Chapter 1: The Villain’s Muse and the Deadly Bond

I woke up inside a story.

Sometimes, I still can’t believe it, but here I am—fully aware, breathing in the crisp autumn air, standing in shoes that aren’t mine. It’s like waking up from a nap on the couch—then suddenly you’re at someone else’s Thanksgiving dinner. Everyone’s expecting you to know all the family jokes.

Now I’m Autumn Sinclair, the villain’s tragic muse in a bestselling gothic romance.

Yeah, that Marcus Hawthorne. The guy every book club in America loves to hate—the brooding heir with a reputation darker than black coffee. And me? I’m the footnote, the cautionary tale, the girl whose name gets whispered—right at the end of chapter twelve.

In the original story, she got used by the golden-boy hero to take down the villain. In the end, she died—her soul just faded away.

Not exactly the American Dream, right? No second chances. No small-town redemption arc—just a tragic ending that makes readers cry into their wine.

From day one here, I swore I wouldn’t get tangled up in Hawthorne family drama.

I mean, who wouldn’t? If you woke up in a soap opera, wouldn’t you want to keep your head down and stay out of the spotlight?

That's right. I tapped out.

No more tragic-muse nonsense for me. Not today, Satan.

Instead, I spent my days tending wildflowers in my little backyard, eating grilled cheese sandwiches, and napping in the sun.

Seriously, I made the best grilled cheese—extra sharp cheddar, thick Texas toast, a sprinkle of garlic powder. I’d sit on the back porch, sunlight on my face, listening to the cicadas. Pretending I was just a regular girl in upstate New York.

That is, until one day, I noticed unexplained wounds on my body.

At first, just tiny scratches—I brushed it off. But then a gash an inch long showed up on my arm, blood trickling down. That’s when I freaked.

I stared at the red line, heart pounding. My mind went straight to every horror movie I’d ever watched. Was the house haunted? Was I losing my mind? The bandage box was getting a workout. Great.

So, could this be a supernatural novel after all?

Ding! Your life’s tied to Marcus Hawthorne. Want to live? Keep him safe.

A metallic voice echoed in my mind, and honestly, it was the worst news yet.

It sounded like Siri’s evil twin. I nearly dropped my sandwich. Was this a joke? Did I hit my head or something?

Apparently, my fate was tied to the infamous villain. If he died, so did I. Perfect.

But what if I died?

If you die, Marcus is fine.

...Well, that’s fair.

So it’s a one-way street. That hardly seems right, does it?

Of course I argued. I yelled at the voice, cursing it out like a New Yorker stuck in traffic. It ignored me. Not even a beep.

I protested, but after that, the voice went silent—no matter how much I yelled. Typical.

It’s been almost a month since I woke up here, and I still haven’t seen my so-called villain husband.

Marcus Hawthorne, the brooding heir, left his supposed soulmate hanging for a month with not a word. That didn’t make sense.

But the house was full of his staff, all tight-lipped. No matter how I asked, I always got the same answer: "Sorry, ma’am, I don’t know."

They were like well-trained butlers in an old movie—polite, but you could see the steel under the smiles. I tried everything: sweet-talking, bribing with cookies, even a few desperate puppy eyes. Nothing.

Eventually, I stopped asking. He'd show up if he wanted to.

I spent my days reading old romance paperbacks from the library, and gardening until my hands ached. I figured, why borrow trouble, right?