Chapter 1: My Husband, The Villain Returns

The kid I’d watched grow up—Noah, the second lead I’d practically raised since he was in grade school—just got into a car accident. And after that? It was like someone had flipped a switch, and suddenly he was back to being the ruthless villain from the original story. Like I’d blinked, and all the years I’d spent trying to save him had been erased with the flick of a page. I mean, really? Out of all the plot twists, this was the one I got?

The news hit me like a punch to the gut. I stood frozen in the hallway, cell phone pressed to my ear, my mind spinning. My ears rang with the phantom screech of tires, and for a second, I swore I could taste the acrid tang of burnt rubber and adrenaline in the air—even though I was nowhere near the scene. God, I could feel the panic crawling up my spine. Was this really happening? Was everything I’d built about to fall apart?

And now? We’d already been married for five years.

Five years of tangled toothbrushes, midnight runs for ice cream, and inside jokes that would make no sense to anyone else. Five years of building a life, of learning each other’s quirks and rhythms. It’s the kind of shared history that seeps into your bones, so familiar you barely notice it—until it’s suddenly hanging by a thread.

Just yesterday, he’d grinned at me and said, “I just love finishing off whatever’s left on your plate, babe.”

He’d winked, snatching my fork with a playful tug and scooping up the last bite of mashed potatoes I’d been eyeing. “Hey, it’s my sworn duty as your husband to make sure no good food goes to waste.” I’d rolled my eyes at him, but inside, my heart felt like it was glowing, bathed in the soft kitchen light.

But now, he looked at me with that cold, mocking stare—like all the warmth had been sucked right out of his eyes.

It was like a total stranger had taken his place. His gaze was razor-sharp, almost clinical, dissecting me as if I was just another problem to solve—or ignore. The air between us felt colder than the kitchen floor under my bare feet.

“So, what are you now? The guy’s lapdog? Done chasing after him, and crawling into my bed instead?”

His words were like shards of glass, cutting deep. He lounged back against the hospital pillows, arms crossed, voice soaked in contempt. I could practically see the old Noah—the one I’d fought so hard to save—slipping away, replaced by the villain I used to dread.

I mean, come on. I’d landed in this world as a throwaway side character in a cutesy romance novel. The so-called system had popped up in my head, bossing me around, telling me to sabotage the main couple. Like I was supposed to be the chaos gremlin for someone else’s love story. Seriously?

I remembered the first time I’d woken up here, blinking at the pastel wallpaper and frilly curtains, realizing I was definitely not in Kansas anymore. The system’s voice was all business, nudging me to stir up trouble. But right then and there, I made up my mind: I wasn’t going to be the villain of anyone’s story—not even a fictional one.

Nope. Not happening.

No way was I going to mess with someone else’s happiness just because some cosmic narrator wanted drama. I’d never had the stomach for that kind of pettiness—not in books, and definitely not in real life.

So instead, I found the still-young second lead and did everything I could to keep him on the straight and narrow, so he wouldn’t go dark when he grew up.

I took him to Little League games, taught him to tie a tie, sat with him through math homework and first heartbreaks. I made it my mission to show him kindness, to rewrite his story with a stubborn sort of hope and the gentlest hands I could muster.

Every day, I’d remind him: “See those two? They’re together. We absolutely cannot get in their way.”

I’d point across the cafeteria at the main couple, my voice light but leaving no room for debate. “They’re endgame, kiddo. Our job is to make sure they get their happy ending. Got it?”

So Noah Ellison never broke up the main couple.

He’d nod, sometimes with an exaggerated eye roll, but he listened. He never tried to steal the spotlight. Instead, he started orbiting around me—always nearby, always watching, like I was the only thing that mattered.

But then, he started chasing after me—with everything he had. Honestly, it caught me off guard. At first, it was little gestures—an extra soda on my desk, a ride home when the weather turned ugly. Then it was flowers, notes tucked into my bag, the kind of attention that made my heart skip and my cheeks heat up. He was relentless, but never pushy. Every bit of his affection was loud and clear.

And now, five years into our marriage, Noah always put me first, looking out for me in every way he could.

He’d bring me coffee just the way I liked it, leave goofy sticky notes on the fridge, wrap me up in his arms when the world felt too heavy. I’d never realized love could feel so safe—so unshakeable.

So when I heard Noah had been in a car accident, I dropped everything and rushed to St. Mary’s Hospital.

I barely remember the drive—just a blur of headlights and the anxious drumbeat of my heart. My hands trembled as I parked, sprinting through the sliding doors, the harsh scent of antiseptic and too-bright lights making everything seem unreal.

