Max Davison had never believed in God.
Not in hope. Not in fate. Just in cold calculation and the blade in her hand.
So when she opened her eyes again, she expected darkness , fire, maybe. Hell.
Instead, there was… pink.
Soft light. Glittery wallpaper. A dollhouse. A Barbie doll in her hands.
She sat cross-legged on a plush rug in a sunlit mansion's living room. The walls were high, the furniture expensive. In front of her, two boys were watching a cartoon on a massive screen, their laughter echoing softly.
Her hands were small. Fragile. Plastic-pink nail polish on tiny fingers.
Panic didn't hit her first. Confusion did.
What the hell is this?
Then came the migraine.
A tidal wave of memories crashed into her head — not her own, but someone else's. Someone small. Rich. Spoiled.
And weak.
Zara Larsson youngest daughter of the Larsson family. Born into wealth, cradled by comfort.
And suddenly, her mind clicked.
She'd read this story before.
Out of boredom on a long recon mission, she'd picked up a trashy e-book called "The Real Heiress Comeback". A cliché-filled tale of betrayal, secrets, and one girl's rise from orphan to heiress.
Nicole Finn the true daughter.
Zara Larsson the fake one, doomed to fall.
Max closed her eyes and muttered just one word under her breath.
"Stupid."
Why ruin your life over jealousy? Over a boy?
That was weakness.
And now?
She was Zara Larsson.
The villainess.
Just then, a small boy approached — six years old, with neat brown hair and worried eyes.
"Zara? He asked softly." "Are you okay? You look sweaty."
Max blinked, slowly adjusting to her new role.
"…Uh. Yes. I'm okay."
The boy smiled and patted her head. "Good. You're weird today."
He ran back to the couch. Max watched him, heartbeat steady, thoughts spinning.
She wasn't sure why or how she was here.
But one thing was certain.
She wasn't going to play the role of a weak little villain.