The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, casting soft golden light across the grand guest bedroom. But Hoa Tu barely noticed it.
She was too busy studying the article that had just gone viral.
"Heiress Hoa Tu Stuns at Black Swan Masquerade—A New Rival for the White Rose?"
The image beneath the headline showed her in that crimson gown, mask perfectly in place, lips curled in that exact smirk she'd practiced in the mirror. Hoai Trach stood beside her, his arm possessively looped around her waist.
Hoa Tu groaned and threw the tablet aside.
"This was not the plan."
She had danced. She had smiled. She had survived the night. But she hadn't expected the media to turn her from villainess to mystery goddess overnight. The "public enemy" was now being called an "enigmatic muse." And worse—people were shipping her with Hoai Trach.
Was this a win… or a warning?
Before she could think further, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
You looked breathtaking last night. But red attracts not only power... but blood.
Hoa Tu stared at the message, heart lurching. Then, just as she was about to reply, the number vanished—deleted, as if it never existed.
Goosebumps pricked her skin.
"Who the hell...?"
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
It was the maid again. "Miss Lam, a guest is waiting for you in the west greenhouse. She says she's an old acquaintance."
Hoa Tu frowned. "Did she give a name?"
"No, ma'am. But she insists it's urgent."
Curiosity and instinct warred in her mind.
Ten minutes later, dressed in a simple cream blouse and tan slacks, Hoa Tu stepped into the glass greenhouse, instantly surrounded by the scent of roses, jasmine, and something more exotic—night-blooming cereus, maybe.
And then she saw her.
A woman stood by the orchids, tall and elegant, with violet eyes that glittered like amethysts. Her silver hair—clearly dyed—was twisted into a sleek knot. She wore a pale lavender suit, tailored to perfection, and held a teacup with fingers too still, too precise.
"You're finally here," the woman said, her voice smooth as velvet.
Hoa Tu's defenses rose instantly. "Do I know you?"
The woman smiled. "No, but I know you, Miss Lam. Or should I say—Hoa Tu, the one who broke the script."
Hoa Tu's blood ran cold.
"What do you mean?"
The woman sipped her tea. "Don't look so shocked. You think you're the only one who's ever woken up inside a story not their own?"
Hoa Tu didn't answer. Her hand slowly drifted toward the concealed blade in her boot. Just in case.
"I'm not here to hurt you," the woman continued, placing her cup down. "I'm here to offer a warning."
She stepped forward, and Hoa Tu could finally see the unusual mark on her collarbone: a faint symbol that looked like a closed eye.
"You've stirred the threads, girl. He wasn't supposed to fall for you. Not like this. Not this early."
"Who?" Hoa Tu whispered.
"Hoai Trach."
The name hit harder than she expected.
"He was meant to hate you. To destroy you, remember? Yet last night, he looked at you like you were the center of his storm."
Hoa Tu stayed silent. She didn't trust this woman, but… she wasn't entirely wrong.
"So?" she asked coldly. "Maybe I changed the game."
The woman chuckled. "Yes, but games fight back. The narrative you've twisted will try to fix itself."
"What does that mean?"
"It means new players may enter. Old ones may shift. The world around you will become unstable—characters may not behave the way you remember. Triggers may happen earlier. Deaths may come sooner."
Hoa Tu swallowed.
"And if I don't do anything?"
The woman leaned in. "Then you die. Maybe not as the villainess. Maybe not right away. But you will fall, one way or another."
The air turned heavier, like a storm on the horizon.
"Why are you telling me this?" Hoa Tu asked. "What's your stake in all this?"
The woman's smile faded. "Because I once tried to rewrite a story, too. And I lost everything."
She turned away.
"One last thing," she said over her shoulder. "Be careful of Hoai Trach. Love… is the most dangerous plot twist of all."
Then, just like that, she was gone.
Later that evening, Hoa Tu stood in Hoai Trach's office, arms crossed as he reviewed a file behind his massive mahogany desk.
He looked up.
"You're late."
She didn't apologize. "I had a visitor."
"Oh?" he asked, casually. "Should I be jealous?"
"Only if you're threatened by cryptic women with violet eyes and warnings of narrative collapse."
That made him pause. "What?"
She walked closer. "Someone else knows about this world being fiction. And she said I've twisted the story too much."
His jaw tightened, but his eyes remained unreadable. "You shouldn't speak to strangers with strange claims."
"You mean like me? Or you?" she countered.
He stood then, coming around the desk, suddenly too close. "You think you can change the ending by playing it safe, Hoa Tu? Or by running away when it gets hard?"
She looked up at him, angry and confused and dangerously drawn in. "No. But I know I can't do it alone."
That flicker again—in his eyes. Soft. Unfamiliar.
He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Then don't."
She flinched slightly at the touch, but didn't pull away.
"You confuse me," she said quietly.
"And you intrigue me," he murmured. "Tell me… was that what you wanted all along?"
"No," she said honestly. "All I wanted was to live."
Hoai Trach's voice lowered, almost a whisper. "Then let me help you do that."
For once, it didn't sound like a threat.
It sounded like a promise.
But far away, in another estate across the city, the woman with violet eyes lit a candle and placed it before a table filled with names—written in ink, crossed out in red.
Only two names remained.
Hoa Tu.
Hoai Trach.
She smiled.
"Let's begin the final rewrite."