ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ʀɪᴄʜ ʜᴏᴜsᴇ, ʙʀᴏᴋᴇ sᴘɪʀɪᴛs, ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴀᴅ ᴠɪʙᴇs

Tiffany found her slippers by the bed, the fuzzy rainbows looking ridiculous in the sea of luxury. She slid them back on, her feet sinking into the plush rug. "Okay, Tiffany, play it cool," she whispered to herself. "You got this. You've read the book. You know the layout."

She started exploring the house, admiring everything along the way. Everything was fancy. Everything looked expensive, and she couldn't help but touch things just to feel fancy herself.

She slid past a room with large windows overlooking lush gardens, a marble staircase twisting elegantly down to the ground floor, and a grand chandelier that looked like it belonged in an art museum.

"Okay, okay," Tiffany muttered to herself. "Not bad, Deja. Not bad at all. But I still need answers. What's the catch here?"

She was lost in the grandeur of the house — every room more extravagant than the last. But as she wandered, unaware of anything out of the ordinary, she missed the little flash of light that reappeared in her peripheral vision.

And that's when the angel came back, quietly and unnoticed.

"Oh," the angel said with a tiny shrug. "I forgot to mention... her family can read her mind."

The angel paused for a moment as if considering something, then smirked, a little devilish twinkle in its ethereal eyes.

"Eh, it's not like that's gonna have a huge impact or anything..."

With that, the angel disappeared again, leaving only the faintest trace of a glowing shimmer in the air.

Meanwhile, Tiffany, completely oblivious to the game-changer she'd just missed, continued to wander through the house, fully convinced that her biggest problem was how to keep her villainous status intact.

She stepped out of the room into a lavish hallway, filled with portraits of old relatives, and stopped dead in her tracks.

"Well," she murmured, "I guess I better learn how to really be Deja... and fast."

Tiffany—Deja, technically—was on cloud nine as she stepped back into the bedroom. Her new reality? She didn't even know how to process it yet, but the first thing that caught her eye was a phone lying casually on the bed, as if it was always meant to be there.

She picked it up, and as soon as her fingers brushed the sleek surface, she recognized it.

"No way...," Tiffany whispered, her mouth forming an excited grin. "It's the newest model! The one with that crazy camera and the ridiculous storage."

She stared at it, already feeling the flex in her bones. It was hers. In her hands. Her new hands. The future felt... so bright.

She walked straight over to the closet, and her jaw dropped.

"Okay, okay." She chuckled to herself. "Deja's family wasn't playing around, huh?"

From floor to ceiling, racks of high-end clothes hung in pristine order. Every outfit looked like it belonged in a fashion magazine—tailored suits, flowing gowns, sleek dresses in velvet and satin, shoes that probably cost more than a down payment on a house.

"Wow," Deja muttered as she ran her fingers across the soft fabrics. "What I wouldn't give to have this closet in my real life..."

Then, just like that, she remembered something. Her mind flashed back to the pages of The Wilted Magnolia.

"Oh yeah," she thought, her thoughts slipping like butter. "Deja's family loved Dominique way more than her. They all wanted her to be the 'perfect' daughter, while Deja just... got overlooked. And the only one who truly cared about her was her grandmother. Everyone else? Completely against her. What a mess."

A small laugh escaped Deja's lips as she pulled out a black satin mini skirt, paired it with a silk white blouse, and threw on a sleek leather jacket. A fresh outfit with major attitude.

"I'm gonna enjoy these designer outfits before everything goes to hell," she mused to herself, hands on her hips as she admired herself in the mirror. The look? Fire. She let her natural afro puff out proudly. No need for the extra styling here—this look needed nothing more than confidence.

"Let's go make an entrance," Deja whispered to herself with a smirk as she grabbed her phone, pocketing it as she walked toward the door.

She stepped out, heels clicking as she made her way down the stairs. As she descended into the grand living room, she could already feel the change in the atmosphere.

The place looked even more extravagant now, with its high ceilings, massive chandeliers, and the polished hardwood floors that reflected the light like a runway. But the vibe? Way different.

And then the strangest thing happened.

As Deja scanned the room, her eyes widened. Floating above each person's head was a glowing number—a percentage, she realized with a jolt. Her father: 12%. Her mother: 28%. Trevor: 5%. And Dominique? A pathetic 2%.

