Oops, I Stole the Second Lead

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

No distant sirens, no noisy neighbors, no roommate blaring K-pop at 2 a.m. Just... quiet. Heavy, expensive quiet.

The second thing I noticed was the bed. Or more accurately, the absurd softness of the mattress under me, like I’d fallen asleep in a five-star cloud. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender and whatever brand of detergent rich people use. Definitely not the corner-store stuff I used to buy in bulk.

And then there was the chandelier. Not a ceiling light. A literal chandelier. Crystal and gold, hanging over my head like I’d woken up in some kind of period drama.

So naturally, I did what anyone would do: I sat bolt upright and started breathing like I was going into labor.

“Miss Lyra? Are you alright?” a voice said—gentle, professional.

I turned, and there was a woman in a black uniform and crisp white apron. A maid. Standing by my bed. Looking concerned.

I stared at her. She stared back.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said, smiling politely. “Shall I help you dress?”

And that was when it hit me—not all at once, but in little pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle slowly snapping together.

The name. The maid. The chandelier.

The feeling of déjà vu so strong it made my skin prickle.

I knew this place.

I knew this life.

Because I’d read about it. In a book. Some cheesy, overdramatic web novel I devoured during finals week, right before my body gave out from a delightful combo of stress, insomnia, and enough caffeine to stop a small horse’s heart.

...Oh.

Oh, no.

I died, didn’t I?

No white light. No tunnel. No dramatic fade to black. Just one second I was stress-cramming for a sociology final, and the next, I was Lyra Carrington—the adopted daughter in a novel who gets politely kicked out the moment the Real Daughter returns from Switzerland or Paris or wherever rich people go to get cultured.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and froze. My skin looked smoother. My nails were perfectly manicured. The room—massive. The floors? Marble. The walls? Painted with actual art. A vanity the size of my old kitchen sat in the corner, littered with designer perfume bottles.

Okay. Breathe.

It took me maybe three hours and one silent breakdown in a gilded bathroom to accept it.

I had reincarnated into the body of the side character. Not the cool villainess, not the tragic heroine. Nope. Just plain old Lyra. A placeholder daughter in a family that never really wanted her.

I vaguely remembered the plot: the Carringtons adopt Lyra out of obligation. They raise her like a pet—well-fed, well-dressed, tolerated. Then, when their precious biological daughter returns, Lyra is quietly shipped off with a smile and a handshake. No hard feelings. Just social annihilation.

I remember reading it and thinking, Wow, that sucks.

Guess what? It sucks even more when it’s your life.

Breakfast was a surreal experience. The table was long enough to seat a small army. There were silver serving dishes and fresh-squeezed juice and not a single conversation. Just the clink of forks and the rustle of newspapers.

Across from me sat Evelyn Carrington, the woman who was technically my “mother.” Every hair in place, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, wearing a silk blouse that probably cost more than my tuition.

“You’re quiet this morning,” she said, without looking up from her paper.

I gave her a serene smile, the kind that said, I’m not plotting anything, don’t worry.

“Just thinking.”

And oh, was I thinking.

About the ticking clock. About how the real daughter—Anastasia or Arabella or something similarly dramatic—was due to return in less than three weeks. About how the moment she walked through that door, I’d start fading into background noise, and the Carringtons would finally get to pretend I was never here.

But this wasn’t just a second chance. It was a retelling. And I wasn’t going to waste it getting politely erased.

So I started thinking bigger.

Because if I remembered this world, if I knew the beats of the story, maybe I could twist a few of them.

Which brought me to him.

Ethan Quan.

You know how every story has that one character? The one who’s too good, too smart, too emotionally aware to be stuck in a subplot? That was Ethan.

CEO of his own tech company by twenty-four. Paralyzed from the waist down after a car accident that probably wasn’t an accident. Quiet. Brooding. Hot, obviously, in that devastatingly intense way that made every conversation feel like a chess match with sexual tension.

And in the novel? He was the second male lead.

He fell for Lyra. Hard. Quietly. Completely. And she—well, she never noticed. Too busy getting emotionally neglected by the male lead and making Very Bad Decisions.

I remember throwing my phone across the room when Ethan got written out like an afterthought.

So maybe this time?

Maybe I would notice him.

Because I had no family loyalty. No plotline. No illusions.

And Ethan Quan? He wasn’t a subplot in my story. He was the beginning of a brand new one.