The Villain’s Rewrite

A horrendous crash.

Glass shatters; razor slivers slicinginto my skin. The world turns upside down as the vehicle spins out of control.

My head snaps violently into the side panel, my vision blurs, and my seatbelt digs into my torso.

The airbags deploy with a violent thud, adding bruises to already burning arms and chest. Then… silence.

Darkness but beneath it, something pulls. Not gravity. Not pain. Something older. Something that saw me fall and whispered, “Yes. Her.”

My heart doesn’t beat the same. My body isn’t mine. Someone or something, has made me hers.

A dull, pounding ache radiates through my skull. I groan softly, shifting in place. No… not in my head. It’s…knocking. Knocking?

“My lady…?” That voice. Who…?

My limbs feel like lead, but I force my eyelids open. The room is dim, thank God, and unfamiliar. My mind, still wrapped in the haze of the crash, tries to process what I see.

Where are the beeping machines? The fluorescent lights? I look to my left and reach out, instinctively searching for a lamp—a candle?

The door creaks open. A young woman enters, holding a brass candlestick. Her silhouette glows warm in the flickering light. “My lady,” she says gently. “The dowager Duchess of Marlborough has arrived.”

What? I blink at her, lips parting.“W—what did you say?”

“My lady?” she repeats, approaching.“You must dress. Her Grace is waiting. The Duchess.”

My heart kicks violently in my chest.“Where… am I?”

She frowns, concern darkening her softfeatures. “You’re at Dylesford, the Penrose country estate. Are you feeling yourself?”

Dylesford? No. This is wrong.

I sit up slowly, ignoring the ache in my ribs. Through the tall windows I glimpse rolling hills, the soft gold of morning light spilling across the countryside. The woman with dark blond hair, golden brown eyes and freckles, moves with familiarity, as if she knows me. She lays out a black gown, a black wool coat and a bonnet.

I stare at the clothing. It’s not old, it’s historical. Regency era, if I had to guess. My mind scrambles for logic, for a way to explain what I’m seeing.

I glance down. A nightgown. White, buttoned at the collar. My hands are smaller. My skin paler.

No! No, no, no. This cant be happening! What the heck am I wearing? Is this seriously a nightgown?

With My heart hammering against my ribs, I try to make sense of my body, the room, and strange un-modern clothes. Glancing again at the gown the maid laid out: all black. Mourning attire. Not a single zipper or elastic band in sight.

Think Kristen…Think. I need to get information—now. “S—Pardon what… what day is it?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

She pauses, her brows knitting delicately. “Why, it’s Tuesday, the 3rd of January, my lady.”

That doesn’t help. I clear my throat. “And… the year?”

“Eighteen-oh-nine,”she replies, slowly, as if worried I’ve gone mad. Maybe I have…because what I just heard freezes me in place. 1809.

She comes toward me before I can respond and starts to help me out of my nightgown. I stop her with a raised arm. “I can do it myself, thank you.”

She bows slightly. “As you wish, my lady.”

What in God’s name is going on? I was in a car accident—this must be some hallucination. A coma dream. Yet everythingfeels too real. My knees nearly give out.

“And today… is the funeral?”

“Yes, my lady. Your father’s.”

I feel sick. I was just listening to an audiobook. A Regency romance. “The Cold Duke”.

Kristen. The antagonist has the same name as I do. I reach the vanity, expecting my own reflection.

But I see her. Just as the story described her. Slender face. Hazel eyes—Pale skin. Brown hair. Lips like soft rose petals.

This isn’t me. Or… it is now. I’m not in a hospital. Not in a dream. I’m either somewhere in the past or worse, I’m inside the story. Inside The Cold Duke.

When I finally gather the courage, I ask the maid—Lily, apparently—to escort me downstairs. The dowager duchess waits, seated before the open French doors, sipping tea in the soft breeze.

She doesn’t rise as I enter, just motions for me to sit. She is younger than I tought, regal with sharp silver eyes. Her complexion of a patron in her late fifties.

“You’ve grown,” she says simply, placing her teacup down. “Sit, Kristen. We’ve much to speak of.”

She just confirmed that I really am the antagonist.

Her name echoes in my head like a spell: Kristen Arabella Penelope Ashbourne. My name now. My fate. My death sentence.

I remember how it ends. I remember who kills me; and how much I wanted him to love me instead.

I sit as my hands clasped tightly in my lap. She studies me. “You may not remember me. You were but a babe when last we met. I am the dowager Duchess of Marlborough. Your mother’s close friend and now, your guardian.” I barely nod, too stunned to speak.

“As the only daughter of Viscount Penrose, you have had a cruel life. Your father was a brute, a wastrel. However, before his death, he wrote to me. From this day forward you shall come live under my care.”

“Pardon… Your Grace?” I manage.

“You’ll be coming to London. You will enter society as planned and marry well.” I stare, horrified, but mute. It’s happening. Everything in the storyline is happening!

She continues, recounting tales of both my mother, my paternal grandmother, their friendship with the now dowager duchess Marlborough, their shared dreams of daughters. Of old summers, of boys who would become dukes and viscounts.

Her voice blends with memories from the audiobook—the same names, the same houses. The same… story. This isn’t adream. I’ve woken inside a novel.

I am Kristen. Lady Kristen Arabella Penelope Ashbourne.

Lady Ashbourne.

The villain.

“It was ever our hope to unite our families through marriage, yet alas, no daughter was ever born to either house-until you,” the dowager says looking straight at me with piercing metallic eyes.

“I have been informed that you are but eighteen. I had assumed some female relation would have undertaken the propriety of your presentation to society. Yet, as you are to be thrust unceremoniously upon my grandson, it would seem such conventions have been altogether overlooked.”

“Almost nineteen.”I say without thought. I was 33 years old last time I was awake. I should be considered an old maid, a spinster. Yet, here I am woken as an eighteen-year-old, daughter of a viscount who just died, in Britains regency era.