Chapter 1: Queens of Retail and Regret

She’s obsessed with the brooding second lead—the guy who’s always there for the heroine but never gets the girl—and I’m the stand-in for the dangerously possessive villain, the one everyone warns you about but can’t help falling for.

On the surface, we both pine away with hopeless, unrequited love, putting on a show for the world. But behind closed doors, we’re the queens of retail therapy, blowing through cash together like there’s no tomorrow—laughing over takeout, trading inside jokes about who can rack up the bigger credit card bill.

For three years, we lived lives of wild extravagance—until the real, irreplaceable heroine, the so-called 'white moonlight'—his unattainable first love, the one who got away—came back and turned everything upside down.

When we learned that both the second lead and the villain would lose their minds for her, my best friend showed up at my door late at night with a duffel bag: "I’ve saved enough. What about you?"

Me: "I’m a little short—guess I’ll have to borrow from you."

So the two of us faked our deaths and vanished.

Three years later, my best friend accidentally runs into her ex-husband.

I blurt out, "I’ll cover for you, go!"

But when I turn around, I crash straight into a solid chest.

The villain calmly slips off his tie and binds my hands, his eyes dark with something I can’t read.

"Maybe you should worry about getting yourself out of here first."

---

When Harrison Linwood suddenly came home, Mariah Torres was showing off her new pink diamond ring, the sunlight dancing through the bay windows and catching the facets as she wiggled her hand at me, her giddy grin infectious. The living room looked like the aftermath of a luxury tornado—shopping bags from Saks, Neiman’s, and Tiffany’s scattered everywhere, the crinkle of glossy paper mingling with the lingering scent of salty fries from our favorite burger joint. The room buzzed with our laughter, our inside jokes echoing off the walls.

As Harrison’s exclusive Tesla glided into the driveway, Mariah’s face shifted from playful to panicked. She shoved me, whispering urgently, "Hurry, get in the closet!"

She pushed me with the kind of urgency you get when you’re about to be caught sneaking in after curfew. My heart pounded as I stumbled, nearly tripping over a pile of designer heels before diving into the walk-in closet. The space was packed tight with Mariah’s coats and handbags, the air thick with her favorite vanilla perfume. I pressed myself against the back wall, trying to slow my breathing, every muscle tensed as I listened for footsteps.

Just as I squeezed myself into the tightest corner, Harrison pushed open the bedroom door and strode in.

A moment ago, Mariah had been bubbling with excitement, flaunting her latest splurge. Now her eyes were rimmed red, her face the picture of heartbreak—a transformation so convincing I almost believed it myself.

She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, smudging her mascara just enough to seem vulnerable. Her posture collapsed, shoulders slumped, hands twisting in her lap—a masterclass in wounded dignity, as if she’d been rehearsing for this moment her whole life.

Hearing Harrison’s footsteps, Mariah forced a bitter laugh. "You actually remembered to come home."

Her voice wavered, just enough to sound both sarcastic and hurt—the kind of weary tone that only comes from years of disappointment.

Harrison strode over, looming above her. "Savannah’s missing."

He didn’t sit or soften his voice, just stood there, posture rigid, as if he were delivering a verdict at a board meeting. The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees, tension thickening with every second.

"Mariah, I told you before—Savannah is just someone I help out. If the Linwood and Torres families have issues, take it out on me. Don’t drag innocent people into this."

His words were clipped, every syllable sharpened by old resentments. He glared at her, jaw clenched, practically daring her to challenge him.

Mariah’s eyes widened in disbelief. "You think I kidnapped her?"

Her voice cracked on the last word. She looked up at him, searching his face for any flicker of trust or understanding.

Harrison closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "After Savannah called you, she disappeared. How am I not supposed to suspect you?"

He looked worn down, the silence in the room broken only by the faint hum of the AC and the distant rumble of city traffic.

Just then, his phone rang, slicing through the tension. Harrison answered, casting a quick, unreadable glance at Mariah. "Okay, I’ll be right there."

He turned to leave, but Mariah snapped, rushing up to grab his hand, desperation etched into every movement.

She clung to him, her voice rising in panic—a scene worthy of reality TV, if it weren’t so heartbreakingly real.

"Harrison, it really wasn’t me!"

Her nails dug into his sleeve as she pleaded, her mind racing. But he shook her off with a coldness that made my stomach twist, even from my hiding place.

Harrison’s eyes were icy. "I’ll find out the truth. Until then, I’m not coming home."

He yanked his hand away, already halfway out the door. Mariah’s tears spilled instantly.

"Can you leave tomorrow?" Her eyes were red, voice trembling. "Today’s our wedding anniversary. Can’t you at least stay one night?"

Her voice was barely a whisper, but it lingered in the air, heavy as a prayer. She looked so small, wrapped in silk pajamas, hugging herself for comfort.

Harrison paused for two seconds, but in the end, he pulled free.

He didn’t even look back. The silence that followed was absolute—the kind that makes a house feel hollow after a fight. The only sound was the weighty thud of the door closing.

"Sorry. The cops have a lead on Savannah. I have to go."

The door shut with a heavy finality. Mariah’s voice echoed down the hall, raw and desperate: "Harrison! Come back!"

Her cry bounced off the walls, swallowed by the emptiness. The only reply was the fading sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor.

We both sat in silence for a long moment, listening to his footsteps disappear into nothingness.

Finally, the tension broke. I could hear Mariah’s shaky breathing, the way her hands trembled as she wiped her face, mascara streaking her cheeks.

"Oh my god, he’s finally gone."

Mariah wiped away her tears and yanked open the closet door, letting me stumble out, brushing lint from my jeans. We both burst into nervous giggles—the kind that come when disaster has barely been averted.

I grinned, giving her a mock bow. "Your acting is Oscar-worthy, girl. Seriously, you’d win every award in Hollywood."

Mariah rolled her eyes. "Alright, enough with the jokes. We’re in real trouble here—we need to talk."

She slumped onto the bed, dropping the mask. Her voice was all business now, and I could tell this wasn’t just another one of our melodramatic routines.

"The heroine’s shown up and started making trouble. My guy is already making me miserable, and yours probably isn’t far behind."

She picked at her nail polish, the pink diamond ring catching the lamplight, her jaw clenched in frustration.

I hesitated, the weight of it all sinking in. "You mean..."

I trailed off, heart pounding, as reality came crashing down around us.

"We have to run," Mariah said, voice flat. "If we don’t, we might make money, but we’ll never live to spend it."

Her matter-of-fact delivery sent a chill down my spine. I knew she was right—this was the moment everything changed.

---

Mariah and I both transmigrated into this book.

Sometimes I still can’t believe it. One minute we were binge-watching cheesy dramas and eating pizza in my Brooklyn apartment, and the next—we woke up in Maple Heights, trapped inside the lives of two women from a romance novel. The universe really does have a twisted sense of humor. The smell of cold pepperoni still haunted my dreams, a reminder of the life we’d left behind.

She’s head over heels for the brooding second lead, Harrison Linwood, who married her through a family arrangement. After three years of marriage, Harrison treats her with nothing but coldness.

He’s the kind of guy who’d rather read legal briefs than talk about his feelings. Mariah, ever the romantic, thought she could thaw him out. Instead, she got a front-row seat to her own heartbreak, watching him fall for someone else.

I’m the stand-in for the dangerously possessive villain, Victor Blackwell, who kept me in his mansion for three years just because I look like his first love—the one he could never have, his "white moonlight"—the girl who haunted him, the one who got away.

Victor’s love language? Obsession, control, and expensive gifts. He’d probably buy me a castle just to keep me locked up in it. Not exactly the stuff of healthy relationships.