Chapter 1: Villain in Someone Else’s Script

Seriously, universe—why’d you have to make me the villain in someone else’s story?

Sometimes I wonder if I was just born unlucky, or if the universe gets a kick out of watching me trip over my own shoelaces. My dad drives for a living—chauffeuring people around in cars he’ll never own, the kind that still smell like new leather—and someone else’s dreams, honestly. My mom scrubs floors in the fanciest part of town, her hands raw from bleach, her eyes always darting away from those family portraits lining the mansion halls. Me? I drive other people’s fancy cars, act like they’re mine, and show off for anyone who’ll watch. I throw parties for classmates in mansions that aren’t ours, and I mean, I’ll even point to the richest guy in Forbes and say, “See? Last name’s Quinn too—that’s my dad.”

It’s all smoke and mirrors—wild, stupid lies you’d only believe if you really wanted to. But when you’re desperate to fit in, you’ll believe just about anything. Sometimes I catch myself in the mirror, and I swear, I don’t even recognize the girl grinning back.

Here’s the punchline: the main character, Maddy Quinn, is the real heiress. The Porsche I flaunt, the house, the endless cash—they’re all hers, not mine. Figures.

It’s like living in a borrowed dream, where every good thing has someone else’s name on the tag. The parties, the cars, the envy—they’re all on loan from Maddy, the girl who could have it all but prefers to keep it quiet.

But she likes to keep it on the down-low, acting like she’s broke. So I cyberbully her, pick at her, turn the whole class against her, steal her boyfriend, push things way too far—basically, I’m begging for disaster. In the end, I dig my own grave.

And let’s be real: I do it with style. I go all in, like I’m trying to set a new record for self-sabotage. No regrets. I make sure every bridge is burned, every secret is weaponized. It’s like I’m daring the universe to call my bluff.

The heroine? She uses her resources to set me up, exposes me for who I really am, and ruins me in a heartbeat. I get expelled, thrown in jail, buried in debt—game over. Just like that.

Maddy, meanwhile, reveals who she is, becomes the queen bee, ditches her loser ex, marries the rich, gorgeous guy who’s been waiting for her, and gets her happy ending. Must be nice.

It’s the classic American redemption arc—just not for me. I’m the cautionary tale, the one parents whisper about at PTA meetings. Maddy walks off into the sunset, and I’m left in the rearview. Figures.

Reading this plot, I thought: Maddy’s like someone dealing with a mosquito. She could’ve just squashed it, but instead, she lets it bite a few times. Then she kills it and shows off the welts: Boohoo, look how mean the mosquito is. I’m so pitiful.

Honestly, it’s like she’s collecting receipts for her own suffering—just so she can, I don’t know, cash them in for sympathy points later. The whole thing feels rigged from the jump.

Fine. If that’s my lot, I’ll just be a regular person and stop making a fool of myself.

I’m just kind of drifting, no clue who I was before, somehow swept into this world. Sometimes I’d hover by Quinn Mason’s side, sometimes by Maddy’s, just... watching Maddy quietly lay her plans, watching Quinn Mason act cocky and self-destructive. I watched right through Quinn Mason’s tragic end and Maddy’s sickly-sweet romance with the rich golden boy.

Before I could process any of it, I blinked—and became Quinn Mason. Yeah. That happened.

It’s like I hit the reset button and landed smack in the middle of someone else’s melodrama. I remember floating through scenes like a ghost. But now I’m front and center, and the spotlight’s burning hot.

It’s my first day here. And tomorrow? That’s when Quinn Mason’s supposed to show up at college.

I can feel the nerves crawling up my spine—like I’m about to walk onstage without knowing my lines. The clock’s ticking, and I know what’s coming if I mess this up. No pressure.

Panicked, I quickly deleted the message I’d typed in the freshman group chat:

“Anyone want to grab food? Whoever wins my heart gets to drive my little gator—what I call the Porsche.”

Underneath were five or six flirty photos, the last a selfie in a car, with the Porsche crest right in frame. Oof.

My heart nearly jumps out of my chest. Thank God I didn’t hit send. That would’ve set off a whole chain reaction, and I’d be toast before orientation even started. Disaster averted.

Just like that, I shut down Quinn Mason’s big show-off moment before it could happen. Saved by my own nerves. How’s that for irony?

I let out a shaky breath, hands still trembling. Crisis averted—barely. It’s wild—one tap, and I’d have ruined everything.

Breathing easier, I scrolled the group chat, watching the other freshmen post pics and crack jokes. The group was brand new. People were still joining. Everyone was a stranger, but the vibe was fun and goofy. I saved a bunch of dumb reaction stickers.

I grinned, letting the laid-back energy wash over me. There’s something about a bunch of kids starting fresh, tossing memes and inside jokes, that makes the world feel wide open. I could get used to this.

This fresh, friendly energy? I needed it.

For a second, I let myself imagine what it’d be like to really start over—no baggage, no fake personas, just me. No masks. No lies.

