The Hero Was Never Mine to Love

Some women dream of becoming the heroine of a love story. I woke up as the woman everyone wanted dead. And the worst part? I was the one who had written her ending. Ironic isn't? At 11:47 p.m., Tiffany Yang was arguing with a fictional woman. “You cannot possibly be this stupid.” My laptop screen illuminated the dark corners of my apartment. An empty coffee mug sat beside a stack of manuscripts, three unread emails from my publisher blinked in the corner of my screen, and the rain tapped relentlessly against the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse. I leaned closer to the laptop. On the screen, Quinn Hearst stood in the middle of a lavish hotel ballroom, wearing a black designer gown and an expression that could freeze an entire room. Of course, it's only in my imagination. She was beautiful, wealthy, intelligent, and catastrophically incapable of making a good decision. In other words, she was my most successful character. She was also the villainess of my bestselling contemporary romance novel, The Hero Was Never Mine to Love. And she was about to ruin her life. Again. “Don't do it,” I muttered at the screen. “Put the champagne down. Walk away. Call a lawyer. Buy a yacht. Move to another country. I don't care. Just don't throw that drink at the heroine.” Quinn lifted the champagne glass. I stared at her. “No.” She threw it. The golden liquid splashed across Astrid Watson's white dress. I dropped my head onto my desk. “WHY?” A notification appeared on my phone. MARCUS — EDITOR Tiffany, I have read the final three chapters. We need to talk about Quinn's ending. I groaned. Marcus Hale was my editor for six years. He was responsible for turning my first manuscript into a bestseller, my second into an award-winning novel, and my third into a literary phenomenon that had somehow convinced millions of people that emotionally unavailable billionaires were romantic. Typical stories nowadays. He was also the reason I had not slept properly in WEEKS. I typed a reply. What about it? His response came almost immediately. It's brutal. I glanced at my manuscript. Quinn would be exposed for her crimes, abandoned by her family, and sentenced to prison after a scandal involving corporate fraud and an attempted assault. Three chapters later, she would die in a car accident while trying to flee the city. Astrid would marry Sebastian Vanderbilt The public would celebrate. The final chapter would end with the happy couple standing beneath the lights of a luxury hotel in Manhattan, promising to love each other forever. It was a perfectly conventional ending. The hero got the heroine. The villainess paid for her sins. Everyone lived happily ever after. Except Quinn. I typed, She is the villain. Villains face consequences. Marcus replied, Consequences are one thing. Making readers feel that she was born to be punished is another. I frowned. He was beginning to sound suspiciously like someone who had not understood the point of my own story. Quinn had everything. Money, beauty, a prestigious family name, and access to a world most people could only dream about. She had used those privileges to humiliate Aurelia, sabotage Adrian's business, and manipulate the people around her. She had earned her downfall. That was what I believed. At least, until I read Marcus's next message. You wrote her as a woman who believes she must be loved to be worth something. Then you punish her for wanting love. I stared at the screen. Outside, lightning flashed across the skyline. I looked back at Quinn's frozen image. For two years, I had been inside her head. I had written about her insecurities, her ambitions, her jealousies, and the humiliating desperation she felt whenever Sebastian looked at Astrid with affection. I had understood her well enough to make readers hate her. But had I understood her enough to let her live? I rubbed my eyes. “Fine,” I whispered. “I'll fix it tomorrow.” My phone buzzed again. And Tiffany? I opened the message. Please don't kill her just because you don't know how to save her. I set the phone facedown. “I know how to save her,” I said to the empty apartment. I turned toward my laptop. “I just haven't decided whether she deserves it.” Then I typed the final sentence of Chapter Twenty-Seven. By sunrise, Quinn Hearst would lose everything she had ever loved, and no one would be left to mourn her. I read it twice. It was a good sentence. Sharp. Dramatic. Final. I clicked Save. The screen flickered. I frowned. “Don't you dare!” The laptop went black. I tapped the keyboard. Nothing. Then white letters appeared on the screen. AUTHOR DETECTED. I stopped breathing. A second line appeared. CHARACTER DESTINY CONFIRMED. “What the hell?" The room seemed to grow colder. Another line appeared. WOULD YOU LIKE TO REWRITE THE ENDING? I stared at the words. Then I laughed. Not because anything was funny, but because