All Chapters of Oops, I Stole the Second Lead: Chapter 1 - Chapter 7

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

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

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