Then my smile froze.

“@DrunkLittleFairy, your profile pic is fire—post a selfie!”

“Is that a Porsche?”

“Dang! Rich girl! lol”

“Hey rich girl, need a friend? I’ll carry your books and fetch your coffee.”

“fr?”

“...”

Crap. I’d forgotten to change my nickname and avatar! Rookie mistake.

My profile pic was a selfie in a luxury car, with a custom ornament in the back—the one the heroine designed herself! The second I realized, my stomach dropped. Rookie mistake. I could practically hear the plot gears grinding into motion. Nice going, genius.

Stay cool. It’s not a big deal. I told them it was photoshopped. No biggie.

I tossed out a couple of jokes, dropped a meme or two, and tried to steer the convo away from my not-so-humble brag. The trick is to act like you’re in on the joke, not the punchline. Gotta keep them guessing.

Most classmates bought it, thinking I was just hyping up the chat. Only some guy named Hunter Ruiz kept bugging me for proof I wasn’t rich, or he wouldn’t believe me.

There’s always one guy, right? Hunter’s the kind who’d argue with a stop sign if it looked at him funny.

I posted a few pics from my old house, and he said I was just pretending to be broke.

Faking being poor? You could accuse me of a lot, but do I really need to fake being broke? Please.

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. If Hunter wanted to play detective, he could knock himself out. Let him waste his time. I had bigger problems.

I wasn’t about to argue with this contrarian, so I changed my nickname to “StillWaters” and swapped my avatar for a photo of a lotus flower—the kind of thing middle-aged folks love.

Now I looked wise and mysterious. Fake it till you make it.

I even added a little cryptic bio: "Still waters run deep." Let them chew on that.

To avoid any more accidents, I wiped Quinn Mason’s messy friend list, deleted everything that needed deleting, and checked her major social media accounts, making them all a “fresh start.”

I scrolled through her old DMs and group chats, nuking anything that screamed drama or desperation. If I was going to survive here, I needed to keep things clean—no loose threads for anyone to pull. No slip-ups allowed.

On the first day of college, I made sure to skip all of Quinn Mason’s flashy off-shoulder tops and tight dresses, and put on a plain button-down like I’d wear myself. I was invisible now.

I even traded out her heels for a pair of classic Converse. Sometimes you’ve got to blend in before you can stand out for the right reasons.

But when I saw Maddy Quinn under the dorm building, I was floored.

Not because she was dressed plain, acting like she was broke—wearing a sun visor, gray sweats, and dragging two huge, stuffed denim duffel bags, the kind you see at the bus station before Thanksgiving break. But because I’d deliberately wasted two hours outside before coming in—so why did I still run into her?

Timing is everything, and apparently, I have the worst luck. The universe must have a twisted sense of humor.

I remembered: Quinn Mason and she had a fight here. Quinn Mason strutted in on heels and a tight dress, saw there was no elevator, and couldn’t carry her own bags. She spotted the “country bumpkin” heroine and ordered her to haul her stuff, saying if she didn’t, she wasn’t a good classmate or had no morals. Ugh. Made you want to slap her.

Just thinking about it made me cringe. No wonder everyone hated Quinn Mason. Seriously, what was she thinking?

Whatever, not important. We crossed paths, so be it. I’m not Quinn Mason, so I’m not about to do something that dumb.

I took a deep breath and told myself to play it cool. This was my chance to rewrite the script.

Thinking that, I strolled over casually. “Hey, you live here too?”

Maddy smiled and greeted me. I replied, steady as I could, “Yeah.”

Her eyes were sharp and bright, but it felt like I was falling into a bottomless pit. I had to look away for a second.

I felt a weird chill, like she could see straight through me. Maybe she could.

“Seriously, don’t you know you’re supposed to help a girl with all this luggage? What kind of classmate are you?”

As soon as I said it, I slapped my hand over my mouth in horror. What the heck did I just say!

It was like my mouth was on autopilot, spitting out lines from someone else’s script. I wanted to rewind time and slap myself. Seriously, brain?

“What do you want me to do?” Maddy looked at me, confused.

The second I met her eyes, my mind spun.

My mouth started running on its own, arrogant: “What do you think? Aren’t you going to hurry up—”

I pinched myself, hard enough to make my eyes water, and looked away. “Aren’t you going to hurry up and let me help you carry your bags?” Nice save, me.

Saying that, I slung Maddy’s giant denim duffel over my shoulder, grabbed my own luggage, and huffed up the stairs. After finally making it to the fourth floor, I dropped the bags, leaned against the wall, and sucked in air.

I was sweating like I’d just run a marathon, my shirt sticking to my back. The stairwell smelled like old paint and nerves.

Sweat dripped down my face. Even in the heat, I felt a cold chill.

Maddy Quinn is terrifying! For real.

She didn’t even break a sweat, just stood there with that unreadable look. I wondered if she was judging me, or maybe just amused.

