#3 - Arianna (Ashley)

There are three things I’ve learned since waking up in Arianna’s body:

She sulks. Like, all the time.

All her dresses scream, "Hi, I’m a miserable, devoted wife, please ignore my existence."

She's married to Damian freaking Salvatore—the coldest, rudest, sexiest billionaire in the damn city of Los Angeles. Fucking LA.

Girl, you’re rich. Why are you acting like a nun in a monastery.?

And now... I’m her. Or I guess I’m me now. Ashley—dead at 19, reborn at 25 with a killer figure, a mansion, and a rich enemy-husband.

If there’s one thing I’m grateful for?

No more classes.

But also... sigh

No more of my boys. No Elliot, no Michael, no cute finance major with the curly hair who never noticed me.

RIP my campus romance era.

RIP Houston, Texas.

Welcome LA.

Anyway, time to make a change.

I’m 19. I’m not about to live like a depressed ghost in cashmere. If I’ve been given this body and this life, then I’m going to live it. And maybe destroy a few enemies along the way. So, first I’d go shopping and upgrade this disaster of a closet.

The Mall

I strolled into the boutique like a woman with no worries. My heels clicked like I’d been born in Louboutins.

“Excuse me,” I waved at a salesgirl.

She blinked at me. “Ma’am... the casuals are upstairs. The luxury floor is for our A-list clientele.”

Oh, really?

“Cute,” I said, eyeing her up and down. “Now tell your manager Arianna Salvatore is here. Or should I do it myself?”

The shade dropped from her face like foundation in the rain. She stammered something and ran off.

A minute later, everyone was bowing like I was royalty. Arianna I owe you this one. I’ll use your body well, promise. I handed over Damian’s black card like a boss.

“Everything in black, red, and ‘revenge-worthy’—bag it.”

I caught the same girl staring in shock. “I’m sorry for the confusion, Mrs. Salvatore.”

“Oh, no worries,” I smiled sweetly. “Actually, you’re fired.”

“W-What?”

“You wouldn’t treat me like that if I walked in with a man. And my next man will have better cheekbones than Damian.”

I bought half the store. 14,000 dollars gone. 10 million in a flash. I wasn’t even trying. I could already hear Damian's blood pressure rising from here. Breathe, sweetheart—it’s called luxury therapy.

I did a mental calculation. Reselling these clothes will let me live well after the divorce if I fail to get any compensation from that asshole.

This is what it feels like to be rich. I love it.

I walked out of the boutique promising myself to return soon and entered into the car.

“Bye bye for now.” I whispered.

The driver eyed me from the mirror. “Drive.” I snapped.

Back at the Mansion

I arrived like I owned the place. Because technically? I kinda do.

The servants looked up—eyebrows raised. I could feel their confusion. I knew what they were thinking.

Arianna never dressed like this. Arianna doesn’t wear lipstick. Arianna always does everything herself.

But I’m not Arianna. I’m Ashley. And this is my rerun. My revenge arc. My freedom.

“Hey, you,” I snapped at a male servant. “Take my bags upstairs. Now.”

His eyes widened. Servants here had gotten too comfortable looking down on Arianna like she was glass waiting to crack. But Ashley? We snap back.

I turned to climb the stairs, hips swaying like payback, and that’s when I saw him.

Damian Salvatore.

He looked like he just stepped out of a Forbes magazine—perfectly tailored black shirt, arrogant posture, all brooding and sexy.

Ugh. I hate that he’s fine.

“Where have you been?” he asked, fake casual.

I didn’t even blink. “I don’t owe you an explanation, Mr. Salvatore,” I said, dragging out his name like poison.

“So this is what you do now? Spend my money like water?” His brows furrowed.

“Correction, our money, Mr. Salvatore. And please, you should thank me. I finally learned how to act like a rich wife."

His jaw clenched. He grabbed my wrist—rough, dominant, all alpha male nonsense. I lost my balance and—

Bam.

I fell right on top of him. Our bodies pressed. My hand smacked against his solid chest.

Oh damn. When did he get that chest? Why am I not mad about it?

I smirked. “Nice abs.”

He stood up like I burned him. “Get off me.”

“Your games are getting bolder,” he muttered.

I leaned in, smirking. “Too bad your pretty face can’t cover your dirty attitude.”

Then I straightened my skirt—on purpose—and whispered, “So... how much would you give me for a divorce? I’m willing to sign.”

That did it.

He stared like I’d slapped him.

Good.

He expected me to beg? The old Arianna cried over him. This new one? I’d rather cry over designer heels.

I walked off like I couldn’t even remember his name.

Later in the evening…

I was halfway through a bowl of spicy tacos with hot salsa when Vivian started her dramatics.

She walked towards me like a hunter circling its prey, only this time I’m the one doing the hunting.

“I’m sorry he loved me!” she cried. “I was just glad you agreed to divorce him! Why did you hit me?!”

I rolled my eyes. Let me guess—Damian is on the way. That’s why you’re suddenly acting like the victim.

Ahhh. I know this scene. I remember this from the book. Except in the book, Arianna stood in shock while Vivian stole the spotlight.

But not this time.

Plot twist, bitch.

I dropped to my knees and mimicked her with a dramatic wail, “Sister! Why do you hate me?!”

Vivian froze. Her eyes said: She’s not supposed to do that.

I rubbed fake tears in my eyes and reached for her hand.

“I hurt you, sister?” I said sweetly. “Truly? I’m so sorry you slapped yourself so hard. Maybe next time use the left hand so it’s less red.”

Then—bam. I slapped her.

Once.

Twice.

Loud. Sharp.

“I’ve always wanted to do this since I read the book,” I said, calm as ever.

Vivian gasped. “You’ve gone mad!”

Damian stormed in. Speak of the emotionally unavailable devil.

“Arianna, have you lost your mind?!”

He lunged at me, his hand going for my throat.

Classic toxic billionaire move.

But I wasn’t scared. I spat. Right in his eye.

“Yikes,” I muttered as he screamed.

“What did you do to him?!” Vivian cried, rushing to his side. “You’ve gone crazy!”

He stumbled to the bathroom, half-blind, furious.

I took another spoonful of my spicy food and smiled. For someone who said he hated drama, Damian sure lived in the middle of a soap opera.

Later that Night

As I walked past the study where Damian sat brooding. Probably wondering why I didn’t cook for him tonight.

Oh, right. I used to do that.

Arianna would cook for him, kneel by his chair, wait for him to insult her food, then apologize.

One time he even spat in the food and pushed her down. She hit her head.

And she still loved him?

Hell, she even apologized claiming it was her fault.

I’m sorry, but this version of Arianna?

She’s done playing housewife. Now it’s time she played queen.