I'M BETTER OFF BEING A VILLAINESS THAN A HEROINE

“Erella! Erella! Wake up!”

The shrill voice sliced through the fog clouding Sandy’s mind. Her body was heavy—far too heavy. Her eyelids refused to open, and every inch of her skin felt weighed down, sore, and unresponsive. She tried to move a finger but even that felt impossible.

What… what happened to me?

Her thoughts were muddled, like she was half-dreaming. Then fragments returned—bright orange flames licking at the sky, the metallic scent of gasoline, the deafening explosion that should’ve ended her life. The memory made her stomach twist.

No way. I remember the blast. I should be dead. There’s no way anyone could’ve survived that.

“DAMMIT, girl! Are you deaf? I said wake up!”

That screeching voice again—like glass scraping against metal. Sandy groaned inwardly. Whoever this woman was, she was quickly becoming her least favorite person. Still, she couldn’t seem to open her eyes.

Then, all at once—

Ice-cold water drenched her face and trickled down her neck. Her body jerked violently, lungs gasping for air as she coughed and spluttered. Her eyes flew open on instinct.

“COUGH! COUGH! COUGH!”

She sat up abruptly, clutching her chest. Her vision was blurry, but she could just make out a figure standing by the bed—a woman with fiery orange curls, arms crossed, and a glare that could curdle milk.

“Oh, wonderful! You’re awake at last,” the woman huffed. “Now, why is my gown still wrinkled? And where are my polished shoes? Do you not understand that I am expected at Lady Ashley’s tea party in less than an hour?”

Sandy blinked, water dripping from her eyelashes. “What… did you just say?” she croaked, voice hoarse and dry. “You threw water on me—because of… shoes?”

The woman’s nostrils flared. “How dare you speak to me like that?”

Sandy’s temper flared. Her confusion tangled with anger. “Who the hell are you to boss me around?” she snapped.

The woman froze, clearly startled. “What—what did you just call me?!”

But Sandy wasn’t listening anymore. The pounding in her head had grown unbearable. Her skin was burning up, her vision spinning wildly. The room swayed like a ship caught in a storm. She reached for the bedpost but her knees buckled, and before she knew it, darkness swallowed her whole once again.

Three Days Later

A cool cloth brushed against her forehead.

“Dear! Dear! I think Erella is waking up!” chirped a small, high-pitched voice nearby.

Another voice—older, gentler—sighed in relief. “Thank goodness. Her fever’s finally broken.”

Then came a gruff, masculine tone: “Curse those three wicked women! They’ve worked the poor girl to death, I tell you!”

Sandy frowned in confusion. The voices were so close, yet… she didn’t see anyone. Slowly, she forced her eyes open. The sunlight filtering through delicate curtains painted the room in warm gold. It was… unfamiliar—quaint but old-fashioned, like something out of a storybook. The furniture was carved wood, the walls pale cream, and the bedsheets smelled faintly of lavender.

“Erella?” someone whispered. “Can you hear us, dear?”

Erella? Who’s—wait. Did they just call me that?

“Was that… a dream?” Sandy murmured, blinking groggily.

“OH YES! She’s awake!” squealed the high-pitched voice again.

Before Sandy could locate the source, something jumped onto the bed beside her.

“R-R-RATS!!! KYAAAAAAA!” she screamed, scrambling backward and almost falling off the mattress.

Three tiny creatures stared at her—three mice, standing upright on their hind legs. One wore a tiny blue waistcoat, another a yellow frock, and the third had a pair of miniature spectacles perched on his snout.

“Excuse me, young lady,” said the plump one in the blue waistcoat, puffing out his chest indignantly. “We are mice, not rats.”

The one in the yellow dress clasped her paws together. “Good heavens, Erella, you’re shaking! Are you still unwell?”

The thin mouse with glasses adjusted his spectacles nervously. “Perhaps the fever’s affected her memory.”

Sandy stared at them, utterly speechless. Talking mice. Talking… mice. She pinched her own arm hard.

“Ow!” Pain. So this wasn’t a dream.

Her pulse raced. Her heart felt like it might leap out of her chest. “This can’t be real,” she whispered. “This is insane.”

“Dear, you must rest,” the mouse in yellow said softly. “You’ve been very ill.”

“Don’t worry,” the fat one said fiercely. “We’ve been watching over you, Erella. No harm will come to you while we’re here.”

“Erella?” she echoed faintly. Her mind reeled. Why did they keep calling her that name?

Then—like a floodgate bursting open—images and words slammed into her consciousness. A wave of memories that weren’t hers poured in: a grand manor filled with servants, a cruel stepmother, two shrill stepsisters, endless chores, humiliation, and the soft murmur of mice that comforted her when no one else would.

“Arghhh!” she groaned, clutching her temples as the flood overwhelmed her.

The mice squeaked in panic. “Erella! Are you all right?!”

But Sandy barely heard them. The truth was crashing down on her, undeniable and absurd all at once.

No way… I died. And now… I’ve been reincarnated?

She looked around the room again—the antique vanity, the lace curtains, the simple dress draped across the chair. Every detail matched something familiar. Then it hit her. The mice. The cruel stepfamily. The name “Erella.”

This is Cinderella.

Sandy’s heart dropped to her stomach. You’ve got to be kidding me.

She remembered this story vividly. She used to hate it as a child. The main heroine—kind, gentle, endlessly forgiving—had always driven her crazy. While other girls dreamed of glass slippers and fairy godmothers, Sandy rolled her eyes. “If someone treated me like that,” she’d once told her sister, “I’d throw the slipper at their face, not wear it to a royal ball.”

And now she was her?

“Oh, come on!” she shouted suddenly, startling the poor mice. “Out of all the people I could’ve become—why her?! Why the most pathetic, pushover heroine in history?!”

The mice exchanged confused looks. “Pathetic? Heroine? What’s she talking about?” whispered the one in glasses.

Sandy pressed her hands to her face, groaning. “This can’t be happening. I’m in a fairytale. In Cinderella.”

Then, slowly, she lowered her hands and stared at the reflection in the small vanity mirror across the room. A pale, delicate girl with wide blue eyes and golden hair stared back at her—nothing like the woman Sandy remembered from her old life. But the expression in those eyes—sharp, alive, defiant—was all her own.

“Fine,” she muttered under her breath, straightening her posture. “If I’m stuck in this world, I’m not living it like some spineless doormat.”

The mice blinked at her, bewildered.

Sandy—no, Erella—smirked, determination glinting in her eyes. “This story’s going to change. If fate thinks I’ll play the sweet little servant who waits around for magic, it’s got another thing coming.”

She looked up, voice firm and resolute.

 “DARN IT!!! I’d rather be the villainess than this doormat of a heroine!” she cried out in frustration.