I was just a side character, so why are you crying?

The monitor of my tablet was the last thing I saw before the world went black. I had been reading The Crown of Thorns—a classic, high-society romance drama—for the tenth time. I knew every beat of the story. I knew that the Saintess Liana would win the Prince’s heart. I knew the Knight Commander Cassel would die protecting her. And I knew, with a weary sort of pity, that the villainous Lady Genevieve Blackwood would be executed on the first day of winter. I remember thinking, just before my heart gave out in that sterile hospital room: “At least she had a role to play. I’m just a side character in my own life.” Then, I woke up. I didn't wake up to the smell of antiseptic, but to the scent of expensive lilies and old blood. I wasn't in a hospital gown; I was encased in emerald silk so tight it felt like a second skin. At first, I thought it was a dream. I thought I could just eat the luxury chocolates on the nightstand, ignore the obsessive Prince Julian, and wait for the "90-day" timer to run out so I could go home. I thought I could stay a "side character"—a quiet observer of a story that didn't belong to me. But the world of The Crown of Thorns is not a storybook. It is a trap. It started with the glare. I would try to smile at a maid, only for my facial muscles to contort into a mask of pure, porcelain malice. I would try to speak words of peace, only for my tongue to sharpen into a "canon" insult that tasted like poison. Genevieve’s body didn't care that Mikaela was the one driving; the body had its own dark memory, fueled by a family that had been drugging her for years to ensure she stayed "focused" on the throne. Then, the weather changed. The "First Frost" was supposed to be three months away. It was supposed to be the signal for Genevieve’s death. But because I stopped following the script—because I looked at the Prince with boredom instead of worship—the world began to scream. A single snowflake drifted down in the middle of a summer gala, a white warning that the plot was breaking. Now, I am no longer sitting in the audience. I have a ten-year-old brother who frames me for crimes out of "love." I have a Knight Commander who watches me like a predator watches a puzzle. And somewhere in this Empire, someone else—another traveler who knows the script—is trying to kill me to "fix" the story. The Prince is crying. The Saintess is bleeding. And the "Side Character" is currently being dragged to the Tower of Sighs. My name was Mikaela. Now, I am Genevieve. And if this story wants me to be the monster, I’m going to make sure it’s a tragedy they never forget.