I'm the Villainess and I'll Live Like One

“Love... it is a luxury for me.

The only luxury I cannot afford in this world.

Because whenever I’ve loved someone... they just become ghosts.

Ghosts of the past

Faces that vanish like mist on glass.

I know. I sound like a melancholic poet, don’t I?”

A low chuckle escapes her lips.

“But then again... my life is no less than a soap opera.”

~ ~ ~

(KN News, Seoul, Korea – 10:42 PM)

[Broadcast Anchor Voice]

“A massive hit at the box office this week—'The Final Ace' drama series starring Kang Ji-un, Shin Eun-ji, and Yoo Mi-ra raked in an impressive ₩39 billion in just 5 days.

Fans are calling Mi-ra’s portrayal of the cold, calculating antagonist ‘her best villainess yet.’

Social media has dubbed her once more... The Queen of Spades.”

The room is dim, lit by the flashing lights of a muted city and brightness of TV screen.

The TV screen still glows from the news segment. Her name. Her face. Her “success.”

She watches it in silence.

Click.

She turned it off.

The apartment fell quiet.

She exhaled.

Nowadays... people love realism more than righteousness.

They don’t want saints—they want someone who reflects them.

Villains are relatable.

She leans back against the couch.

Villains aren’t born evil.

They’re shaped. Scarred. Forged in the fire of bad timing and worse people.

You call them monsters—but most of them are just... tired.

A bitter laugh escapes her lips.

And if someone’s unhinged without reason?

They need therapy.

Her gaze drifts to the Best Supporting Actress trophy still sitting untouched.

But no one writes that story.

They just want the fall. The blood and betrayal.

Always so poetic.

She stands and walks toward the rain-slicked window.

Thunder rumbles outside but its muted inside her soundproof penthouse.

They love the villainess until she asks for something they think she doesn’t deserve to get.

She sighed and turned away from the window, the city still weeping behind her.

Just as she reached for the remote, her phone chimed—sharp and sudden in the silence.

She glanced at the screen.

Mrs. Song.

It had been days since she last heard from her manager.

A part of her had honestly assumed Mrs. Song had finally escaped her brutal schedule and gone off-grid.

Mrs. Song [text]:

“How are you feeling? I hope you’re ready to review the files and new gigs I just sent you. The one from YOU Entertainment is particularly appealing. Check that one first.”

Mi-ra stared at the screen.

For a moment, she considered ignoring it.

But habit won over.

She tapped a quick “OK” and tossed the phone onto the couch before lowering herself into its familiar, worn cushions.

“So... he decided to talk directly to my manager.”

Her lips curved in the faintest smirk.

YOU Entertainment.

The name alone stirred a memory.

A few weeks ago — Eclipse Venue Hall, Seoul.

It was one of those nights—the kind designed to dazzle and pretend.

An exclusive industry dinner hosted under the pretense of celebration but scented thick with ambition.

Brand owners, entertainment moguls, rising stars—circling each other in designer dresses, sniffing out opportunity like wolves in silk.

Mi-ra hadn’t planned to attend.

But boredom, a flicker of curiosity, and Mrs. Song’s relentless persuasion won out.

Now, she stood in a quieter corner of the venue, away from the crowd’s artificial laughter.

A glass of deep red wine balanced in her gloved hand. Her black fit-and-flare gown shimmered under the warm, golden lights, the fabric catching like moonlight on water.

That's when she saw him.

Lee Taesung.

The new CEO of YOU Entertainment.

Tall, lean, immaculately dressed in a midnight suit that seemed tailored to silence.

He stood speaking with someone—smiling, nodding and yet the feigned interest in his posture wasn’t lost on her.

He was acting, just like the rest of them.

Their eyes met across the room.

His hazel gaze didn’t flicker.

Just locked with hers, measured and assessing.

It lasted a moment.

A breath.

Maybe two.

But it was enough.

He was studying her.

Not as a fan. Not as a suitor. But like a man measuring a blade before deciding where to cut.

Back then, she had brushed it off.

Just another CEO with ambition and a pitch in his pocket.

But now—

She leaned back into her couch in the present, arm draped loosely over the edge, watching the storm smear the window with rain.

Her phone screen still glowed beside her with the name of the new project.

Virtuous.

“So... this is the kind of story you think I belong in, Mr. Lee?”

“Let’s see what kind of script you’ve cooked up for your villainess this time.”

She took the device in her hand and scrolled down to the attached file.

