Chapter 1: The Villain Takes the Stage

Of all the fates I could’ve landed, I got stuck living out the mess I wrote myself—inside my own small-town drama, as Nicole Reed, the villain everyone loves to hate.

It’s wild, realizing I’m now living out the worst punishment I ever dreamed up for a character. Nicole Reed, desperate to see Lucas Carter become the lead dancer in our tiny town’s arts troupe, plotted to sideline the real star—Jason Young. In my book, Nicole’s scheme snapped Jason’s leg and destroyed his future, all at her hands.

Once Jason was forced out, Rachel Collins—the girl everyone roots for—became his constant companion. Together, they clawed their way up from nothing, launching a small business that, after a mountain of setbacks, made it big.

And when Jason finally got his revenge, he made sure Nicole and the entire Reed family lost everything: status, business, even their home.

Unfortunately, when I found myself plopped right into Nicole’s designer heels, Jason’s leg was already done for—and I was the one who did it. My hands shook as I stared at my reflection—same green eyes, same perfect hair, but now every glance screamed, "villain."

Knowing what was in store, I sure wasn’t going to sit around and let fate bulldoze me. There was only one way out: guide Jason Young to his destined success, make sure he flourishes—and somehow claim the heroine’s spot for myself.

1

Right now, Lucas Carter is front and center, leading his debut performance at the old brick town theater—the kind with velvet seats that creak under shifting weight and the faint scent of buttered popcorn clinging to the air, mixing with the musty tang of old curtains.

The place is packed, mostly with folks tied to the Reed family or hoping to get in our good graces. Reporters from every regional Ohio paper elbow for space, their camera flashes popping like firecrackers up front.

But let’s be real: none of this is about Lucas’s so-called talent. It’s all about the Reed family name.

My dad—Harold Reed—was one of the first big city investors to ever set his sights on our little corner of Ohio. When Harold Reed’s money moves, people notice. My older brother, Ben, runs a trucking company hauling everything from grain to Amazon packages across three states. Midwest logistics is his game, and nobody plays it bigger.

With that kind of pedigree, Nicole Reed was born to be somebody—at least by default. Whether you like her or not, you at least pretend. That’s just how it works in small-town America: reputations are currency.

Yet, right now, as Lucas leaps through his numbers, I see the truth: half the audience is fighting back yawns. The only thing keeping them glued to their seats is politeness—or, more likely, fear of offending the Reeds.

Let’s be honest, if not for my family’s clout, Lucas’s dancing would’ve landed him as a stagehand, not a star. That’s showbiz—at least in our neck of the woods.

Finally, after what feels like hours, the curtain drops. The crowd straightens up, fakes some enthusiasm, and claps like it’s their day job.

Just like in my own story, Lucas makes his move during the curtain call. He drops to one knee—right in front of the whole town—and proposes to me, bouquet in hand. The theater erupts in staged applause and a few gasps.

Amid the hoopla, I keep my cool. I walk onstage, every step calculated, eyeing Lucas’s smug grin and the expectant faces staring up at us.

“Today is Lucas’s first performance. Thank you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to support us.” My voice is steady, carrying that practiced country club fundraiser polish.

Then I drop the act, pivoting hard: “Let’s not kid ourselves—tonight’s show was a snooze fest.”

You could hear a pin drop. People glance around, unsure if they heard me right. Some jaws go slack; one of the local reporters nearly fumbles his notepad.

Lucas’s jaw worked soundlessly, cheeks blotchy, hands clutching the bouquet so tight the stems snapped.

“With your skill level, you’re nowhere near Jason Young—not even fit to tie his shoes.” I don’t sugarcoat it. “Instead of chasing pipe dreams, you’d be better off working on your craft, rather than acting like a big shot.”

I drop the bouquet at my feet—red roses scattering across the dusty stage floor—then turn on my heel and stride out, not giving Lucas or the audience another glance. I could feel the heat of a hundred stares burning holes in my back as I left the stage. Somewhere, a woman’s nervous giggle popped the silence.