Chapter 1: Not the Heroine After All

After I woke up inside a novel, the first thing I noticed was that my name was exactly the same as the main character’s.

At first, the realization hit me like a splash of cold water—then excitement started bubbling up. I mean, what were the odds? My heart thudded with hope—the kind you only get when you buy a lottery ticket and, for a second, actually believe you might win. I know, I know.

Naturally, I figured I must be the heroine.

It seemed only logical. Seriously, what else could it mean? Like, fate was practically spelling it out for me in neon lights. My pulse thrummed with anticipation, and I couldn’t help but imagine all the plot armor and happy endings that came with the title.

So, riding that main-character high, feeling like the star of the show, I marched right up to the male lead—who was just a broke guy back then—and, well, basically threw myself at him.

I didn’t just introduce myself, either. I waltzed into his life with the confidence of someone who’d read the script in advance, smiling too wide, talking too fast, convinced—because, obviously, the universe owed me a meet-cute. I’d never been so sure of anything.

Even when he stared at me with those bloodshot eyes and told me he hated me, I thought he was just being dramatic.

Honestly, he looked so exhausted and serious, but I just chalked it up to him playing hard to get. That’s just how these stories go, right? The lead always acts cold at first. I mean, what’s a little angst between future soulmates?

It wasn’t until the real heroine showed up that I realized he actually did hate me.

The truth landed like a punch to the gut. My ears rang. I felt like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner—except this time, the stakes were my whole world. My stomach twisted up, and suddenly, all the little signs I’d ignored made perfect sense.

Heartbroken, I stuffed my things into a duffel bag, ready to bolt.

I barely knew what I was shoving into the bag. My hands shook so badly I dropped my phone twice. The apartment felt smaller than ever, the air heavy with all the words I’d never said. I thought maybe if I left fast enough, I could outrun the ache in my chest.

The next second, the male lead had me pinned against the wall:

“Where do you think you’re going? Already bored with me, sweetheart?”

His voice was low, rough—like gravel scraping over asphalt. The hallway light flickered above us, casting shadows across his jaw. My heart thudded in my chest, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.

The bed in our tiny apartment wasn’t big. It was so cramped that every night I had the perfect excuse to press right up against Carter Hayes every night.

The mattress was lumpy, the frame barely holding together, but at night it felt like our own little island. The sheets always smelled faintly of his cologne and laundry soap. Sometimes, I’d pretend the small space was the universe’s way of pushing us together.

Honestly, I kind of loved how the tiny bed meant I could snuggle into his arms and feel every muscle.

Every time I curled up against him, I’d bite back a smile. Even if he grumbled, his arm always found its way around my waist. I’d trace the lines of his biceps with my fingertips, counting heartbeats until I drifted off.

But, of course, there was a catch.

No matter how gently we moved, that bed had a mind of its own. It squeaked like a rusty swing set at the slightest shift. Sometimes, I worried the neighbors could hear every creak and groan—like we were starring in our own soap opera, sound effects included.

That old wooden bed would creak if you so much as breathed.

Seriously, even just rolling over for the cool side of the pillow could set off a chorus of squeaks. It was both a curse and a weird comfort—like the universe reminding me I wasn’t dreaming.

Just like now. Figures.

Tears blurred my eyes as Carter held me tight.

He held me so tight, like he was afraid I’d vanish. His grip was firm, almost desperate. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. My vision swam, and I pressed my face into his shoulder, trying to steady my breathing. For a moment, it felt like the world shrank to just the two of us and the creaking of that old bed.

All I could hear was the creaking of the bed and his heavy breathing.

The sound filled the room—steady, raw, almost primal. Each inhale and exhale was a reminder that he was real, that I was real, that this wasn’t some fever dream.

Sweat dampened his hair, and his dark eyes were locked on me.

His gaze was intense—almost too much to bear. Strands of hair clung to his forehead, and I could see the tension in his jaw. He looked at me like he was searching for something—a reason to let go. Or maybe, a reason to hold on even tighter.

With every slight movement, drops of sweat would slip from his hair onto my neck, only to be gently kissed away.

The first time his lips brushed my skin, I shivered. He was surprisingly gentle, his breath warm against my neck. I closed my eyes, letting myself get lost in the softness of the moment, if only for a second.

It was such a soft gesture.

For all his roughness, there was something almost heartbreakingly soft in the way he touched me. Like he was trying to say sorry for all the things he couldn’t put into words.

But right now, I was so exhausted I wanted to scream.

My whole body ached. I was running on empty, every nerve frayed. If I had any energy left, I might’ve laughed at how romance novels never mentioned this part—the bone-deep weariness that followed the passion.

Didn’t the book say the male lead was supposed to be gentle? So why was Carter Hayes so intense?

I’d read those chapters over and over, picturing a soft-spoken guy who’d brush my hair and whisper sweet nothings. Instead, I got Carter—intense, stubborn, and as subtle as a sledgehammer. It would’ve been funny, honestly, if I wasn’t so tired.

