The Betrayed Bride’s Deadly Comeback

Not Expected

~Lucyll's POV~

“You’re in luck,” Arlyne said smoothly, pulling a crisp folder from her designer tote. “The first round of auditions is happening today.”

She slid the folder across the desk toward me. “I thought you might start with a side character. The new show was a paranormal drama. This role is the female lead’s twin sister. Not many scenes, she died at the beginning, but it’s a good introduction to the set. A soft launch, don’t you think?”

I accepted the folder, flipping it open just enough to skim the character breakdown.

Twin sister. Supporting role. Quiet. Almost forgettable.

Of course. Arlyne had chosen this part for me. It was the kind of role that couldn’t make waves, only polite ripples. A face in the background, safe but controllable.

I might’ve even believed it was a generous offer... if I didn’t remember everything from the past. But I did.

I wouldn’t waste my debut fading behind the spotlight this time. Not when I knew the role I wanted—and the man who could give it to me.

The director of the show, Marcus Lane, was a notoriously blunt, almost eccentric visionary. He didn’t care for power games or producer whispers. He cared about performance and authenticity.

In my last life, Arlyne respected him enough not to interfere—too much. And because I’d written scripts in my last life, I’d actually worked with Marcus on several occasions. He even complimented one of my scripts once—gruffly.

And now, if I could convince Marcus I was her, he’d fight for me. And by her, I didn’t mean the twin sister.

I meant the villain. The witch. The one who killed with elegance, plotted with precision, and unexpectedly stole the audience’s heart.

She was supposed to be a cautionary tale, but viewers adored her. Her darkness, her confidence. They even liked her more than the lead.

In fact, by episode four, the entire fan-base had turned. Hashtags. Edits. Fan-fiction. The witch had become a phenomenon.

And that was the role I wanted.

I have to admit it wasn’t just about the exposure.

I remembered, all too clearly, who played the witch in my last life. Gizzelle Alvaro.

My college tormentor. The girl who made a sport out of mocking me in lecture halls and whispering behind manicured hands. And, of course, the same Gizzelle who later became Harvery’s mistress, his accomplice in the crime of killing me.

So, let this be step two in my quiet revenge. Taking the part that once belonged to her.

She had clung to it like it defined her in the last life. Rode the sudden fame like a wave she didn’t expect but desperately needed. It was her breakout, her desperate validation.

And frankly? Her performance had been mediocre at best. I could do better. I have lived death and came back.

Arlyne smiled, all silk and satisfaction. “Why don’t you look over that script this morning? I’ll have Jake walk you to the audition room this afternoon.”

I returned her smile, “Thank you. That sounds perfect.”

…

Jake showed up right on schedule—blazer too tight around the shoulders, earpiece tucked neatly in place, “Miss Lucyll,” he asked, voice smooth, “Ready for your audition?”

I stood, slipping the folder Arlyne gave me under my arm. “Absolutely.”

He led me down the hallways of Everest’s casting wing, every surface polished to a mirror shine.

We passed many hopefuls—fresh faces, overly rehearsed lines whispered under nervous breaths.

At the corner outside the casting room, Jake stopped and gestured to the waiting area. “The director’s running a little behind,” he said. “You’ll be called in soon. Good luck.”

I offered a sweet nod, settling onto one of the sleek leather chairs. “Thanks.”

As soon as his footsteps disappeared down the corridor, I stood. Folder in hand, I walked right past the assistant stationed at the door, ignoring her startled “Excuse me—” and knocked, then opened the door before anyone could stop me.

Marcus Lane was inside. Exactly as I remembered him.

Button-up rumpled, hair messy, a pen tucked behind one ear. He was pacing across the room with a coffee in hand, muttering something about lighting and tone. A hurricane in slow motion.

He turned when he saw me. Paused. Then narrowed his eyes. “Are you lost?”

“No.” I stepped in and closed the door behind me. “I came to audition. But not for the role your producers assigned me.”

That caught his attention.

He took one sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “Bold start. What role do you think you’re right for?”

I held up the script, “The witch.”

Marcus let out a short, surprised laugh. “You?”

I smiled. “Me.”

He eyed me for a moment. Then he walked over to his desk and tossed his coffee aside like it bored him. “You’ve got five minutes. Impress me.”

I dropped my bag, stepped into the center of the room, and began.

I didn’t play the witch as evil. I played her as inevitable.

Cold elegance. Lethal charm. The kind of woman who didn’t need to scream to be feared—only smile.

When I finished, Marcus was leaning back against the desk, arms folded, brow slightly raised. He didn’t clap. Didn’t praise. Then: “You’re not what I expected.”

“That’s the point.”

A pause.

Then he pointed toward the door. “Go wait outside.”

I blinked. “That’s it?”

“For now,” he said. “I’ve seen what I need to see.”

It wasn’t a yes. But it definitely wasn’t a no.

And I knew Marcus Lane well enough to know: if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have looked up from his coffee.

So I walked out, past the startled assistant and the confused looks from the other actresses, and sat down.

Jake returned a few minutes later, his face a polite mask. If he knew I’d hijacked the audition schedule...

“Lucyll,” he said carefully. “Director Lane wants to see you again.”

A few heads turned in my direction. One girl narrowed her eyes. Another adjusted her lip gloss with a trembling hand.

I gave Jake a sunny smile, “Of course.”

Back in the casting room, Marcus was now perched on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, one leg swinging like a pendulum. A man deep in thought—or weighing whether to light a fuse.

“You memorized that monologue,” he said. Not a question.

I nodded. “I did.”

“You rehearsed it.”

Another nod. “Several times.”

“And yet you didn’t feel fake.”

“Because I wasn’t.”

He stared at me a moment longer, then gave the smallest, sharpest nod. “I’m going to cast you,” he said.

No buildup or congratulations. Just fact. Like telling someone the weather was warm or that coffee stains.

“I’m sorry,” I said, blinking. “For the witch?”

“No, for the cat wrangler in episode two.” His eyes twinkled. “Of course for the witch.”

I felt a flicker of triumph. A tiny success in my little revenge plan.

Marcus picked up his phone. “My only condition? Don’t let the producers know yet. I want the read-through to be a surprise.”

I grinned. “You want to see Mrs. Everest’s face when I walk in.”

“Oh,” he said, smiling for the first time, “I want to frame it. Arlyne told me earlier to cast some girl named Gizzelle for this role. I said no. She had the nerve to threaten me.”

At this point in my last life, she already cozied up to both Arlyne and Harvery? Was that how she landed the role in my past life? Trading loyalty for opportunity behind closed doors?

If that was true... I had underestimated her and Harvery.

Jake tried to ask questions on the way back down the hallway. I gave him vague, chirpy answers, all “we’ll see!” and “fingers crossed!”—like I hadn’t just landed one of the most buzzed-about roles in Everest’s upcoming slate.