"What in the video game character stats...?" she muttered under her breath, blinking hard to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.

The percentages remained, hovering like neon signs, impossible to ignore. They were affection meters—how much each person actually liked her. And the numbers were not just low; they were disrespectful.

"Well damn," she thought. "I knew they preferred Dominique, but this is just cold." She stood a little straighter, chin lifted. If these were the starting stats, she'd either have to work miracles to raise them... or burn the whole game down trying.

Deja was at the bottom of the stairs, taking in the tense situation in front of her. Dominique and her family were sitting on the couch, tears rolling down Dominique's cheeks, and she was pointing a perfectly manicured finger at Deja with an accusing look.

Deja looked around at her new family. Her dad, a tall man with broad shoulders and a serious face, stood at the front of the room. He wasn't even glancing at Deja; his focus was entirely on Dominique, as if he was planning his next move. His business suit was so well-fitted that it seemed to shine with wealth, making it feel like the air around him acknowledged his high status.

Her mom, also dressed in an expensive outfit, sat on the couch with one hand on her forehead, as if she had a headache. She gave Deja a quick look before turning back to Dominique, appearing worried but not overly concerned—her lack of emotion was clear.

Trevor, Deja's older brother and the leader of the family's three huge companies, stood nearby. His sharp suit radiated power, and his stance—jaw clenched, hands folded—exuded the kind of confidence that comes from running a business empire. However, the way he looked at Deja was icy, as if he was unsure whether to scold her or commend her.

"Deja sabotaged my presentation," Dominique spat, her voice trembling with emotion.

Deja blinked slowly, neck already starting to ache from the nonsense. This was it. Chapter three. The beginning of Deja's downfall. But not if she had anything to say about it. She twisted her lips to the side, hand on her hip. "Girl, I didn't touch your presentation. You need to quit reaching."

But Dominique was on a roll, mascara streaking down her cheeks. "Look at her!" she pointed dramatically. "Look at her smug face!"

Deja rolled her eyes so hard she nearly gave herself a headache. "Puh-lease. If I wanted to ruin you, I would set your laptop on fire and roast marshmallows over that mess. Why I'mma waste my time messing with a PowerPoint when I got better things to do? Make it make sense."

Trevor shot up from his seat, his expensive suit jacket straining against his broad shoulders. "Deja! How dare you harm your cousin's work!"

Deja scoffed, her voice dripping with sass. "Look, I don't have the energy to go back and forth with your melodramatic nonsense. If you wanna throw a pity party, do it without me, because I've got more important things to do."

"How DARE you!" Trevor's voice boomed across the grand room, echoing off the cold marble walls. "How could you say that to Dominique? You really are a fool, aren't you?"

Deja sucked her teeth, examining her nails like they were suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. Says the man who runs the whole Moreau family into the ground, she thought dismissively. Talking 'bout some 'how dare you' like he pay my bills.

Trevor's face contorted with shock. "HOW DARE YOU!" he bellowed again, this time with even more intensity.

Deja's head snapped up, confusion flashing across her face. "What? I ain't say nothing!" She looked around. "Y'all heard me say something? 'Cause I know I ain't open my mouth."

Everyone in the room looked at Trevor oddly. Her mother frowned. "She didn't say anything, Trevor."

Trevor's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He cleared his throat, straightening his tie as he composed himself. "Apologize to Dominique. Now."

I just need to act villainous until I can earn my $20 million, Deja thought to herself. Keep it together, girl. These rich folks be acting real strange.

Her father, mother, and Trevor all exchanged bewildered glances, their eyes widening slightly. "I ain't apologizing to nobody," she declared, crossing her arms. "After all, I didn't do nothing wrong. Y'all stay blaming me for stuff with your whole chest and no proof."

Besides, we all know what Miss Thing's next move is. She's gonna start playing innocent in 3...2...1...

Dominique's face immediately softened, her eyes wide and vulnerable as she clutched her hands together. "It's okay, everyone. Maybe I was mistaken. I don't want to cause more family drama. I really care about cousin Deja, and if she doesn't want to apologize, that's fine."

Trevor, her father, and mother all looked at each other, their eyes wide with shock. The room was eerily silent, the only sound the crackle of the fireplace. And next, Trevor's gonna scold me again with his holier-than-thou self, Deja predicted mentally, bracing herself.