PROJECT: VIRTUOUS

Genre: Historical Fantasy

Proposed Role: Estelle Lancaster

Role Type: Ambiguous Villainess

The pitch was brief, but pointed:

“A tragic noblewoman entangled in court politics, burdened by pride, and scorched by unrequited loyalty. She will die. But she will be remembered.”

There was a sample scene included—Scene 39.

Mi-ra opened it, not expecting much.

A familiar kind of silence filled her apartment, the one that always settled before she tore someone’s soul apart on screen.

Estelle kneels before the throne. Her gown is torn, stained with dried blood. Torches burn low behind the guards. The Crown Prince stands before her, unreadable.

ESTELLE

(calmly)

You think this ends with my head on the block?

You think history will remember you as a savior?

(She laughs softly. A single tear falls, unnoticed.)

They’ll forget your mercy.

But they’ll remember me.

They always remember the villainess.

She’s the only one real enough to haunt them.

(beat)

Even if I burn for you...

You’ll never see me as anything but the shadow behind your crown.

Mi-ra stared at the words.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer than necessary.

“Even if I burn for you...”

Thunder rumbled outside, low and rolling.

She leaned back on the couch, eyes fixed on the screen, but seeing something else.

“You’ll never see me as anything but the shadow behind your crown.”

She turned off the screen.

She closed the screen and looked up at the ceiling.

For some reason, her chest felt heavy—fatigued in a way that had nothing to do with her body.

The words still echoed in her head:

You’ll never see me as anything but the shadow behind your crown.

It was a feeling she hadn’t had in a long, long time. The kind that made her stomach twist—not from fear, but from recognition.

Without thinking twice, she picked up her phone and typed a message to Mrs. Song:

Mi-ra: Not interested. Pass on Virtuous.

She didn’t wait for a reply.

Tossing the phone onto the nearby armchair, she returned to the couch by the window and let her body sink into the cushions. The sky outside was a swirl of charcoal grey, and rain traced ghostly fingers down the glass.

Still... the feeling didn’t leave her.

That weird pressure, like something had been stirred inside her and left the lid half open.

And now—her heart was racing.

She sat up, hand pressed against her chest.

What the hell? Is this a panic attack?

She hadn’t had one in years.

Her eyes flicked toward her phone—just out of reach.

“Breathe... In, out... It’s nothing. Just... residual stress,” she muttered to herself.

She leaned back, eyes fluttering shut.

Behind her lids, the world flashed a stark, blinding white—

She dismissed it as thunder.

Her heart slowly began to calm. Breath by breath, she let herself go still.

After some time...

She heard faint rustling.

Fabric shifting. Footsteps. Murmuring.

What the hell? I live alone.

Her eyes snapped open.

Sunlight filtered through delicate drapes embroidered in gold. The scent of rosewood and lavender hung faintly in the air. The ceiling above her wasn’t the modern, flat white of her Seoul apartment, it was vaulted and painted with constellations.

She bolted upright.

Standing at the foot of her bed was a young woman in a deep navy uniform, her posture graceful, her face unnervingly familiar.

“Good morning, My Lady. You are up early today...”

Mi-ra stared. Her mouth went dry. That face—

Mrs. Song?!

“Mrs. Song!?”

The maid blinked, confused. “Pardon, My Lady?”

“Pardon my ass, where the hell am I?”

The maid gasped, her posture stiffening in shock. “M-My Lady!”

The woman took a step back, visibly startled by Mi-ra’s vulgarity, and even more so by the question.

“D-Did you mean to be somewhere else? You are in the Eastern Wing of Lancaster Estate, in the Kingdom of Sian, and—”

But Mi-ra didn’t hear the rest. Her brain short-circuited halfway through the word kingdom.

No... no. This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. It’s impossible—

She looked down at her hands. Paler. Slimmer. The nightgown she wore wasn’t hers—it was made of fine silk, laced at the collar with embroidery that screamed ‘old money aristocrat.’

“Pinch me,” she whispered.

The maid hesitated. “M-My Lady?”

“I said pinch me!”

Looking absolutely horrified, the maid stepped forward and gently pinched her wrist.

Mi-ra winced. “Ow!”

She touched her own face. Then her neck. Then the luxurious sheets beneath her.

She stared at the maid again. “This isn’t a dream, is it?”

The maid looked like she wanted to cry. “S-Should I call the physician?”

Mi-ra flopped back against the pillows, eyes wide at the ornate ceiling.

Looks like I’m the one who needs therapy now...

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