Sympathy for the villainess
Chapter 1 – Seraphina Blackthorn POV
The office was never this quiet during the day.
Keyboards usually clattered like restless insects, phones rang without mercy, and voices overlapped in a constant hum of urgency. But now, long after closing hours, the space felt hollow—like a building holding its breath. Only one lamp remained on, perched at the corner of my desk, casting a small island of light over scattered paperwork and the open pages of my book.
The Chosen One.
I was nearly at the end.
I hadn’t noticed the time slipping away. That happened a lot when I read. Hours dissolved into paragraphs, minutes vanished between sentences. Reality blurred at the edges, replaced by kingdoms and magic and destinies far grander than my own.
“Seraphina.”
I startled slightly when someone tapped my shoulder.
I looked up to find Eliana standing beside my desk, her coat already draped over her arm, keys dangling from her fingers. Her expression was soft—almost apologetic—as if she already knew how this conversation would end.
“It’s closing time,” she said gently. “There’s a celebration tonight. For all the workers.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall for the first time.
9:47 p.m.
I blinked, surprised, then looked back down at my book. “I’m not interested.”
Eliana sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. Her brows knit together, disbelief flickering across her face like it always did—like she couldn’t quite wrap her head around why I kept refusing. Why I always chose solitude over people.
“Come on, Seraphina,” she said. “Just this once. You can’t spend all your time reading novels and never associating with anyone.”
I closed the book slowly, carefully sliding my finger between the pages to mark my place. I hated creased pages. They felt like scars—unnecessary damage.
“I’ve told you this a million times,” I said, keeping my voice level. Calm. Controlled. “I’m not interested. And I don’t want to keep repeating myself. Please don’t ask me again.”
There it was.
The line I always drew.
She stared at me for a long moment, searching my face as if hoping to find hesitation, guilt, or maybe loneliness sharp enough to exploit. When she didn’t, her mouth tightened.
“Fine,” she snapped. “You can die alone then.”
She turned sharply and walked away, heels clicking against the floor in quick, angry bursts. The sound echoed through the empty office long after she was gone.
I watched her retreating figure disappear around the corner, my expression unmoved.
Die alone.
The words didn’t sting the way she probably hoped they would.
I didn’t wish to die—not now, not when life was finally starting to feel… tolerable. But if living meant opening myself up to people who would eventually disappoint me, abandon me, or betray me, then maybe being alone wasn’t the worst fate.
I’d learned early that the only person who truly had my back was myself.
If that meant walking through life alone, then so be it.
I trusted myself far more than I ever could another human.
I turned my attention back to the office around me. Rows of empty desks stretched into the shadows, abandoned coffee mugs and forgotten sticky notes evidence of lives briefly paused. Tomorrow, everyone would come back. They always did. Laughing. Complaining. Gossiping.
I wouldn’t join them.
Life hadn’t been kind to me, but it was improving—slowly, painfully, inch by inch. I could afford three meals a day now. That alone felt like a victory. I even had my own apartment, though calling it that was generous. It was a basement unit with cracked walls that smelled faintly of rot and pipes that groaned like they were alive at night.
The neighborhood wasn’t safe. Streetlights flickered more than they worked, and sirens were common background noise. But honestly?
Who cared.
I’d been through worse.
When you’re abandoned by your parents and orphaned at five, you learn early that the world doesn’t pause for grief. It doesn’t soften for children who don’t understand why the people who were supposed to love them simply… left.
You adapt or you break.
I adapted.
You learn to appreciate survival. Stability. Small victories—like knowing where your next meal will come from, or having a door that locks, even if you have to shove it open sometimes.
Books were how I survived.
How I escaped.
They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t leave. They didn’t judge. Between their pages, I could be anyone—powerful, admired, chosen.
And The Chosen One…
That story had its hooks in me from the first chapter.
The author was brilliant. Cruel, maybe—but brilliant. The pacing, the world-building, the way magic felt earned instead of gifted. I was nearly finished now, fingers itching to turn the last few pages even though a part of me didn’t want it to end.
I related far too deeply to the heroine.
She came from nothing. No power. No protection. Thrown into an elite academy meant for the magically gifted, surrounded by wealth and privilege she’d never known. And yet, against all odds, she awakened hidden power and rose.
Admired. Protected. Chosen.
Sometimes I wished I could be her.
That I could wake up one day and find myself at the top instead of clawing my way upward inch by inch, bleeding quietly where no one could see.
I huffed out a small laugh under my breath. “Me? At the top? Yeah… keep dreaming.”
I turned the page.
Only a few chapters remained.
Minutes passed unnoticed as I read, my eyes flying over the words, heart sinking the closer I got to the end. Then I reached it.
The execution.
The chapter I’d been dreading.
I slowed, reading each line carefully this time.
The villainess stood accused of attempted murder. Evidence circumstantial. Witnesses eager. Judgment swift. No mercy offered.
I frowned.
Yes, she had been cruel. Yes, she had bullied the heroine, lashed out in jealousy, clung desperately to affection that was slipping from her grasp. But the punishment felt excessive—almost personal.
Public humiliation. Betrayal by those she once called friends. Execution.
There were reasons for what she became.
Pain didn’t excuse her actions, but it explained them. It shaped them. I couldn’t help wondering if the author had something against her—if the story demanded a monster, and she’d simply been convenient.
I lingered on the final description of her death longer than necessary.
Then I closed the book.
Silence settled around me again, heavier this time.
I glanced up, finally noticing how dark the office had grown. The windows reflected only my own tired face, pale under fluorescent light. I was alone.
Completely.
I should have gone home. Taken a shower. Slept. Prepared myself for another day of routine and restraint.
But instead, I sat there a moment longer, staring at the book resting on my desk.
The story was over.
Yet something about it lingered—an uncomfortable weight in my chest, like unfinished business. Like a door left slightly ajar.
And though I couldn’t quite explain why, I felt an odd, unsettling sympathy for the villainess.
It felt like looking at a reflection I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