“Do you... want some water?”

I looked up. Sadie Young was watching me nervously; her bed was already made, so she must’ve arrived early. I remembered Sadie’s family wasn’t well-off either, and she was shy and quiet. She’d been left out by Felicia Yang’s clique, but never hurt the heroine, so she dodged the heroine’s final revenge. She was smart to keep her head down.

Sadie had that earnest, Midwest vibe—soft-spoken, always ready to help, the kind of girl who’d bring you soup if you sneezed.

I forced a smile. “Thanks, but I’m good. There’s still more bags downstairs—I’ll go grab them.”

“Your SAT scores were so high. Mine were pretty good too—on the ACT...”

Maddy came up with Felicia Yang, who was also in our dorm. When Quinn Mason pretended to be rich, Felicia was her number-one sidekick and often bullied Maddy with her. Now the two were chatting and laughing. Go figure.

Felicia had that loud, fast-talking energy—always the first to crack a joke, but the last to notice when she went too far.

“So we’re on the same floor. Thanks! Which room are you in?” Maddy asked.

“408.”

My heart was still racing. I didn’t dare look at Maddy again and hurried downstairs. I heard her say behind me, “What a coincidence, we’re in the same dorm.”

Her voice had that sing-song quality, like she knew something I didn’t.

All afternoon, I was on edge, dodging any contact with Maddy.

I kept my headphones in, pretending to be busy unpacking, but every time I heard her laugh, my shoulders tensed up.

At night, I only relaxed a little once Maddy was asleep.

The whole day felt off. I pulled out my phone, wanting to Google similar cases. If that didn’t help, maybe I’d order some sage on Amazon, just in case.

I half-joked to myself that maybe I needed a priest, or at least a decent playlist to ward off bad vibes.

But when I opened Insta, the homepage pushed an article: “She grew up in the country, but by pretending to be an heiress, she climbed the social ladder. When dealing with people below you, you have to be ruthless!” Wild, right?

I opened TikTok, and the top video was: “Only by packaging yourself well will people respect you. The more people admire you, the more you get. How to dress like a socialite...” Yikes.

I refreshed again and again, but it was all the same content.

Is my phone broken or something?

The algorithm was stalking me, or maybe the universe was. Either way, I was getting spooked. Not a good sign.

Looking through Quinn Mason’s old browser history, I found she mostly read this kind of stuff.

It was a digital trail of insecurity—self-help, status hacks, how to fake it till you make it. No wonder her life was a mess.

The more I saw, the more creeped out I felt. After today, it all seemed way too strange.

I don’t know what time it was. Half-asleep, I heard someone arguing in the dorm.

“...where did you all go? Didn’t you say as long as I made eye contact, I could control that bitch’s mind?”

“Sorry, Miss Yang, there was a system glitch today. We went offline for maintenance and couldn’t reach you in real time.”

It was Maddy and a man’s voice. I peeked out of my bed curtain—everyone else was out cold, including Maddy.

My hair stood on end. Holy crap.

Could I be in a horror story, not just some harmless campus drama?

I heard Maddy say coldly: “The command I gave Quinn Mason a month ago—she didn’t follow through yesterday.”

“This might also be due to the glitch. Everything’s stable now; it won’t happen again.”

“You’d better make sure. I paid a lot. If my reputation tanks, don’t think anyone else will dare work with you.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not our only client.”

I pinched my thigh—so hard I nearly yelped.

Not a dream!

Maddy’s talking to some guy in her head. They... seem to have the power to mess with this world. What the actual hell?

What kind of business is this? Seriously, what is going on?

Suddenly, I heard Maddy get up. I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to sleep.

Light footsteps approached. A cold hand pressed to my forehead, and Maddy’s voice echoed in my mind: “Quinn, after class tomorrow, someone will drive a luxury car to the back gate to deliver something to me. Go snap a photo and post it online, say I’m a sugar baby.”

“Yes.”

I bit my tongue hard, fighting the dizzy spell. When I snapped out of it, my clothes were soaked in sweat and my mouth tasted like blood.

“Heh, that bitch still thinks this world is fair. As long as the crowd hates her and her support rating doesn’t hit ten percent, she’s done for!” Maddy gloated in her mind. “You just set the plan.”

Very good, Maddy—you cheat! That’s low, even for you.

Not only does she have money, she’s got two superpowers: One, she can control people with eye contact. Two, she can give direct orders.

Maybe because I’m not the original Quinn Mason, I have some resistance. As long as the pain is strong enough, I can break free.

I’ve had enough. If I don’t fight back, I’ll end up like the last Quinn Mason.

And to take down Maddy, the key is this so-called audience support rating. She manipulates my fate by manipulating public opinion. Even though she cheats, the rules are consistent: if her support rating drops below ten percent, she’s toast. That’s my shot.

Once I figured this out, I went to sleep at peace.

Quinn Mason’s only eighteen—she needs to grow up, can’t pull all-nighters forever.