, and apparently destined to be my next target according to the “original story.”
In the supposed timeline, I was meant to lead my group of spoiled followers to torment her until she dropped out.
Instead, I called a meeting with my clique.
They arrived in my study room, all perfectly manicured, holding bubble teas and curiosity.
“Girls,” I began, “we’re changing our brand.”
They exchanged confused glances.
“Brand?” one of them repeated.
“Yes. From ‘Mean Girl Collective’ to ‘Academic Excellence Circle.’”
Silence.
“From now on,” I continued, “we’ll focus on internship prep, networking events, and charity drives. Bullying is out. Productivity is in.”
One girl hesitantly raised her hand. “So… no more sabotaging people’s lockers?”
“Only if those lockers are filled with underdeveloped business plans,” I said.
Emily, the transfer student, accidentally walked in on us later that week while I was coaching the girls on how to write effective scholarship essays. She froze, expecting cruelty.
Instead, I handed her a pen. “You’re good at literature, right? Help me review this draft.”
She blinked, confused. “You… want my help?”
“Of course,” I said. “We’re all here to succeed.”
She smiled timidly. “Thank you, Miss Everhart.”
For the first time, I felt something warm bloom in my chest.
> “Wait… she’s redeeming herself?”
“This isn’t a tragedy anymore…”
That’s right. I was rewriting everything.
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