I Transmigrated Into a Novel And Divorced The Billionaire

The papers landed on the dinner table, right on top of the candles.

One flame died. Hot wax splashed across the white cloth.

"Sign it," Adrian Vance said.

One second ago, Wren had been asleep in her small bed. Now she was sitting in a hard chair in a dining room as big as a hotel lobby. A man in a black suit stood over her, looking at her like she was trash he wanted gone.

Her heart was pounding. Her hands were ice cold. And she felt a deep, heavy pain in her chest that did not belong to her.

She looked down. A silk dress. A thin gold ring. Soft hands she had never seen before.

Then she looked up at the man's face, and her blood went cold.

She knew that sharp jaw. She knew those dark, cold eyes. She had read his name a hundred times on her phone last night, until she fell asleep angry.

*Adrian Vance. The male lead of* The Ice Prince's First Love.

*I'm in his house. I'm in the body of his wife.*

A woman stood beside him in a cream coat, one hand on his arm like it belonged there. Isabella Moreau. His first love. Her smile was soft and sad, the kind of smile that is really a knife.

"Celeste," Isabella said gently. "Please don't make this hard. Adrian has waited so long to be free."

Wren knew this scene. Chapter 12.

In the book, Celeste fell to her knees and grabbed his sleeve. She cried until her voice broke. Three years of love, thrown at a man who stepped right over her. Then he left with Isabella, and the family took everything.

Readers called it the saddest chapter. Wren had called it the stupidest. *Get up, girl!* she had typed at two in the morning.

Now she was inside that girl. The body was shaking, ready to fall. Celeste's love was still in these bones, loud and desperate. *Beg him. Promise to change. Say anything.*

Wren pressed her nails into her palm.

*No. Not today.*

"Did you hear me?" Adrian's jaw tightened. "My mother already agreed. The lawyer is waiting downstairs. Sign."

He held out a black pen. He stood like a man who expected tears and was already tired of them.

Wren took the pen.

His eyebrows moved, just a little.

Isabella's smile slipped for half a second.

"Three years," Wren said softly. She did not know if the words came from Celeste or from herself. "I set this table for you every night. You came home for it maybe ten times."

"Don't turn this into a speech."

"I'm not." She looked at the dead candle. "I'm just counting."

Nobody spoke. Wax dripped onto the cloth, one slow drop at a time.

"You're not going to beg?" The words slipped out of him before he could stop them. He looked angry with himself for asking.

Wren almost smiled. *There it is. He wanted the show. He needed it, so he could feel like the good guy.*

"Would it change anything?"

He said nothing.

"That's what I thought."

Memories that were not hers rushed in. A scarf Celeste had knitted for his birthday, left on a chair for a month. A cake for two, eaten alone at midnight. A call to his office, and a secretary saying, "Mr. Vance is busy, Madam. He is always busy."

Three years of that. Wren's throat burned. *You poor girl. You gave him everything, and he never even looked.*

Isabella stepped closer, her voice sweet as honey. "Don't be bitter, Celeste. I'll take good care of the house. And of Adrian. You don't need to worry about us."

*Us.* The word was a small, sharp needle.

Wren looked at her calmly. "I'm sure you will. Please keep the roast warm for him. He hates cold food."

Isabella blinked. That was not the answer she had planned for.

Adrian looked at Wren too, harder this time. His eyes moved over her face as if the woman in front of him had been swapped for a stranger.

She had.

Wren lowered the pen to the paper. Her hand was steady. The pen touched the page.

And her stomach turned over.

It came fast, a hot rush from nowhere. Her mouth filled with water. The smell of the roast hit her like a punch.

Wren dropped the pen. She shoved back her chair, hand over her mouth, and ran.

"Celeste!" Adrian's voice cracked behind her. "Where are you going?"

She did not answer. Marble floor, a long hallway, the first door she saw. A bathroom. She fell to her knees by the toilet and was sick until her eyes burned.

When it was over, she sat on the cold tile, breathing hard.

*Food poisoning? Panic? A new soul fighting a new body?*

She pulled herself up by the edge of the sink and splashed water on her face. That's when she saw it.

A small white stick lay beside the soap dish. Two pink lines.

Wren stared.

Next to it was a folded sticky note in neat, careful handwriting.

*Tell him tonight. After dinner. Be brave.*

Her knees went weak again.

The candles. The pretty dress. The table set for two. Celeste had not lit those candles for love alone. She had found out this afternoon, and she planned to tell him tonight. She hoped, with her whole foolish heart, that a baby would bring him home.

And Adrian had walked in with divorce papers first.

Wren pressed a shaking hand to her stomach. Flat. Quiet. But not empty.

She ran through the novel in her mind, every chapter, every page. In chapter 20, the Vance family took Celeste's house, her money, and her name. By chapter 40, she was dead in a rented room. The author gave it two lines.

There was no baby. Not in chapter 12. Not in chapter 40. Not one word.

So the old Celeste never told him. Maybe she never even lived long enough to find out.

*And I woke up on the very night she found out.*

A tear dropped onto her hand. Wren wiped her face fast, angry at herself. Crying was what Celeste did. Crying got her killed.

*I have no job. No savings. A bank card with his name on it.* Her hands went cold again. *But I have one thing Celeste never had. I know how this story ends.*

*There are two of us in this body now. And neither of us is dying in that room.*

A hard knock hit the door.

"Celeste." Adrian's voice came through the wood, low and cold. "Come out and finish this. I'm not waiting all night."

Wren looked at the two pink lines. At the sticky note. At her face in the mirror, pale and wet, but with eyes that were changing by the second.

*Tell him,* the old Celeste would say. *Maybe he'll stay.*

*And then what? He stays out of pity, and Isabella ruins us both?*

Wren folded the note and slipped the test into her pocket.

*Not tonight. Not ever, if I do this right.*

She opened the door.

Adrian stood right there, so close she could smell his cologne. Up close, she saw something she had not seen before. Under all that ice, he looked tired. Almost uneasy.

"What was that?" he asked.

Wren lifted her chin. "Nothing that concerns you. Give me the pen."

His frown deepened. He did not move.

And over his shoulder, Isabella Moreau was no longer looking at Wren's face.

She was looking at her pocket.

Wren glanced down.

A tiny corner of white plastic was sticking out.