The flickering blue light of a smartphone was the only thing illuminating the cramped apartment.
It was 3:00 AM, and Clara was doing what she did best: hate-reading the latest update of *The Fragile Lily*.
"Are you serious right now?" she hissed at the screen, her thumb hovering over the scroll bar in disbelief.
In the latest chapter, the "White Lotus" female lead, Daisy, had just tripped over a perfectly flat rug. Arthur, the "Golden CEO," had rushed to catch her with a face full of more agony than a Shakespearean tragedy.
Meanwhile, the second lead—the brooding "Dark CEO" Julian—was standing in the background, looking ready to buy the rug company just to burn it down for "hurting" his precious Daisy.
And then there was Seraphina. The villainess. The woman currently screaming in the text because Julian hadn't looked at her for three whole seconds.
Clara tapped the comment section with aggressive speed, her keyboard clicking like gunfire.
> **User: XuxaQue**
> *This plot is a disaster. Seraphina has a billion dollars and the face of a goddess, yet she's chasing an iceberg like Julian? Girl, STAND UP. If I were you, I'd dump the statue, ignore the White Lotus, and go for the Golden Boy Arthur. At least he's nice to look at.*
>
"Pathetic," Clara muttered, tossing the phone onto the pillow next to her head.
Her eyes were heavy, the lines of text blurring into a messy soup of glowing pixels.
"If I were her... I'd rewrite this whole stupid thing..."
She drifted off to the sound of her own frustrated sigh, the darkness of sleep pulling her under.
*Tap. Tap. Tap.*
The sound was rhythmic and persistent.
"Five more minutes, Mom..." Clara mumbled, trying to pull the covers over her head.
But the fabric felt wrong. It wasn't her pilled, cotton duvet. It felt like heavy, cold, expensive silk.
"Miss Seraphina? We really must finish the liner before the Master arrives."
Clara's eyes snapped open.
She wasn't in her one-bedroom apartment. She was sitting in front of a massive, three-paneled vanity made of solid mahogany and gold leaf. The room behind her was the size of a ballroom, draped in velvet and smelling of expensive lilies.
Two women in crisp white uniforms hovered over her, one holding a silver eyeliner brush like a surgical tool.
"What... where am I?" Clara croaked. Her voice sounded different—deeper, smoother, like expensive velvet.
"You're in the dressing room, Miss," the stylist said nervously, her hands trembling. "Master Arthur is hosting the garden party today. You said you wanted to look 'lethally beautiful' so Master Julian wouldn't be able to take his eyes off you."
Clara's heart did a violent somersault. Seraphina? Master Julian? Garden party?
She slowly turned her head to look at the mirror.
She didn't see her tired, 32-year-old self. Instead, a masterpiece stared back. Shoulder-length hair as black as a raven's wing, eyes a deep, piercing brown, and a complexion so fair it looked like polished porcelain. It was the face from the cover of the ebook she had been mocking just hours ago.
"No way," she whispered, touching the cold glass of the mirror. Her fingers were long, tipped with a perfect red manicure.
The realization hit her like a physical blow, making her breath hitch. She wasn't just reading the ink anymore. She was in it.
"Miss? Are you alright?"
Clara stood up abruptly, the heavy silk of a designer gown rustling around her ankles. She looked at the marble floor, then at the ornate ceiling, then back at the terrified stylists.
A slow, manic grin started to spread across her new, beautiful lips. If the "system" or whatever force brought her here thought she was going to follow the script and beg for an iceberg's love, they had picked the wrong reader.
"The garden party," Clara said, her voice gaining a sharp, dangerous edge. "Arthur is there, right?"
"Yes, Miss. He's with Miss Daisy near the fountain—"
"Perfect," Clara interrupted, grabbing a clutch bag that probably cost more than her old college tuition. "I'm done with the iceberg. It's time to see if the Golden Boy is as soft as he looks."
She walked out of the room with a confident stride, leaving the stylists in a state of absolute shock. Clara didn't know how she had gotten here, but if she was the villainess, she was going to be the best one this script had ever seen.