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Lahat ng Kabanata ng Oops, I Stole the Second Lead: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 7

7 Kabanata

Chapter 1

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 polit

Chapter 2

It turns out rich people don't believe in privacy. Or doors that actually close.I’d barely made it halfway back to my room—sorry, wing—before a maid offered to draw me a bath, another asked if I wanted chamomile tea, and a third gently hinted that my posture was “a little too modern.”I smiled, nodded, and locked myself in my room like a normal, emotionally unstable reincarnated girl trying to avoid a mental breakdown.Once the door clicked shut, I let the mask slip. My shoulders dropped. I kicked off the demon heels that passed for “breakfast appropriate” shoes and flopped face-first onto the enormous bed.God.What the hell am I supposed to do?I’m not delusional—I know I can’t rewrite everything. The book had dozens of plot threads, dramatic twists, romantic betrayals, corporate sabotage, and one decent man who never stood a chance. I can’t stop the Real Daughter from coming back. I can’t magically make the Carringtons like me. I’m not trying to win the original story.I’m trying

Chapter 3

Okay. So it turns out that trying to get a phone number in the upper crust of society is about as simple as hacking into the Pentagon.All I wanted was Ethan Quan’s number.Not to confess my undying love. Not to blow up his phone with memes. Just… to talk. Casually. Maybe invite him for coffee. Maybe ask him about that AI start-up he’s pretending isn’t revolutionary.You know. Normal “Hey, I’m trying to stop you from becoming a tragic love interest” stuff.So I did the obvious thing: I asked my “family.”I waited until breakfast the next morning—same runway-sized table, same weirdly silent vibe, same eggs that tasted like disappointment—and cleared my throat.“Mother,” I said, as politely as I could manage, “do you happen to have Ethan Quan’s number?”A beat of silence.Then she glanced up from her paper, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “Ethan Quan?”“Yes.”A pause.Then: “What for?”I tried to keep my smile casual. Friendly. Harmless. “We spoke at the gala last week. I thought I m

Chapter 4

There’s a special kind of awkward that comes from trying to emotionally detach from people who barely notice you exist.That’s where I’m at now.Sitting in the Carrington sunroom—because apparently, rich people need a separate room just for sun—sipping a tea I didn’t ask for and nodding politely at a conversation I’m not part of.Julian’s draped across a chaise lounge scrolling through sports news. Evelyn is flipping through fabric swatches for an upcoming gala like world peace depends on finding the right shade of “champagne blush.” And me?I’m just here. Decorative. Like a houseplant that occasionally clears its throat.I told myself I’d use this time to start distancing myself. Slowly. Strategically. Less dinners. Fewer family events. Stop performing the well-behaved “adopted daughter” role.But it turns out, I don’t have to put in the effort.They’re already doing it for me.“Lyra,” Evelyn says, not looking up from her swatches. “Are you still attending the Ambrose benefit next Fr

Chapter 5

Chapter Five: The Calm, the Crush, and the CEO in a WheelchairI was going to die.Not dramatically. Just... quietly combust from sheer secondhand embarrassment while sitting in a too-fancy café waiting for Ethan Quan, real-life CEO and fictional heartbreak machine, to show up for coffee.With me.What was I thinking? No, seriously. What kind of deranged logic led me to believe I could sit across from the man I used to sob over in my dorm room and not lose every single brain cell?“Hi, it’s Lyra Carrington,” I had texted, like a normal person. “I know this is unexpected—hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to say I’ve been thinking about something you said at the gala. Would love to talk more, if you’re open to it.”Why. Did. I. Do. That.The door opened.I didn’t have to look to know it was him. The whole place shifted. Not in a loud way—just a subtle drop in volume, a stillness in the air, like people were suddenly more aware of themselves.Then I looked up.And yeah, there he was.

Chapter 6

Okay.So.I didn’t die.I just had coffee with Ethan Quan and didn’t choke, faint, or confess my love while crying into a napkin.That alone is worth a trophy. Or a plaque. Or a full-blown Netflix miniseries titled Girl, Calm Down.As soon as I get back to the Carrington estate, I power-walk to my room like I’ve just shoplifted God and slam the door shut behind me.Ten seconds later, I scream into my pillow.It’s fine. I’m fine.It was just a coffee meeting.But it wasn’t.Because I know what comes next. I’ve read what comes next.In exactly twelve days, Anastasia Carrington returns from her dazzling European tour with her accent, her cello, and her tragic backstory about falling through a frozen lake or something. Everyone adores her immediately. Photographers show up at the gates. The tabloids do a glow-up montage.And me?I get quietly erased.No dramatic showdown. No screaming. Just: “Lyra, darling, you’ve grown so independent—we think it’s time you found your own way.”Translatio

Chapter 7

The Carringtons usually don't invite me places.So when Julian knocks on my door mid-morning holding two takeaway coffees and wearing an expression that could best be described as mildly human, I assume I’ve either hallucinated him or he’s about to ask me to help bury a body.“Don’t look so suspicious,” he says, stepping in like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of does.I sit up slowly, tucking my laptop under a throw pillow. “Are you here to mock my work ethic or confess a felony?”He hands me one of the cups and flops into the armchair by the window. “Neither. I was bored. You looked like you could use caffeine.”I squint at the cup. “You bought me coffee?”Julian shrugs. “I also considered doing shots at ten in the morning, but this seemed marginally less self-destructive.”I take a cautious sip.It’s exactly what I like. Down to the oat milk and the stupid sprinkle of cinnamon I always pretend I don’t want but secretly require like air.“You guessed this?”“Lyra, I’ve

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