FIVE: I'm Tired

MINTHE

I'm Tired

* * *

The mirror tells me I’m trapped in this world forever five seconds after the man I love admits he never stopped loving somebody else.

Well, that feels personal.

I stare at my reflection while the silver letters disappear one by one, fading into the glass until there’s nothing left except my own face staring back at me. I look pale. Mascara smeared under my eyes. Lips trembling hard enough to piss me off.

The room smells faintly of smoke and rainwater. My ruined gown drags heavily against the carpet beneath me, damp at the hem from where I nearly collapsed earlier. Somewhere downstairs, omegas are still cleaning up what’s left of my mating ceremony—plates, flowers, decorations. My humiliation probably got folded up with the tablecloths.

I let out one shaky breath. Then another.

Permanent stay in the novel.

Now I know Pierre’s feelings, I wouldn’t have any chance n having him back.

The words keep repeating in my skull until nausea crawls up my throat. “Nope,” I whisper hoarsely at the mirror. “Absolutely the fuck not.”

My voice cracks badly on the last word. Embarrassing.

I laugh once under my breath and wipe at my face with both hands, but more tears keep coming anyway. God, I’m exhausted—emotionally, physically, mentally, every fucking version of exhausted available to a human being. Or transmigrated villainess. Whatever.

I grip the vanity hard enough my knuckles ache.

Three years. Three whole years trying to outrun the plot. Three years rebuilding Ashbourne territory beside Pierre, sleeping beside him, loving him, learning every stupid little thing about him. The way he rubs the back of his neck when he’s stressed. The way he always steals food off my plate after claiming he isn’t hungry. The way he reaches for me in his sleep.

And the entire time—the story still belonged to her.

Lyria.

The heroine always gets the ending.

What did I expect?

I close my eyes. For a second I can practically hear my old self laughing at me from somewhere back in my original world. Congrats, Minthe. You transmigrated into a novel and still managed to become the pathetic second choice.

Jesus Christ.

A fresh wave of humiliation burns through my chest so violently I straighten immediately, forcing my shoulders back.

No. No more crying tonight. I’m done.

I stare at myself in the mirror again, breathing harder now. “You need to get it together,” I mutter.

Because the worst part isn’t Pierre. It isn’t even the heartbreak. It’s the fact that I want to go home so badly my bones ache with it.

I miss stupid things suddenly. My apartment. Convenience store ramen. My phone charger that only worked at a certain angle. My mom yelling at me for forgetting laundry in the washing machine.

God.

I wanna get out of this novel.

My throat tightens painfully. I press the heel of my palm against my mouth before another sob escapes. “Fuck,” I whisper brokenly.

The room feels too big around me now, too cold. I look down at the white gown hanging off my body—the lace sleeves wrinkled, one side of the skirt stained faintly pink where blood from my cut palms dried into the fabric earlier.

I looked beautiful this morning.

Slowly, I reach up and begin pulling the pins from my hair one by one. They hit the vanity with tiny metallic clicks—gold, pearl, diamond. Little expensive reminders of a future that doesn’t exist anymore. By the time I finish, my hair falls messily around my shoulders.

I barely recognize myself. Not because I’m ugly. Because I look small. And that’s the part I hate most.

Back in my old world, I wasn’t this girl. I wasn’t weak. I cursed too loudly, worked too much, ate takeout at midnight while bullying men online for being stupid. I used to be sharp around the edges.

Then I met Pierre Ashbourne, and somewhere along the way I softened myself into something easier to love.

The realization settles ugly in my stomach. Maybe that’s why this hurts so fucking much—because I don’t think he ever asked me to become this version of myself. I just did it willingly. For him.

The fire crackles softly behind me. Rain lashes harder against the windows.

Finally, after standing there for what feels like hours, I move. The dress feels unbearable now, suffocating. I strip out of it slowly, letting the expensive fabric pool across the floor in a heap of white silk and shattered expectations. Cold air prickles across my skin immediately.

I should burn the fucking thing.

Instead I step over it barefoot and pull on a loose cream nightgown from the wardrobe. I crawl into bed without bothering to dry my hair properly. The sheets are freezing.

Sleep never comes.

* * *

By morning, my eyes feel swollen nearly shut. Perfect. Exactly how every abandoned woman should look.

I sit motionless while two Omegas nervously help brush my hair. Neither of them says a word about last night—not the ruined ceremony, not Lyria arriving, not Pierre leaving my room after midnight. But I can feel the gossip crawling through Ashbourne Manor anyway. Omegas always know everything first.

One of the younger maids accidentally tugs too hard while brushing my hair. “Oh—sorry, my lady.”

“It’s okay,” I murmur automatically, and they snicker to themselves. They did that on purpose.

By the time I leave my chambers, the manor feels painfully alive around me again. Omegas move quickly through the halls carrying trays and fresh linens, guards stand straighter when I pass, and somewhere downstairs dishes clatter faintly from the kitchens.

Life continues. Even after your heart gets ripped open, apparently.

