Chapter 1: Waking Up in the Wrong Story

I jolted awake, shivering so hard my teeth nearly chattered. The cold seeped right through me, down to my bones. Man, was it freezing. For a second, I wondered if I’d rolled right out of my bed and into a walk-in freezer.

The world felt chilly and strange, thick with morning dew and a faint whiff of campfire smoke. My eyes flickered open and shut as I tried to get my bearings. What the hell? My heart was pounding like I’d run a marathon in my sleep, and I had no idea where I was.

When I finally pried my eyes open, I saw two gorgeous women going at it—locked in a heated argument, faces red, voices sharp, and neither backing down an inch.

Their voices sliced through the morning quiet—sharp, overlapping, way too much drama for this early. The air crackled. I could feel it in my skin—the way it gets before a summer storm. Static, electric, and tense.

One of them was in a crimson dress, her features bold and striking, like a movie star who’d just stepped off the red carpet. She looked like the kind of woman who’d show up on a magazine cover, all confidence and attitude, the type you just couldn’t ignore.

Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in wild, defiant waves, lips painted a shade that could stop traffic. She stood with her chin up, hands on her hips, basically daring the world to mess with her. You couldn’t miss her, even if you tried. Her presence was like a fire alarm in a silent room—loud, impossible to ignore.

The other woman wore a flowing white sundress, and she seemed to almost float—delicate and fragile, like a snowflake caught in the winter wind. She looked like she might float away if you breathed too hard.

She moved with a hesitant grace, eyes wide and uncertain, hands twisting the hem of her dress. She looked like she wanted to disappear, but her eyes said she wasn’t going anywhere.

But hey, don’t get the wrong idea.

This wasn’t some soap opera catfight. The tension ran deeper, like the undercurrent before a river flood. This was old. Real old. I could sense the years of resentment and heartache packed into every glare, every clipped word.

The woman in white? Turns out, she’s my mom now—Autumn Grace.

Yeah, you heard me right. I’d landed in the middle of a drama, and she was my mother now. Wild. Seriously. How did I end up here?

She’s the tragic “fake innocent” supporting character in this old-school Hollywood drama. Born into an elite family. Hiding secrets. But doomed to a miserable end. That’s Autumn Grace in a nutshell.

She’s the kind of woman you see in black-and-white movies, always on the edge of tears, always one step from disaster. The kind you want to reach through the screen and save, but the script never lets her win. Man, it’s brutal.

And all because my biological father, Charles Whitaker—the richest man in the story—is completely, hopelessly blind. Blind in all the ways that matter, anyway. He had money, power, and not a clue about the people who actually cared. The man could spot a fake Picasso from across a gallery, but not a snake in his own home.

In the novel, to protect the original heroine, Lila Monroe, he hired PR sharks to ruin her. Blackballed her from the industry. Even teamed up with Lila to destroy Autumn’s family, pushing her so far she jumped from her penthouse balcony.

It was the kind of plot twist that made readers throw the book across the room. I wanted to reach into the book and shake him. I remember cursing his name, wishing someone would knock some sense into him—or at least push him off a metaphorical balcony of his own.

As for me—his real daughter—I lost my mom early and grew up under my stepmother Lila’s thumb. I died of heartbreak at just eight years old.

After my mother and I were gone, Lila’s life only got better. She milked the "hopeless slacker" thing for all it was worth. The fans ate it up. And, backed by my dad’s fortune, she soared to the top of the industry, eventually snagging Best Actress at the Oscars.

She became America’s sweetheart, all while stepping on the backs of everyone who got in her way. Cinderella? Please. More like the evil stepsister, just better at hiding it.

When I finished reading the novel, I couldn’t help but wonder—seriously, what did Autumn Grace and her daughter ever do to deserve that?

It haunted me for days. I’d catch myself staring at the ceiling at night, fists clenched, wishing I could rewrite their ending. If only someone had stepped in, if only someone had fought for them.

I never expected that, in the very next second, I’d be sucked into the book, waking up as Autumn Grace and Charles Whitaker’s five-year-old daughter, Daisy. No way was I letting history repeat itself. Not this time. It was like getting a second chance at life—and this time, I was determined to change the script.