Inside the hospital room, Noah was in a blue-and-white hospital gown. He didn’t look sick at all—if anything, he seemed even more intimidating than usual.

He sat upright, arms folded, jaw set the way he did during our worst arguments. Even the fluorescent light couldn’t dull the edge in his eyes.

I set down the chicken noodle soup I’d made, looked up, and met his gaze.

The thermos felt like a brick in my hands. I forced a smile, scanning his face for any trace of the man I loved. The silence between us was so tight it felt like it might snap.

He looked at me like I was a stranger.

His eyes swept over me, slow and impersonal, as if cataloging a face he’d never seen before. The chill in his gaze made me shiver.

I hesitated, telling myself maybe he was just out of it, so I kissed his cheek, reached up to feel his forehead, and asked, trying to sound casual, “Are you feeling any better? Does anything hurt?”

My lips brushed his cheek, warm and familiar, but he didn’t react. My palm pressed to his forehead, hoping for any flicker of recognition. My voice wobbled, but I tried to keep it together.

Noah didn’t seem to process it right away. He just raised an eyebrow, like he was sizing me up.

He leaned back, lips twisting into a smirk—the kind that always made me want to throttle him. For a second, I wondered if he was just messing with me.

After a long, awkward pause, he finally spoke. “Autumn Graves.”

He said my name like it was the punchline to a joke, slow and deliberate, as if he was trying it on for size. The way he looked at me made my stomach twist.

I felt a little lost, but still took out the soup I’d made, scooped up a spoonful, and brought it to his lips. “Mm-hmm, try it. I made this just for you.”

I held the spoon steady, hoping the gesture would somehow bridge the gap between us. The steam curled up, carrying the scent of home. I waited, heart pounding.

He didn’t open his mouth.

He just stared at the spoon, lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to budge. The silence between us grew heavier, pressing in from all sides.

We just sat there, stuck in this weird standoff for what felt like forever.

The clock on the wall ticked, each second feeling like an eternity. My arm started to ache, but I didn’t lower the spoon. I was nothing if not stubborn.

Noah finally seemed to realize something. He ignored the spoonful of soup and instead stared at me, suddenly giving a lazy, mocking smile.

His eyes glinted with something dark, almost cruel. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

“So, what, you his little lapdog now? Done chasing after him and crawling into my bed instead?”

He threw the words out like a challenge, voice dripping with venom. I flinched, the accusation landing harder than I’d expected.

“Not running to Chase, and coming to me instead?”

He leaned forward, voice dropping to a sneer. The name hung in the air between us, heavy and sharp.

Clang—

The bowl in my hand slipped and hit the floor, soup splattering everywhere.

The crash echoed, soup splashing across the sterile tiles. For a second, neither of us moved. My hands trembled, fingers numb.

I stood up, blinking slowly.

Everything felt far away, sounds muffled, like I was underwater. I stared at the mess, not really seeing it.

Chase.

He was the male lead of this fluffy romance story.

His name felt like a slap, a reminder of the role I was supposed to play. But I’d left all that behind—hadn’t I?

I looked up at Noah.

He was raising his eyebrow, smirking in that careless, cocky way.

He looked every inch the villain from the original story. My heart plummeted.

No. This wasn’t right.

This wasn’t Noah—not the one I’d raised, who was steady, loyal, and gentle.

My Noah would never look at me like this. He’d never sneer, never use my past as a weapon. The loss hit me like a physical blow.

His eyes had always been soft, even when he teased me. This new coldness was foreign—completely alien.

In a flash, I remembered how the original story described him.

I could see the lines on the page, the way the author painted him as a tragic figure gone wrong. It was supposed to be fiction—a cautionary tale. Not my real life.

In the novel, Noah was the second lead, and when he grew up, he went completely dark—becoming the main villain.

He was the shadow to the hero’s light, all sharp edges and unhealed wounds. I’d pitied him, once upon a time.

He was cynical, ruthless, and only ever showed a sliver of warmth to the heroine.

The kind of man who’d burn the world down for a single smile. I’d worked so hard to change that fate.

And me? In the original, I was a shallow, gold-digging side character, obsessed with Chase, always scheming to get ahead, and constantly trying to trip up the heroine.

I remembered every humiliation, every desperate ploy, the way readers had hated my character. I’d promised myself I’d be better, that I’d rewrite my story.

Naturally, that didn’t end well—I was driven mad by the twisted Noah in the end.