exhaustion had finally pushed my brain into a territory where supernatural computer messages seemed almost reasonable. “Absolutely. Give her a better ending.” The cursor blinked. WARNING: THE AUTHOR CANNOT REMAIN OUTSIDE THE STORY AFTER REWRITING THE DESTINY. My smile faded. “What does that mean?” The screen flashed. A sharp pain shot through my chest. I grabbed the edge of my desk, but the room tilted violently. My coffee mug fell to the floor. Glass shattered somewhere behind me. The last thing I saw was a single line of text. DESTINY TRANSFER INITIATED. Then the world disappeared. ***** The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the headache. It was really painful and I felt like throwing up. The second was the unfamiliar scent of expensive perfume. I don't wear perfume because I am not a fan and that must be the reason why I feel like throwing up. The third was the fact that my ceiling had become a chandelier. A very fancy one. I opened my eyes. Crystal lights glittered above me. Pale gold walls stretched toward enormous windows overlooking a city filled with skyscrapers. Sunlight streamed through sheer curtains, illuminating a bedroom so large that my entire apartment could have fit inside it. I blinked. Once. Twice. Then I sat up so quickly that the room spun. “Where am I?” My voice sounded wrong. This place is very unfamiliar to me. This place is definitely not my style. It was softer, lower, and more polished than my own. I looked down. A white silk nightdress covered my body. My hands were slender, my nails painted a pale shade of pink. A diamond bracelet circled my wrist. I did not own a diamond bracelet. It looks very expensive. I owned three silver rings, two pairs of inexpensive earrings, and a watch I had bought during a sale. I am a very frugal person. I scrambled out of bed and nearly tripped over the hem of the nightdress. Just who the heck changed my clothes?! Across the room stood a full-length mirror. I ran toward it. And stopped. A woman stared back at me. She had long, dark brown hair that fell in glossy waves past her waist, sharp cheekbones, full lips, and striking gray eyes. Her skin was flawless. She looked like the kind of woman who belonged on the cover of a luxury fashion magazine. I knew that face. I had spent two years describing it. Quinn Hearst. The villainess of my novel. “No.” I touched my cheek. The reflection did the same. “No, no, no.” I grabbed the edge of the mirror. “This is not happening.” I had not simply entered my novel. I had entered my novel as the one character I had never intended to save. A memory surfaced. The final chapters. The champagne. The scandal. The car accident. The ending I had just written. I looked toward the bedside table. A smartphone lay beside a glass of water. I snatched it up. The lock screen displayed the date. October 18. My stomach dropped. October 18 was the day before the Vale Foundation's annual charity gala, the event where Quinn would publicly humiliate Astrid and trigger the chain of scandals that destroyed her reputation. According to the manuscript, she had less than six weeks before her life began to collapse. I opened the phone. The notifications were horrifying. HEARST GROUP STOCKS RISE AFTER NEW INVESTMENT ANNOUNCEMENT. SEBASTIAN VANDERBILT AND ASTRID WATSON SPOTTED TOGETHER AT PRIVATE DINNER. IS QUINN HEARST LOSING HER GRIP ON SEBASTIAN? I pressed my fingers against my temples. Of course. The universe had placed me inside the most expensive nightmare imaginable. I was not a princess in a fantasy kingdom. I was a modern woman living in a world of billionaires, social media, corporate takeovers, and paparazzi!! And unlike a fantasy villainess, Quinn could not simply flee to a distant castle. Her face was everywhere. I opened the camera app. The woman staring back at me looked furious. “Okay,” I whispered. I forced myself to take a deep breath. “Think, Tiff. You know this story.” I knew every chapter. I knew which companies would collapse, which relationships would fail, and which characters would betray one another. I knew Sebastian Vanderbilt, the male lead, would become the youngest chief executive officer of Vanderbilt International at thirty. I knew he had been raised in a family that considered vulnerability a weakness. I knew he was fiercely protective of Astrid. And I knew he would eventually become Quinn's worst enemy. I also knew that in Chapter Thirty, Quinn would attempt to sabotage a charity project Astrid had spent months developing. Sebastian would discover the scheme. The media would explode. Quinn's father would disown her. Her friends would abandon her. And the public would watch her downfall like an entertainment event. I had written that chapter with satisfaction. Now I wanted to throw myself out the window. I turned away from the mirror and began pacing. “I can fix this.” I could. The plot was not a prophecy. It was a