But Trevor just stayed sat down, his mouth shut. Deja blinked in confusion, head tilted. Wait, that's not right...according to the story he's supposed to yell at me

Dominique immediately clung to Trevor's arm, sniffling dramatically. "It's okay, Trevor. I didn't mean to make cousin Deja angry. I know she's going through a lot right now."

Oh, give me a BREAK. Your acting is so fake it belongs in a dollar store bargain bin, Deja thought with an internal eye-roll.

Her mother cleared her throat. "Deja, your behavior toward Dominique is absolutely unacceptable. She is family."

Deja gave her mother a bored look, one eyebrow raised. "You done? 'Cause I got places to be and people who actually appreciate me to see."

Her father's face turned purple with rage. "Don't you dare take that tone with your mother! The disrespect in this house—"

Keep shouting like that and you'll have a heart attack and die just like in the story, Deja thought absently. Blood pressure through the roof like the mortgage ain't paid.

Her father suddenly stopped mid-sentence, his face draining of color. He stumbled backward, clutching at his chest like somebody had punched him. "Uncle David!" Dominique rushed to his side, the perfect picture of concern. "Are you alright?"

He waved her off weakly. "Everything's... fine," he muttered, though his face suggested otherwise.

Deja rolled her eyes, "If that's all this family meeting was about, I'm out," she announced, turning toward the door with a dismissive hand wave. "I got urgent business to attend to that don't involve being everybody's scapegoat."

$20 million, here I come, she thought cheerfully as she strutted away. These folks can keep their drama.

Behind her, the family exchanged alarmed looks—everyone except Dominique, who was still fussing over her uncle with theatrical concern. They hadn't expected such bluntness from Deja. But what none of them knew was that the words spilling from her mouth were just the tip of the iceberg. Her thoughts? They were a raging volcano ready to blow.

────•⋅⊰༻♥༺⊱⋅•────

Outside the mansion, Deja breathed in the fresh air, feeling like she'd just escaped a bizarre trap. "So what does Deja do during the day?" she mused aloud, twisting one of her curls around her finger. "Since I'm supposed to be loaded, I'mma go spend some of this rich girl money! Being rich is really a blessing."

She pulled out her phone, eager to check her balance. With a few taps, she accessed the banking app.

"ZERO?!" she shrieked, staring at the screen like it had personally insulted her mama "ZERO?! HOW THE HELL IS THIS BANK ACCOUNT AT ZERO?"

Then she remembered, in the book Deja's parents had given her monthly allowance to Dominique after Deja supposedly lost an important business deal. A cruel joke, really, considering Deja was the only one with actual business savvy.

Deja slumped against the nearest wall. "So I'm just a fake rich girl," she groaned. "Got all the family drama with none of the perks." She started fake crying dramatically, throwing her head back. "Lawd, why me? How's a girl supposed to survive without her coins?" Then she abruptly stopped and straightened up, snapping her fingers.

"Hold up. If I'm in this world, then I might as well use it to my advantage," she murmured to herself. She strode back into the house, her heels clicking like the ticking of a time bomb. "Wait a minute," she said, eyes lighting up. "I could sell all that useless stuff I don't use and make some money! Mmm-hmm!" She pumped her fist in victory. "Yes! That's what I'm gonna do! Designer clothes, accessories—shoot, maybe even some of that fancy artwork in my bedroom that probably cost more than my old apartment's security deposit—"

Her phone rang, interrupting her scheming. She didn't recognize the number and frowned at the screen. "Yes?" she answered cautiously.

A masculine voice spoke coldly but calmly on the other end. "How long are you going to keep me waiting?"

Deja's brow furrowed. "Excuse me? Who you supposed to be? 'Cause I don't know you like that."

The line went dead. "What kind of—" she started to say, then froze as realization dawned. "Oh hell no..."

Deja's meeting with her fiancé... Ren.

Deja slumped against the wall again, sliding down dramatically until she was sitting on the ground. She fake cried again, louder this time. "Nooooo!" she wailed, then sighed deeply. "Now I gotta go see what Mr. Personality-of-a-Wet-Paper-Towel wants... The struggle is real."

She stood, brushed herself off, and squared her shoulders. If she was going to be a villainess, she might as well start with the man who would eventually leave Deja for her cousin. "Game on," she whispered, a dangerous smile spreading across her face. "Let's see what this Dollar Store Prince Charming is really about."