The memory sent a chill down my spine. I’d sworn I’d never let it come to that—not for me, not for him.

And now, the man who’d loved me for five years had lost all memory of us, looking at me with nothing but distance and mockery.

The grief settled in my chest, cold and heavy. The silence between us felt like the final nail in the coffin.

My face went cold.

I schooled my face, shoving the pain down deep. If he wanted to play the villain, fine. I could play the ice queen.

No point sticking around. I grabbed my bag and got ready to leave.

I slung the strap over my shoulder, standing tall. I wouldn’t beg—not for love, not for anything.

I paused for a second, looked at this version of Noah from the original, and smiled, just to spite him. “That’s right, Mr. Ellison. If you hadn’t agreed, I never could’ve ended up in your bed, right?”

I let the words hang in the air, my smile sharp enough to cut. If he wanted to be cruel, I could match him, step for step.

With that, I turned and walked away. I’d barely taken two steps when I heard a cup smash against the wall behind me.

The crash rang out, loud and violent. My heart leapt into my throat, adrenaline spiking.

I instinctively turned around. Glass shards flew everywhere—a tiny piece grazed my cheek as it whipped past.

A line of stinging heat bloomed across my skin. I pressed my fingers to my cheek, feeling the wetness of blood, the sharp sting grounding me.

Warm blood slowly welled up. I paused, and it finally hit me.

This was it. The line had been crossed. I stared at the blood on my fingertips, realization settling like a stone in my gut.

The man in front of me was no longer the husband who loved me.

He was a stranger wearing my husband’s face. The grief was sharp, but I swallowed it down.

I wiped the blood from my cheek without a word and walked out of the hospital room.

My footsteps echoed in the hallway, the sterile light overhead buzzing faintly. I didn’t look back, not even once.

Right outside, I saw Noah’s assistant waiting by the door, looking like the world had ended.

Ben stood wringing his hands, eyes wide with worry. His suit was rumpled, hair sticking up as if he’d been tearing at it all morning.

He stammered, “Ma’am, what happened to your face… Mr. Ellison, he—”

His voice cracked, the words spilling out in a rush. He looked ready to bolt inside, torn between loyalty and fear.

I looked at him with a half-smile. “You can go in and see for yourself.”

I tried to keep my tone light, but the bitterness slipped through. I brushed past him, chin up, refusing to let the tears fall until I was alone.

Ben, the ever-loyal assistant, hurried in. When he saw the glass shards on the floor, he practically shrieked, “Mr. Ellison, did you just lose your temper at Mrs. Ellison?”

His voice bounced off the walls, full of disbelief. I could picture his wide-eyed stare, the way his hands twisted in helpless frustration.

Inside, Noah looked at his longtime assistant, visibly annoyed. “Why are you making such a fuss? It’s just a change of pace—I’m not gonna die without her.”

He sounded bored, almost amused, like the whole thing was a joke. My fists clenched, nails biting into my palms.

Ben finally managed to pull himself together. “No, wait… you’re just upset, right? I’ll go bring Mrs. Ellison back, you can apologize, and everything’ll be fine—”

He sounded desperate, as if saying it out loud would make it true. I almost pitied him.

Noah actually laughed, cutting him off. “Apologize?”

He let out a harsh, humorless bark of laughter, shaking his head. The sound was ugly, foreign.

“Why would I apologize to her?”

He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes daring Ben to push him further.

Ben blurted, "Don’t you know who she is?"

Ben’s voice wavered, hope flickering in his eyes. He looked at Noah like he was waiting for the punchline.

Noah shrugged. “What, is she my grandma or something?”

He sounded genuinely puzzled, as if the idea of me mattering to him was ridiculous.

Ben finally realized something was seriously wrong.

The color drained from his face. He took a shaky breath, piecing things together.

He paced, muttering under his breath, trying to make sense of the impossible.

He stopped, staring at Noah, lips pressed together, as if weighing every possibility.

His mouth fell open, eyes darting between the bed and Noah, finally grasping the gravity of the situation.

Finally, he spoke like he was facing a crisis. “Mr. Ellison… did you lose your memory?”

His words hung in the air, heavy and terrifying.

“Did you forget? You and Autumn are married. You’re husband and wife.”

He said it gently, as if afraid Noah might shatter under the truth. I could hear the hope in his voice, desperate for denial.

Noah clearly didn’t buy it. He gave a sarcastic laugh. “I married her? What, did she pay you off too, so you’d help her lie to me?”

