Chapter 1

Okay… so… dying hurts.

A lot.

Would not recommend. Two stars, maybe three if you like drama.

One minute, I was in my tiny apartment, living my glamorous life (read: eating instant noodles, wearing fuzzy socks with holes, and binge-reading my favorite fantasy romance), and the next… everything went dark.

Not the normal “I closed my eyes for a nap” dark. I’m talking cold, endless, suffocating nothing. Like the universe itself pulled a blanket over me and whispered, “Shh. Time to be done.”

I had the whole life flashing before my eyes thing too, but mine wasn’t the emotional, slow-motion highlight reel they show in movies. No—mine was a mix of embarrassing moments and unfinished business:

That time in high school when I tripped up the stairs in front of my crush.

My unopened emails that were probably about bills.

My cat, Marmalade, judging me like she always did, sitting in her throne (a cardboard box) with that smug “you’re beneath me” look.

And then, like a badly edited movie, the reel cut to black.

This is it, I thought. Game over, Astrid.

But apparently, the universe had other plans.

Because the next thing I knew, I woke up… here.

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My first thought was: Wow, heaven really went with the gothic vampire aesthetic. Nice.

My second thought was: Why does my hair feel so… heavy?

I sat up slowly, blinking against soft candlelight, and the motion made something silky slide over my shoulders. My hands flew up—and nearly tangled themselves in a waterfall of silver hair.

Wait.

I held a lock up to my face. Silvery-white. Glossy. Definitely not the frizzy, slightly orange-tinted brown hair I’d been cultivating for the last twenty-three years of my human life.

I scrambled off the bed, tripped on the edge of a ridiculously thick blanket, and stumbled toward a massive, ornate mirror in the corner of the room. What I saw made my brain short-circuit.

The girl staring back at me looked like she’d stepped out of a high-budget period drama: porcelain skin, perfectly symmetrical features, lips the color of rose petals… and eyes—oh. My. Goodness. Her eyes were deep red, like garnets catching the light. I swear they glowed for half a second before settling into a wine-dark shade.

I leaned forward until my nose almost smudged the glass. “I look like the main villainess in a vampire N*****x drama.”

The room around me was equally extra. Tall windows draped in crimson velvet. Gold candelabras dripping wax. A canopy bed with so many pillows that if I stacked them, they’d probably be taller than me. Everything smelled faintly like roses… and something metallic that made the back of my throat tingle.

It was a perfect mix of luxury and this place probably has ghosts.

I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. And that’s when the door creaked open.

A tall maid in a black-and-white uniform entered. She had the kind of posture that said she could probably kill me with a teaspoon if she wanted to. Her black hair was pulled into a severe bun, and her eyes were an unreadable gray.

“Good evening, Lady Astrid,” she said with a curtsey. Her voice was polite but distant—like she was reciting a script. “Your father requests your presence in the great hall.”

Father?

I froze. My human brain wanted to ask “Who?”, but before I could speak, something hit me—like a bucket of ice water poured straight into my skull.

Memories. But not mine.

A grand estate bathed in moonlight. Lavish dinners where crystal goblets didn’t hold wine. Whispers about bloodlines and rival clans. A name: Lady Astrid Valemont—the daughter of Duke Corvinus Valemont, one of the most powerful vampire nobles in the land.

And the worst part? I knew exactly where I’d heard that name before.

From a book.

Not just any book—Blood and Moonlight. My favorite guilty-pleasure fantasy romance. It was the kind of novel where everyone was broody, beautiful, and one emotional outburst away from starting a war.

Lady Astrid Valemont wasn’t a heroine. She wasn’t even a main character. She was a minor noble girl whose entire plotline lasted exactly five chapters—ending with her untimely death at the hands of a werewolf assassin. That death? It was the spark that set off a bloody centuries-old war between vampires and wolves.

In other words… I had reincarnated as the pretty, disposable side character with a death flag hanging over her head.

Fantastic.

The maid was still standing there, waiting. I cleared my throat and pasted on the brightest, most harmless smile I could muster. “Of course! I love… great halls. And fathers. And evenings. Especially evenings.”

Her eyebrow twitched. “Yes… my lady.”

Smooth, Astrid. Real smooth.

I trailed behind her as she led me into a hallway that could have doubled as a museum exhibit. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Oil paintings of pale, sharp-eyed ancestors staring down at me with silent judgment. Tall windows let in slivers of moonlight that stretched across the floor like ghostly fingers.

Somewhere far away, a piano played a haunting melody.

I swallowed. This place was gorgeous. And terrifying. Like walking through a haunted jewelry box.

Every few steps, I caught glimpses of servants darting past—moving so quickly they were almost blurs. Their eyes flicked toward me and then away again, like they didn’t want to risk staring for too long.

I tried to remember the details from the novel. Duke Valemont’s daughter was… well, spoiled. In the book, she’d been vain, sharp-tongued, and completely oblivious to the political powder keg she was living in. Which made her an easy target.

Well, newsflash: I was not going to be easy to kill this time around. I’d died once already. That was more than enough for me, thank you very much.

If I had to survive by being the world’s most adorable, bubbly, clumsy little ray of sunshine—then so be it. Nobody murders the harmless comic relief. Right?

I adjusted my nightgown and tried to walk with dignity… until my slipper caught on the edge of a carpet runner and I had to windmill my arms to avoid faceplanting.

The maid didn’t even turn around. Which I decided to take as her silent acceptance of my quirks.

As we approached the massive double doors at the end of the hall, my stomach started doing somersaults.

Beyond those doors was Duke Valemont. My “father.” And if the novel was anything to go by, he was as charming as a thunderstorm and twice as dangerous.

I wiped my palms on my gown. Okay, Astrid. Deep breath. Smile. Pretend you’re not a time-traveling impostor with a death sentence.

The maid reached for the door handles, and my pulse jumped.

Because whatever happened in there… was going to be my first step in rewriting this story.

And I refused to let it end the way it did last time.

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