manuscript. And I was its author. I could change the scenes, avoid confrontations, and prevent disasters. All I needed to do was stay away from Sebastian, stop tormenting Astrid, and refuse to participate in the events that led to Quinn's downfall. Simple. I would become the most uninteresting woman in the city. No scandals. No public confrontations. No desperate attempts to win Sebastian's affection. I would invest in sensible businesses, build a respectable reputation, and perhaps open a bookstore. The bookstore sounded lovely. Quiet. Peaceful. Full of people who would judge me only for recommending the wrong novel. I smiled. “Yes. A bookstore.” A knock sounded in the bedroom door. “Miss Hearst?” I froze. A woman entered carrying a tray of coffee and toast. She was in her early thirties, dressed in a neat gray uniform, with dark hair pulled into a bun. “Good morning, Miss Hearst. You have a meeting at nine, and your father called twice.” I stared at her. “I'm sorry. Who are you?” The woman blinked. “It's me, Miss Hearst. Hannah.” Right. Hannah Brooks. Quinn's personal assistant. I had written her as the one person who remained beside Quinn until the very end. She was efficient, intelligent, and chronically underappreciated. “Of course,” I said quickly. “Hannah.” Her expression grew concerned. “Are you feeling all right?” “Perfectly.” I paused. “Actually, no. I have a headache,” and I held my head. “Would you like me to call your doctor?” I shook my head. “No. I need to ask you something.” “Of course.” I took a breath. “What's the worst thing I've done recently?” Hannah went very still. I don't like that. It was a fascinating transformation. One moment, she was a competent assistant. The next, she looked like a woman who had accidentally walked into a room where someone was about to announce a murder. Am I really that bad? “Miss Quinn?” “I'm serious.” Hannah placed the tray on a table. “Are you asking about the press?” “I'm asking about myself.” She studied me carefully, as if checking if I was sick or not. Then she said, “You sent a cease-and-desist letter to a charity organization because they refused to remove Astrid Watson's photograph from their website.” I winced. “Why?” “Because you believed the photograph had been used to attract Mr. Vanderbilt's attention.” I closed my eyes. Of course. What should I expect? Quinn had been jealous of the photograph. “What else?” “You canceled a sponsorship because Mr. Vanderbilt attended an event with Miss Watson.” I pressed my fingers against my forehead. “And?” “You sent a bouquet of black roses to Miss Watson's office.” I stared at her. “Black roses?” “Yes.” “Was there a threatening note?” Hannah hesitated. “There was a card.” “What did it say?” “Enjoy your last days in the spotlight.” I covered my face. “Oh, my God.” Hannah looked alarmed. “Miss Hearst?” “I am so sorry.” The words escaped before I could stop them. Hannah stared at me. I lowered my hands. “I mean it. I'm sorry for everything I've done.” Silence. Then Hannah said, very carefully, “Are you sure you're feeling all right?” “No,” I admitted. “But I intend to become a better person.” Hannah looked as though I had announced plans to move to Mars. “Would you like me to cancel your meetings?” I glanced at the clock. Eight fifteen. I remembered the day's events. At nine, Quinn would meet with her father's legal team. At eleven, she would attend a business luncheon. At two, she would have a fitting for the gala. At seven, she would attend a private dinner hosted by the Vanderbilt family. The private dinner. I went cold. Sebastian would be there. And so would Astrid. In the original story, that dinner marked the first time Sebastian openly chose Astrid over Quinn in front of their families. Quinn would respond by accusing Astrid of pursuing wealthy men for personal gain. Sebastian would intervene. The argument would become public. A guest would record the confrontation. The video would go viral. And Quinn's reputation would begin its spectacular decline. I could not attend. Absolutely not. I turned to Hannah. “Cancel the dinner.” She blinked. “The Vanderbilt family dinner?” “Yes.” “Miss Hearst, your father has emphasized that your attendance is important.” “Then tell him I'm sick.” “Would you like me to say you have a fever?” “Tell him I have a contagious disease.” Hannah stared. I sighed. “Fine. Tell him I have a migraine.” She reached for her phone. Then she paused. “May I ask why?” I hesitated. Because I had read the future? Because I was a novelist trapped inside a fictional character? Because the man I had written as the perfect romantic hero was about to destroy my life? Instead, I said, “Because I need a fresh start.” Hannah's expression softened. For the first time, she looked at me not as an employer, but as a person. “Then perhaps you should start with breakfast.” I looked at the untouched tray. For some reason, that nearly made me cry.