He rolled his eyes, that old smirk returning, refusing to accept a reality he couldn’t remember.

Ben started pacing the room in a panic. “This is bad, this is really bad…”

He muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. I could almost hear his heart pounding from the hallway.

Suddenly, he clapped his hands. “Oh, I remember—check under your pillow.”

His eyes lit up, as if he’d just cracked the case.

Noah just stared.

He stared at Ben, suspicious, but curiosity got the better of him.

Ben smiled. “Just check under your pillow and see what’s there.”

He gestured encouragingly, practically bouncing on his toes.

Noah silently lifted the pillow—and found two marriage certificates.

The sight of those certificates stopped him cold. He stared at them, uncomprehending, the color draining from his face.

Ben saw the certificates and finally relaxed, like he’d found a life raft. He didn’t even care that Noah was still in shock; he just patted his boss on the shoulder comfortingly. “Alright, man, amnesia’s not the end of the world. I’ll call the doctor to get your head checked.”

He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “You should focus on how you’re going to make it up to your wife.”

Making it up to me was out of the question.

The words echoed in my mind, bitter and final. I knew better than to hope for miracles.

For days, Noah didn’t contact me at all.

The silence was suffocating. I kept checking my phone, hoping for a message that never came. Every night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment we’d shared.

A week later, he was discharged from the hospital.

The doctors said he’d be fine—just a few bruises and a mild concussion. Physically, at least.

I tried to tell myself that was good news, that at least he was safe. But let’s be real—my heart wasn’t buying it.

When I got the news he’d be coming home, I was eating dinner.

I sat at the kitchen table, pushing food around my plate, appetite gone. The house felt too quiet, every tick of the clock a reminder of what I’d lost.

Her voice was gentle, full of motherly concern. She set another plate in front of me, watching closely for any sign I’d eat more than a bite.

“Ma’am, you’ve lost so much weight these days. Have you been worried about your husband’s health?”

Her voice was gentle, full of motherly concern. She set another plate in front of me, watching closely for any sign I’d eat more than a bite.

I really hadn’t had much appetite lately. I only managed a few bites of each dish before I was done.

I forced a smile, promising I’d try harder tomorrow. But the food tasted like cardboard in my mouth.

After watching TV in the living room for a while, I stood up to head upstairs.

The sitcom’s canned laughter felt weirdly out of place in the heavy silence. I switched off the TV and made my way to the stairs, footsteps echoing in the empty house.

Suddenly, I heard the front door open.

The sound jolted me. I froze, heart thudding, hope and dread tangled up inside me.

Aunt Linda’s delighted voice rang out. “Sir, you’re finally back! Ma’am’s been worried about you every day.”

Her words tumbled out, full of relief. She hurried over, arms open, like nothing had changed.

I didn’t react right away, just glanced over at Noah.

He stood in the foyer, suitcase in hand, posture stiff. His eyes slid past me, never settling, as if I was just another piece of furniture.

He didn’t even look at me, acting like I didn’t exist. He just told Aunt Linda to prep dinner.

His voice was clipped, all business. Aunt Linda didn’t seem to notice the frost in the air.

Aunt Linda, blissfully unaware, agreed and went to the kitchen to reheat the leftovers from my meal.

She hummed as she worked, the clatter of dishes oddly cheerful against the gloom.

So when the dishes were brought out, Noah saw—

A half-eaten egg salad.

Green beans sautéed with beef, but with all the beef picked out.

Spicy chili mac and cheese.

And a half cup of milk.

The plates looked so sad and lonely, like the remnants of a meal shared with a ghost. I almost laughed.

Noah almost laughed in disbelief.

He let out a short, incredulous huff, eyeing the food like it was some kind of prank.

He sat at the table, propping his chin on one hand, glancing over the dishes.

His gaze lingered on each plate, a smirk tugging at his lips. He looked up at Aunt Linda, eyebrow raised.

Finally, he curled his lips and asked Aunt Linda, “What’s the deal, are we broke or something? Leftovers for dinner?”

His tone was light, almost joking, but the edge was there.

Aunt Linda’s hand paused as she set down a bowl.

She looked at him, puzzled, like she couldn’t figure out what had gotten into him. “But sir, didn’t you always say you love finishing Ma’am’s leftovers?”

She glanced at me, waiting for confirmation, confusion etched across her face.

Noah said nothing.

He stared at the table full of leftovers, silent for a long time, then picked up his fork and started eating without another word.

He stabbed a piece of egg salad, chewing slowly, his expression unreadable. The silence between us was thick and awkward.