I’ve been living in this fan-favorite romance novel for two years now.

Two years of trying to play the part, two years of hoping I’d land the happy ending. Sometimes, I wondered if I’d gone off script so badly the universe forgot who was supposed to win.

The good news: my name matches the heroine’s.

Or so I thought. I’d clung to that fact like a lifeline, convinced it meant something. It was the thread I refused to let go of, even as everything else unraveled.

According to the rules of body-swap stories—or whatever you call this—I had to be the lead!

I mean, isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? You wake up in a book, you get the perks. At least, that’s what all the stories said. I’d built my whole plan around that logic.

In the novel, the male lead started with nothing, built a business empire, and fell in love with the heroine at first sight.

It was a classic rags-to-riches love story—you know, the kind you binge-read at 2 a.m. when you can’t sleep. I’d memorized the plot points, convinced I could nudge them in my favor.

When I arrived, the leads hadn’t met yet. At that point, Carter Hayes was just a broke kid in a small town.

He was working odd jobs, barely scraping by. The apartment was tiny, the paint peeling in the bathroom—the kind that flakes off if you so much as look at it—but it was ours—or at least, it felt like it could be.

But I didn’t want to wait around.

Patience was never my strong suit. I figured, why not get a jump on fate? If the universe was handing out roles, I was going to grab mine with both hands.

Since it was supposed to be love at first sight, I just showed up at Carter’s place and started chasing him like crazy.

I was relentless. I brought him coffee, left sticky notes on his door, and made up excuses to see him. I threw myself into the role, determined to make the story bend to my will.

Leaning into my supposed main-character status, I bossed Carter around, acted spoiled, and made ridiculous demands.

I’d pout until he gave in, demand breakfast in bed, and insist on walks in the rain just because it sounded romantic. Sometimes, I could tell he thought I was nuts, but I didn’t care. I was living my dream—or so I thought.

Even when I shoved him onto the bed and he glared at me, red-eyed, saying he hated me, I just assumed he was being playful.

I’d laugh it off, teasing him about his terrible acting skills. In my mind, it was all part of the game. I never stopped to wonder if maybe he really meant it.

And now, here I am—two years later, still living with him.

Two years of shared meals, late-night arguments, and silent mornings. The days blurred together, equal parts sweet and bitter. Sometimes, I wondered if I was still the heroine or just a footnote in someone else’s story.

While my mind wandered, suddenly a sharp pain shot through my lips.

I jerked back, startled, my thoughts scattering. My lips throbbed, and I realized Carter was watching me, his brow furrowed.

Carter shot me an annoyed look:

“What are you thinking about?”

His tone was sharp, impatient. He always hated when I drifted off mid-conversation. I tried to play it cool, but I could feel the blush creeping up my cheeks.

Before I could answer, he seemed to realize something, his voice turning cold and sarcastic:

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still thinking about that glass of milk earlier? No wonder it was so hot—you slipped something in it again, didn’t you?”

He shot me a look that was half accusation, half disbelief. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, even as my heart skipped a beat.

“Savannah, it’s been two years. Why do you still pull these stunts?”

There was a tiredness in his voice, like he was out of patience, but just couldn’t let go. I bit my lip, searching for the right words, but nothing came.

I had no comeback. After all, when I first landed here, he didn’t fall in love at first sight—he was ice cold.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. All those romance tropes I’d counted on had let me down. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to admit how much it stung.

In the end, it was only by pestering him and sneaking things into his drinks that I finally got together with him.

I’d tried everything—cute notes, surprise gifts, and yes, the occasional spiked drink (nothing dangerous, just enough to get him to loosen up). Looking back, I wondered if maybe I’d crossed a line.

But there was no point dwelling on that now. Feeling powerless, I just kicked his calf. “How much longer? I’m wiped.”

My foot connected with his leg, and he grunted in surprise. I tried to make my voice sound light, but exhaustion leaked through. All I wanted was a break, just a moment to catch my breath.

I don’t know how much time passed. In a daze, he cleaned me up and gently put me back in bed.

His hands were surprisingly gentle as he tucked the sheets around me. I watched him through half-closed eyes, feeling a weird mix of gratitude and embarrassment.

Even as I yawned, I felt like I had to explain, “I didn’t put anything in the milk.”

My voice was soft, barely above a whisper. I didn’t want to fight anymore—I just wanted him to believe me, just this once.

Carter paused, raised his eyebrows, and asked, “Then why did I feel so hot?”

He sounded genuinely curious, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. I racked my brain for an answer that wouldn’t make me sound guilty.

I thought for a couple seconds. “Um, because it was hot milk.”

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I cringed, waiting for him to call me out on my terrible excuse.

Carter: “Huh?”

He looked genuinely confused, and I couldn’t help but snort. The tension broke, just a little.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, exposing him without mercy:

“If you like me in camisole nightgowns, just say so.”