Chapter 1: Villainess on a Mission

I transmigrated into a brutal historical romance novel as the infamous mean girl. Just my luck, right?

My mission? Two things: make life hell for the heroine, and throw myself at the male lead.

The system even gave me a mind-reading perk, but only if I’m close enough.

I snorted. Please, like that's even a challenge.

I’m a veteran office drone—hitting KPIs (ugh) and keeping my boss happy is muscle memory by now.

Transmigrating into a book? Piece of cake. Or so I thought.

—

At 4 a.m., still dark out, wearing way too much makeup, I stormed into the heroine Nora Fleming’s quiet suburban bedroom.

A couple of housekeepers tried to stop me, but I waved them aside and swung open Nora’s door.

The hallway carpet was thick and muffled my heels, but my entrance was anything but subtle—like a tornado blowing through a sleepy Georgia morning. The housekeepers looked scandalized, whispering behind their hands. But I was on a mission. No time for Southern manners.

Nora, barely awake, rubbed her eyes and sat up. Her freckled shoulders peeked out from under her quilt, all soft and lovely.

She looked so vulnerable in that moment, hair mussed and lashes a mess, freckles scattered across her cheeks like a dusting of cinnamon. I almost felt bad for what I had to do, but then again, I had a role to play.

Yep, the main character is always a knockout.

I swallowed, then, sticking to the script, snapped at her: “Nora Fleming, daughter of the legendary Colonel Fleming, is this how you act? Still in bed at dawn?”

My voice was sharp, echoing off the walls. I could practically hear my own mother in the back of my head, scolding me for sleeping in on a school day. Go figure. Nostalgic, in a twisted way.

In the original, the Flemings were a long line of military men, but this generation had only Nora—one daughter, no sons.

The family portraits in the hall told the story: stern faces, uniforms, medals. Nora was the outlier, the lone girl in a sea of men, and she wore that badge with more pride than any of them.

Little Nora had a spine of steel, never let the boys show her up—rode horses, shot rifles, and played rougher than any of them.

I’d heard stories about her outshooting the ranch hands and riding bareback through thunderstorms, mud streaked across her face and not a care in the world. She was wild, untamed, and stubborn as a mule.

But this wasn’t exactly the age of girl power.

In this town, you could be brave, but you still had to be a lady. The whispers at church, the side glances at the general store—Nora felt them all.

By order of the governor, Nora was married off to the young heir, Carter Ashford, and shipped off to live in his family’s old Southern estate.

The Ashford place was the kind of mansion that loomed over the town, all moss-draped oaks and peeling white columns. You could almost hear the ghosts of old secrets in the halls.

Carter didn’t like her either. His heart belonged to his childhood sweetheart, me—Delaney Grant.

My fiancé was stolen, so of course I hated Nora. Hence, this scene.

Nora blinked at me, surprise flickering across her face, then she grabbed a robe and shrugged it on.

The robe was a faded blue, edges fraying, but she wore it with a kind of quiet dignity. She cinched it tight, jaw set.

She didn’t even look up, her voice frosty: “What are you doing here?”

No surprise—anyone would be pissed if their rival barged in at dawn. The more upset she got, the smoother my mission would go.

I scoffed, stepped forward, about to insult her again, when I caught Nora’s thoughts:

“Why did Delaney come? Did she just see my bedhead?”

Didn’t expect Nora to care about her looks. I could use that to crack her confidence.

I sneered, “Didn’t expect the Colonel’s only daughter to sleep so sloppily. Clothes a mess, snoring, drooling, the whole nine yards—real classy.”

I threw in a little eye roll for good measure, like a queen bee in a high school hallway. The sting in my words hung in the air.