The rewritten tales

The last thing I remembered was Mira screaming. Not a cute scream. Not the kind of scream a woman made when she saw a spider. This was the kind of scream that made you question every life decision that had led you to that exact moment. “ARIA!” “I KNOW!” “THE CAR!” “I SEE THE CAR!” “THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL DRIVING TOWARD IT?” “BECAUSE YOU’RE DISTRACTING ME!” “I’M DISTRACTING YOU?! YOU’RE THE ONE WHO—” The truck appeared in front of us. Everything happened at once. Headlights. Rain. A deafening horn. Mira's hand grabbing my arm. My foot slamming the brake. The sickening screech of tires against wet asphalt. Then— Impact. My body lurched forward. The world spun. Glass shattered somewhere beside me. Mira screamed my name again. And then everything went black. --- When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the ceiling. It was white. Not hospital white. Expensive white. The kind of white that probably had a name like Ivory Dawn and cost more than my entire bedroom. I blinked. Once. Twice. My head throbbed. I tried to move. Pain shot through my body. “Don't.” The voice beside me was familiar. Very familiar. I turned my head. Mira was sitting beside the bed. She looked completely fine. Too fine. Her hair was perfectly arranged. Her face was clean. She wasn't wearing the clothes she'd had on during the accident. Instead, she wore a long, pale nightgown. I stared at her. She stared at me. Neither of us spoke. Then Mira whispered, “Please tell me you see this too.” My stomach dropped. I slowly looked around. The room was enormous. A fireplace. Antique furniture. Heavy velvet curtains. Gold detailing. A massive bed. And absolutely nothing that belonged in the twenty-first century. “No,” I whispered. Mira's eyes widened. “No?” “No. I don't see anything.” She pointed at the enormous four-poster bed. “You're literally lying on a bed that looks like it belongs to a Victorian vampire.” I swallowed. “Okay.” “And there's no hospital equipment.” “Okay.” “And you're wearing a nightgown.” “Okay.” “And I'm wearing one too.” “Okay.” “And—” “Stop saying okay.” “Then stop looking like you're about to faint.” “I just survived a car accident.” “Exactly.” I stared at her. She stared back. Then her expression changed. The panic disappeared. Something much worse replaced it. Recognition. “Aria.” “What?” “I think I know where we are.” My heart began pounding. “No.” “I haven't said anything yet.” “I know what you're going to say.” “You don't.” “Yes, I do.” Mira slowly reached toward the bedside table. A book lay there. Thick. Black. Its gold lettering caught the light. My blood ran cold. I knew that book. Not because I'd seen it in a bookstore. Because I'd read it. Several times. And unfortunately, so had Mira. She picked it up with trembling hands. I stared at the title. The Blackthorne Brothers. For several seconds, neither of us breathed. Then Mira whispered, “Oh, we're screwed.” I sat upright despite the pain. “No.” She looked at me. “Yes.” “No.” “Aria.” “No.” “Look at the book.” “I am looking at it.” “You know what that means.” “I know what it means.” We stared at each other. Then, simultaneously, we said— “We're inside the book.” Silence. A long, horrifying silence. Mira dropped the novel onto the bed. “Nope.” I nodded. “Agreed.” “We're going back.” “How?” “I don't know.” “Excellent plan.” “Thank you.” I looked down at myself. The nightgown. The unfamiliar hands. The unfamiliar room. My heart sank. “If we're inside the book…” Mira's face went pale. “We have to figure out who we are.” I slowly turned toward her. She was already reaching for the book. “No.” “Yes.” “No, Mira.” “We need information.” “Information is overrated.” “Aria.” She opened the book. I closed my eyes. Because I already knew. I remembered the story. The Blackthorne brothers. Cassian and Adrian Blackthorne. Two dangerously powerful brothers. Two devastatingly handsome men. Two marriages. Two wives. Two tragedies. And two women who died. Badly. Very badly. Mira turned the pages. Her eyes moved rapidly across the text. Then she stopped. Her face drained of color. “Aria.” I didn't answer. She looked at me. “We're them.” My throat tightened. “Who?” She turned the book toward me. There it was. Our names. Lady Aria Vale. Lady Mirabelle Laurent. Minor noblewomen. Side characters. The wives of the Blackthorne brothers. And according to the story— Dead women. Mira's fingers began trembling. “Wait.” I reached for the book. “No.” “Wait.” I scanned the page. Then the next. Then the next. My stomach twisted. I remembered this. I'd read it. I'd actually laughed while reading it. I'd complained about how stupid the wives were. I'd told Mira that if I were Aria, I'd simply leave. I'd said— There is no way I'd stay married to a man who could kill me. Mira stared at me. “I remember this chapter.” “So do I.” “You said Aria deserved better.” “I was being generous.” “You said Cassian was terrifying.” “He is.” “You said he was ridiculously attractive.” “I was also correct.” Mira slowly closed the book. “Aria.” “What?” “We are married to them.” I stared at her. She stared at me. Then she whispered the sentence that made everything suddenly real. “And they kill us.” The room became unbearably quiet. Somewhere outside, a clock chimed. Once. Twice. Three times. I looked toward the enormous bedroom doors. Then back at Mira. “We have to find out when.” Mira nodded. “And why.” “And more importantly…” I looked at the book. My stomach twisted again. “…how long we have before it happens.” A knock sounded at the door. Both of us froze. Another knock. Three measured taps. Then a man's voice came from the other side. “Lady Aria?” My blood ran cold. I knew that voice. Not personally. From the book. From the countless scenes I'd read. From the descriptions of the man who was supposed to become my husband. The man who was supposed to destroy me. The man who would eventually kill me. Cassian Blackthorne. “Your husband has returned.” Mira's eyes widened. She mouthed one word. Husband. I stared at the door. The handle began to turn. And for the first time since waking up in this impossible world, I understood something terrifying. We hadn't simply been transported into the book. We had arrived before the story began. Which meant the men who were supposed to become our killers… were already waiting on the other side of the door.