Let the SIDE CHARACTER and the HEIR do revenge

AURA'S POV Today is my day off, which means I get to do what I do best — bury myself in fiction, where the men who matter actually exist. I have nothing going for me. No amazing job to look forward to, no boyfriend to come home to, no Friday night plans, no girls' group chat blowing up, and no one texting wyd. Just me, my couch, and a paperback I've read so many times that the spine has given up pretending it's still a spine. So yeah, books have always been how I comfort myself. Except calling it comfort feels like a lie. Comfort is a blanket. Comfort is hot tea. This is closer to a lifeline—the thing I grab when the water gets too high. 'Danielle is standing with a champagne flute in her hand, her body beaming with joy and anticipation, because today will be the day when she and Andrey will propose.' I snort at the page. "Sure he will, sweetheart," I mutter. "Right after he finishes stabbing you in the back with a smile." My stomach growls. The sound is loud and aggressive—the kind of sound that should come with a warning label. I ignore it. I honestly don't even know why I'm so hung up on this book. I've read it more times than I can count. I know every beat, every betrayal, every line Andrey uses to make Danielle feel small. I hate that man. I hate him with my whole chest, and yet here I am, again, flipping through like an i***t. There're supposed to be snacks in the fridge. I'm almost sure of it. Almost. I set the book face-down on the armrest, push myself up, and shuffle into my tiny kitchen. The linoleum sticks to my bare feet. The fridge groans when I pull it open, like it's disappointed in me. Fair enough, so am I. Nothing edible. Nothing. A sad half-empty carton of something I can't identify. A single wilted leaf of lettuce that's mostly water at this point. And one jar of mustard. That's it. That's the whole story of my life sitting on a wire shelf under a flickering bulb. "No one can eat mustard," I say out loud, to no one. "No one. Not even mustard people." I stare at the jar for a second longer, hoping it'll turn into a sandwich. It doesn't. "Might as well finish the chapter," I mumble, and I head back to the couch, scooping the book up before I've even fully sat down. 'Andrey walks with Daniella on his arm, his thumb stroking lazy circles against her wrist, and he does not look at Danielle when she steps into his path. He looks through her.' "Of course he does," I mutter. "You absolute garbage human being." '"What is this?" Danielle asks, and her voice is too small. She knows. She already knows.' '"What does it look like?" Andrey says, smiling at her like she's a stranger who's asked him for directions. "I'm with Daniella now. I thought you'd figured that out by now, you're a smart girl."' "Smart girl," I repeat, disgusted. "You propose to her sister in front of the entire city and then call her a smart girl. I hope a chandelier falls on you." '"You said—" Danielle starts.' '"I said a lot of things," Andrey cuts her off, and his voice goes flat and bored, like he's explaining something to a child. "Wake up. Nobody's coming to save you."' My stomach makes an otherworldly sound. Not a growl this time — a full, unholy, hollow noise, like something inside me is dying and wants everyone to know. I book mark the page, press the book closed, and sigh. "Fine. Food wins." I get up to get changed, because right now I'm basically in what people would call rags — an old shirt with a stain I keep pretending isn't there, and sweatpants that have seen things. After changing, I head out. I don't know why that scene makes me so pissed every single time. I've read it more than five hundred times. Five hundred! You'd think I'd be numb to it by now. You'd think I'd see it coming from a mile away and just skim past it. But no. Every single time, without fail, it lights a fire in my chest that takes hours to put out. 'Because it's not fair,' I think, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets as I walk. 'It's just not fair.' If it were me — if I were Danielle, I would have done things pretty differently. I wouldn't have run away crying. I wouldn't have let Andrey's words burrow into my skull like a parasite. I wouldn't have wasted away into nothing. I would have gone straight to Glenn. The elder brother. The shadow heir. The one everyone forgot, the one everyone dismissed, the one who was actually dangerous. I would have walked up to him at that gala, looked him dead in the eye, and said, "I know what you want. I want the same thing. Let's help each other." He would have been suspicious. He would have been cold. But he would have listened. Because Glenn Lightwood is a strategist, and strategists don't turn away useful pieces. And maybe — maybe — along the way, something more would have happened. Because he's my crush, and I'm only human, and I've read his character arc so many times, I feel like I know him better than I know most real people. I'd use him to stay alive. Use his revenge as my shield. Use his power as my protection. And maybe, just maybe, I'd be the one standing next to him at the end instead of being buried in a cemetery, dead of a broken heart. 'That's what I'd do,' I think, crossing the street. 'If it were me. If I ever got the chance. Which I won't, because I'm not in a book, I'm just a girl walking to a grocery store in New York—' "Get out of the way!" I snap back to reality. There's a truck heading straight toward me. Too fast. Way too fast. The sound of it is wrong — the brakes screeching like they've failed, like something has snapped and there's nothing left to stop it. I didn't know I was crossing. I didn't notice the light changing. I was so deep in my own head, in my own stupid daydream, that I walked right into— Move. Move goddamit! Mo— The truck hits me. There's no slow motion. No warm light, No white tunnel. Just total, sharp pain, and then the weight of the world pressing down on me, plus the wet sound of everything I am breaking against the pavement. I can't feel my legs. I can't feel anything. There's blood on the asphalt, spreading like a spilled drink, and somewhere far away I hear screaming, but it sounds like it's underwater. And then—