I walk through the corridors slowly, my hands clasped tightly together to stop them from shaking. The guest wing sits on the eastern side of the packhouse where the morning light hits strongest—Pierre specifically renovated those rooms last winter because he said guests deserved warmth.

Funny.

The closer I get, the sicker I feel.

An Omega standing outside the chamber doors immediately bows when she notices me approaching. “Luna,” I nod once. The doors are partially open already.

And there she is.

Lyria sits near the tall windows wrapped in a pale silk robe. My silk robe. I recognize the embroidery near the sleeves instantly because I complained for weeks after the tailor stitched the flowers unevenly.

Her golden hair spills neatly down her back while another Omega pours tea beside her carefully.

She doesn’t look frightened anymore, or look cold. She doesn’t look like the poor lost woman who arrived soaked in the rain last night. She looks comfortable. At home.

Her eyes lift toward mine. Then she smiles—soft, sweet, victorious.

God.

Something inside me goes strangely numb. I step fully into the room anyway.

“Good morning,” I say quietly.

“Minthe.” Lyria’s voice is smooth as honey. She doesn’t address me as Luna. “Thank you for allowing me to stay here. Pierre said you wouldn’t turn me away.”

Pierre. Not Alpha. Pierre. The familiarity digs beneath my skin immediately. I force a small smile. “You were injured.”

“It was only exhaustion,” she says gently. “Pierre worried far more than necessary.”

Of course he did.

I nod once. The Omega beside her looks wildly uncomfortable, glancing between us before quickly excusing herself from the room entirely. .

The silence stretches after the door shuts. Lyria lifts her teacup gracefully. “I heard the ceremony was interrupted because of me,” she says softly. “I truly never intended to cause problems between you two.”

The funny thing? She sounds sincere. That’s what makes her dangerous.

I move toward the opposite chair slowly and sit down across from her. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Her gaze studies my face carefully. “You look tired.”

I almost laugh. “That tends to happen after public humiliation.”

A flicker crosses her expression before she lowers her cup carefully onto the table. “I know you hate me.”

“I don’t.” And weirdly, it’s true. I don’t hate her. I think maybe I should. But mostly I just feel stupid.

Lyria watches me closely now. “You took care of him for a long time. Thank you.” There’s something sharp hidden beneath the softness of that sentence, and I notice it immediately.

I didn’t do it for you, I wanna say, but I swallow it down.

“So I heard,” I reply lightly.

Her lips twitch faintly. “He was very lonely after I disappeared.”

There it is. The real conversation finally stepping into the room.

I stare at her quietly. Lyria folds her hands neatly in her lap. “I always regretted leaving him behind.”

No you didn’t. In the novel I’ve read, at least.

My chest tightens hard enough it physically hurts to breathe—because she says it so casually, without realizing what those words mean to someone who spent three years loving the man she left behind.

“I’m glad you found your way back to him then,” I say softly. And I hate myself a little for how genuine I sound.

Lyria’s eyes narrow slightly, probably because she expected anger, or jealousy. Not this pathetic level of politeness.

“He needed someone beside him,” she continues carefully. “Thank you for giving him that while he was hurting.”

The sentence lands directly in my chest. It’s as if I was temporary. A placeholder. A woman keeping her seat warm until the real owner returned.

I look down at my hands before she can see my face crack. “Right,” I whisper.

The room goes quiet again. Then footsteps approach outside the chamber, Pierre.

My stomach twists instantly. The door opens seconds later and he walks inside carrying a breakfast tray himself.

The moment his eyes land on Lyria, his entire expression changes—softens, concern flashing across his face immediately. “You should’ve stayed in bed,” he says, setting the tray down quickly near her chair. “Did the healer clear you to be sitting up already?”

Lyria smiles faintly. “I’m alright.”

Pierre kneels beside her chair to check the bandage wrapped around her wrist. And I think that’s the exact moment something finally dies inside me completely.

Because I know Pierre. I know every version of him. And this version—this gentle, careful version—used to belong to me too.

He doesn’t even notice me standing here.

“I’m okay, Pierre!” Lyria giggles and Pierre looks even more worried. I clear my throat and Pierre turned to me, Lyria too who seemed to forget I was talking to her seconds ago.

“Ah, Luna Minthe’s here.” She smiles and this time, she addresses me. I raise my brow. “Minthe,” Pierre calls, standing up. Lyria hides behind him so subtly as if she’s afraid of me.

“Lyria isn’t bothering you, why are you here now?” He raises his voice and I tilted my head as it sends a jolt in my chest.

“I wasn’t—” I swallow the denial and flash a smile, “I’m happy she’s here, Pierre.” I grit my teeth, the exhaustion from all of this slowly eating me alive.

I’m just tired, Pierre. I don’t wanna fight for you anymore.

“I’m glad she found her way back to you.” I smile. Pierre’s brows furrows at my calm reaction.

More than anything, Pierre. This is what I came in the novel for.

To make you happy.

Even if that means I’m not its cause anymore.