#2 - The Girl In The Mirror

Ugh. My head.

I blinked, wincing at the flood of sunlight pouring into the massive bedroom like it was trying to blind me into submission.

“Where the hell am I?” I croaked.

Silk sheets. A crystal chandelier. Walls that probably cost more than my soul. This wasn’t my student dorm. And unless I had a secret sugar daddy, I was seriously in someone else’s tax bracket.

I sat up—and nearly screamed when I caught sight of the mirror across the room.

“What the f—”

I scrambled out of bed and stumbled to the mirror. My heart skidded in my chest.

Hazel eyes. Wavy, blonde hair that looked like it lost a fight with a hairbrush ten years ago. Blonde? Like a bimbo. Damn girl. Thin frame. Chapped lips. Slight bruise on the temple.

Oh. My. God.

I was staring at Arianna Salvatore.

I’m alive but I’m her.

The same Arianna I cursed out last night. The weak, hopeless, man-obsessed disaster of a female lead from the book I threw across the room. The one who later became a side character.

She was the vision I saw when I was dying. The same person. I’m Ashley, I’m not her.

“No,” I hissed, tilting my head, inspecting her—my?—face like a plastic surgeon planning a major overhaul. “Hazel eyes like honey… except dull. Wavy hair like ocean curls… except the ocean had a tantrum. Girl, did you bathe this week?”

I squinted.

“Ugh. Who in their right mind would obsess over a man looking like this? You need shampoo, not love letters.”

I turned to the bathroom, then paused.

The bathroom.

Flash. Tile. Blood. My blood. A scream. Darkness.

I shuddered.

The fear tightened my spine. My hand trembled as I reached for the faucet, but I bit my lip, squared my shoulders, and hissed at my reflection.

“Don’t be a wimp. You’ve literally entered fiction. You either get your life together or die again. And trust me, dying once already sucked.”

I took a hot bath—safely this time, away from sharp edges—then threw open the closet.

Fashion disaster alert.

After tearing through the frills and grays, I found a black dress with slits so high I felt seen.

I tamed Arianna’s wild curls into a high ponytail, gave myself bold eyeliner, and smirked.

“Arianna, you spent your entire pathetic life begging for a man’s attention. Now watch me steal it without trying.”

Then a memory hit me. Not mine—hers.

Arianna had gotten a text telling her to meet Damian by the pool. She went… and then she fell. Or was pushed?

Wait. That wasn’t even in the book. Was it between chapters? A plot hole? A redacted scene?

Who sent that text?

Just then the door slammed open.

There he was.

Damian Salvatore, Tall. Dangerous. Expression carved in stone. Every bit the cold-blooded husband Arianna wept over.

“All this drama,” he said coolly, his eyes raking me up and down, “because I wanted to divorce you?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

My voice sounded too smooth, too soft — like someone had replaced my usual bite with silk.

“Arianna, this is your fault,” I hissed.

He stepped inside like he owned the world. And maybe he did. But I wasn’t here to be ruled.

“I don’t care about your damn divorce,” I snapped. “I’m not that weak fool anymore.”

I raised my hand, half ready to dramatically point in his arrogant face—but my towel had other ideas.

It dropped.

Yup.

Straight to the floor.

The room froze.

Now… a normal girl might panic.

Not me.

Instead, I stepped closer, completely unfazed. “You like what you see?” I purred. “Not as blessed as my actual self, but we can make do.”

His jaw clenched, eyes darkening, but there was a flicker something like surprise… or maybe admiration. I smirked.

“You—are—you’re shameless!” he barked, voice ragged. “Have you no shame?”

“Apparently not,” I said cheerfully.

“This isn’t you. Arianna would never—” he was actually stammering.

“Husband,” I said sweetly, “why are you so shy?”

He turned, furious, face flushed. “Even if you're dumb and toxic, I wouldn’t mind a one-night stand. Since I’m not the female lead anymore, I can be the hot side character with killer plot points.”

His jaw dropped.

“I’ll call the doctor,” he muttered. “You’ve lost your mind.”

He stormed out, slamming the door.

I bent to grab my towel. “Thanks for the show, Romeo.”

But the door creaked again.

Vivian.

Oh, joy.

She walked in, face dripping fake concern. “Arianna… how are you feeling?”

“Cut the act,” I said, tying the towel tighter. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You’re playing nurse while stabbing me behind the scenes.”

She clicked her tongue. “You’ve really gone mad, haven’t you? How dare you try to seduce him?”

“He’s her husband. Why shouldn’t I have him?”

She stiffened.

I tilted my head. “Oops. Sorry. Still getting used to my new self. He is my husband, right?”

Her mouth twisted. “You’re disgusting.”

“Thanks, sis,” I said sweetly.

We stared at each other, fake smiles pasted on like war paint.

And suddenly it hit me again.

That text.

That pool.

The fact that I remembered falling.

I narrowed my eyes. “You were the one who told me to meet Damian, weren’t you?”

Vivian froze.

Just for a second.

But it was enough.

I stepped forward. “You wanted me dead. Or at least gone.”

“You’re delusional,” she whispered.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just not the puppet you thought I was.”

She stared hard. “You’re not acting like Arianna.”

I smiled. “Because I’m not.”

“Ariannaaaaaaa!” she yelled.

“Get used to it baby girl.” You’re now dealing with Ashley and Ashley isn’t weak.

She hmph’d and walked out like she owned the hallway.

“Good riddance,” I muttered, rolling my eyes so hard I almost gave myself a headache.

I slumped onto the bed and reached for Arianna’s phone. It was just lying there, screen face-down like it had secrets.

Lucky for me, I’ve got a good memory.

I typed in the password.

0108.

Damian’s damn birthday.

“Disgusting,” I spat, already annoyed.

Why would anyone use that narcissist’s birthdate as a lock code?

I changed it immediately. Something harder. Something mine.

Then I saw it.

A message. From the night before.

Damian is drugged and needs you. Come quickly to the pool area. I’m afraid he might hurt himself.

I froze.

So this was it. The message that sent Arianna flying like an injured animal, straight to the pool.

Straight to her death.

“Poor girl,” I murmured, softer than I expected.

For a second, I felt sorry for her. Not the silly girl obsessed with a man, but the scared kid who thought she could save him. That’s where we part ways.

Turns out she was walking into a setup.

I checked the sender.

Unknown number.

I dialed it—twice.

Dead line.

No surprise there.

But something itched at the back of my skull. I didn’t remember this part. Not from the book.

Did it happen after I rage-quit and flung the paperback across the room?

Or was it never in the book at all?

I sat there, staring at the screen, thoughts spiraling.

Then I sighed, heavy and sharp.

“Enough. I’m not about to give myself a headache over a ghost’s bad love story.”

I tossed the phone aside and stood.

Whoever played Arianna... played her well.

But I’m not her.

And I don’t fall for the same tricks twice.