“Splash—”
Imelda Hughes jerked up from the bathtub, water flying everywhere.
The bathroom was all steamy, and the tub had filled right up to the edge. The water was tinged red, that iron-like smell hitting her hard in the face.
Her breathing was all over the place, lungs burning from the lack of air. She blinked, a flicker of fear in her eyes.
Was this... a nightmare?
She shut her eyes tight, but then that sharp pain on her wrist dragged her right back.
Slowly, she looked down. There was a long, thin cut on her wrist, blood still seeping out.
She sucked in a quick breath and grabbed the towel nearby, wrapping it clumsily around the wound. Then she stood up, her whole body shivering as she stepped out of what looked like a crime scene.
"Where... am I?" Her voice shook. No one to answer.
The mirror in front of her reflected a slim silhouette. Imelda lifted her head, locking eyes with her own reflection.
Her skin was pale, like porcelain—pretty, but so fragile like you could break her with a touch. Her long black hair clung to her curves, her lips were drained of color, and her eyes looked like they’d absorbed a whole sea. That tiny mole at the tip of her nose stood out, like someone dropped ink on white rice paper.
Her head throbbed as she frowned.
Last night, she’d just wrapped up the Saville Film Festival, grabbed her trophy, and headed back to the apartment to rest. That’s when she noticed she suddenly topped the trending searches.
Being trending wasn’t weird—Imelda, after all, had been a top-tier star, shifting from idol to award-winning actress in just two years.
What was weird was that the topic had nothing to do with her winning.
#Imelda Hughes “The World That Belongs to You”#
It wasn’t a drama she starred in. Not a movie either.
Curious, she clicked in to see what the fuss was about.
What welcomed her was a flood of sarcasm and hate.
Frowning, she leaned in to read the screen—and nearly choked. Leading the hate campaign was, shocker, her biggest stan.
Apparently, “The World That Belongs to You” was a fanfic based on her.
Her fans had already bombed the comment section.
["Seriously? The author is just a hater pretending to be a fan. Who writes trash like this?"]
["Yo, have you SEEN this mess? The so-called ‘heroine’ has nothing in common with Imelda besides being pretty and sharing a name. Come on. Half the single guys in showbiz are crushing on her. She’d never be some desperate simp. Not in this lifetime, not in the next."]
["Guys, calm down. The rival fandom’s gonna say we’re milking the Mary Sue angle again."]
["Wait but didn’t this author write a prequel? That one was actually decent. The heroine was smart and cool. What happened? Mood swing?"]
Imelda narrowed her eyes. That was enough to get her to click.
Just how bad could a story be to make the trending list for all the wrong reasons?
So, she stayed up all night bingeing it.
When she finally finished, she let out a breath, clicked into the author’s profile, glanced at the ID—“Qiqi.”
Nice. You’re my first ever block.
If anyone asked her for a review, she’d sum it up in one sentence: “Someone please rescue these lovesick brainless heroines. Immediately.”
Expression blank, she tossed her phone aside.
It was already 4 AM. Her head throbbed from the ending she’d just read—it pissed her off that much. She had no idea when she finally dozed off.
All she knew was, when she woke up, this was where she landed.
She paused, trying to recall the ending of that godawful story she read the night before."Marcus Sinclair and Ruth Walker just made their relationship public. The whole internet's full of best wishes for them and hate for Imelda Hughes. But honestly? Imelda didn't care anymore. She changed into a plain white dress, stepped into the warm bathtub, and let the heat surround her as she slowly closed her eyes."
Imelda glanced down—the white dress was now soaked in pale pink, tainted by diluted blood. Her face went completely blank for a second.
Then a soft sigh broke the silence in the bathroom.
"Shit."
Imelda had just started wrapping her head around the fact that she’d somehow ended up inside a freaking novel—and not just any novel, but one where the main character was basically a disaster with zero self-preservation, all for some scumbag guy.
They say celebs pay for their fans’ behavior. Did her fans roast the author too hard and she got pulled into the story as punishment?
She gave her foggy brain a few knocks, trying to reboot.
She remembered cursing the book a million times while reading it. The way the author wrote her? Dumb as a rock.
In the story, Imelda was the daughter of SY Group’s CEO, filthy rich and drop-dead gorgeous—even in an industry full of stunners, she stood out. And yet, she ended up hopelessly chasing after a broke, manipulative liar.
In the name of love, she cut off her family and friends, became the joke of the nation, and died all alone on her 20th birthday in her apartment.
That guy? Oh, he came out clean, made a fortune, and got engaged to some scheming girl.
Not one soul felt sorry for Imelda. None of the trolls thought they’d crossed a line. The only ones who truly felt the pain were her heartbroken parents and older brother who had once cut ties with her in frustration.
Reading the story had made her rage so hard it felt like literal chest pain.
…
Imelda stepped out of the bathroom and looked around, letting out a long sigh. This was real. She’d actually become the character inside the book.
Looking at the tiny apartment around her, she suddenly felt a stab of homesickness. She missed her villa in Haishi so bad—especially that penthouse with the rooftop pool downtown.
She should’ve never clicked that dumb trending post.
Now look at her—went to bed as a top celeb, woke up as an internet trainwreck.
Spacing out for a moment, she wandered around the place, changed her clothes, and eventually found the first aid kit after rummaging for a while. Clumsily, she patched up the cut on her wrist and tied the bandage with a cute little bow.
She stared at the bow—her lips twitched into a smile that didn’t stick.
Well, if she had to start all over in the industry, at least she was five years younger now. Silver lining?
She almost laughed at her own attempt to stay positive.
The original Imelda in the book? Total opposite of real-life her. No flashy background whatsoever.
Her dad died when she was super young—she didn’t even remember his face except for a few photos. At sixteen, her mom got killed in a car crash, and just like that, Imelda was all alone.
She worked part-time to pay for school, and with pure talent and grit, somehow got into Huada's dance program.
It was a brutal road. You needed both skill and serious money to make it in dance, and even though her mom had left her a small inheritance, Imelda didn’t plan to burn through it idly.
Not long after getting into Huada, a talent scout discovered her.
She decided on the spot to join the entertainment world—juggling school and jobs—not for fame, just for cash.
…
She found her phone tossed on the floor and managed to unlock it with face recognition.
Right away, a flood of messages poured in—mostly from the manager and the three girls in her group.
Yep, group. She's now a member of Sunset, a girl group under Yile Group.
And thanks to all the dirt on her name, her three teammates looked like saints standing next to her.