The next morning, I was discharged with the kind of efficiency only rich people ever experienced. No paperwork shoved at me. No chaotic waiting room. No doctor hurrying between five patients at once. Just a polite nurse, a quiet elevator, and a sleek black car waiting outside like something out of a luxury commercial.
I stepped into the sunlight and froze.
The car wasn't just sleek.
It wasn't just expensive.
It was one of those cars.
The kind I'd only seen in celebrity scandal photos or articles titled "10 Vehicles You'll Never Afford, Peasant."
A chauffeur in a polished suit opened the back door with a practiced bow.
"Miss Violet," he said. "Your parents are expecting you at home."
I nodded, trying to act like I wasn't internally screaming. "Of course."
I slid in.
The leather seats hugged me. Literally hugged me. My back felt supported in areas I didn't know could be supported. The interior smelled faintly like cedar and new money.
For a moment, I genuinely considered crying again.
The engine started with a purr softer than my old cat—may he rest in peace, his memory forever tied to claw marks on my couch. The city blurred past as we drove, tall buildings melting into smaller ones, then into the gated hills of true wealth.
When the car turned onto a long, winding private road lined with trimmed hedges taller than me, I realized we were close.
My stomach tightened.
The Hawthorne estate appeared at the top of the incline like a scene from a prestige drama series: sprawling, symmetrical, imposing. The kind of house that screamed "old money and emotional repression live here."
Columns.
Fountains.
A garden so perfectly manicured it probably had a personal therapist.
The car eased to a stop at the front steps.
Home.
I swallowed hard.
If home was a place where anxiety and wealth intermingled to form a quiet pressure on your lungs, then yes—this was home.
The chauffeur opened my door. "Welcome back, Miss Violet."
"Thanks," I mumbled, stepping out.
The air smelled like jasmine and something expensive I couldn't name. The front doors swung open before I reached them.
A line of staff waited inside—housekeepers, butlers, a few guards—bowing slightly as I walked past.
I wanted to wave awkwardly and tell them I had no idea what to do with this level of formality, but I remembered the original Violet was… less approachable. More stoic. More bratty.
So instead, I nodded once and kept walking like I had somewhere important to be.
Which I didn't.
But confidence looked better than confusion.
I barely had time to take in the marble floors and the sweeping staircase before I heard footsteps approaching quickly.
Then he appeared.
Mack Hawthorne.
My new older brother.
The Male Lead.
He looked exactly as the book described him—tall, handsome, sharp-eyed, an aura of competence radiating off him like the protagonist he was. His black hair was slightly tousled as if he'd run a hand through it one too many times, and there was a faint tiredness in his eyes that screamed overworked CEO but still emotionally available to the love interest.
He stopped a few steps away from me, his expression tight but relieved.
"Violet," he said, voice low. "You're home."
Something in his tone made my chest ache for a second.
He really did care.
Despite the strict family, despite the cold upbringing, despite everything… Mack truly cared about Violet. Deeply. Quietly.
And in the novel, Violet had thrown that affection back at him with bratty attitude and emotional distance.
No wonder their relationship was awkward.
I cleared my throat. "Hey."
He blinked.
That… was probably not what he expected. I saw something flicker in his eyes—confusion? Surprise? Suspicion that someone had swapped his sister with a clone?
He looked me up and down, checking for injuries. "You should still be resting. You're sure you're alright?"
"Oh. Yeah. I'm good."
I lifted a thumb. "Very alive."
His brows knit. "That's… good."
Silence stretched between us like a rubber band pulled too tight.
In the original story, Violet would have rolled her eyes, said something like "Why are you fussing? I'm fine."
Not exactly affectionate.
But I wasn't the original Violet.
And Mack—despite being a little oblivious—had been disowned in the novel for the simple crime of falling in love. He deserved better.
"I heard you came to visit while I was unconscious," I said, trying to sound casual.
His eyes softened. "Of course. You're my sister."
Oh.
Oh no.
Emotion.
In my Omegaverse novel?
Impossible.
I quickly looked away before I started feeling things.
"Well," I said lightly, "I'm alive. So you can stop worrying. You look like you haven't slept since the industrial revolution."
To my shock, Mack actually huffed a laugh.
A small one, but still.
"I haven't slept much," he admitted. "I had the police, the fire department, and three different lawyers updating me. And our parents were… concerned."
Concerned was generous.
Terrified of a PR disaster was probably more accurate.
He studied my face again, quieter this time. "I'm glad you're okay."
I shifted on my feet, suddenly flustered. "Yeah. Me too."
He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more but didn't know how. The awkwardness between us was still thick—but not hostile. Just… unpracticed. Untested.
Finally, he cleared his throat and stepped back. "You should rest. Mother prepared your room and had the maids bring in new bedding."
"Oh." I blinked. "Fancy."
He gave a stiff nod—the sort meant to be affectionate but came off more like a CEO approving a quarterly report.
"If you need anything," he added, "tell me. Or call me. Don't… handle things alone."
Ah.
That hit a little too close.
I swallowed. "Okay. Thanks."
He nodded again, then turned and walked toward the main hallway, probably off to collapse on a sofa or return to CEO-ing before the building lights went out.
I watched him go, a strange warmth settling in my chest.
Maybe I wasn't the original Violet.
But maybe I could do better than she did.
A maid quietly approached me after Mack left.
"Miss Violet," she said with a bow. "Allow me to show you to your room."
I followed her up the sweeping staircase, down a long hallway lined with framed artwork, each piece probably worth more than my old annual salary.
Soft carpets. Ornate molding. High ceilings.
Everything felt like stepping into a museum where I wasn't sure whether to admire the art or apologize for breathing too loudly.
We stopped at a door near the end of the hall.
"This is your room, Miss."
She opened it.
My jaw dropped.
The room was enormous.
Not large—enormous.
Spacious enough to park two cars or host a small wedding.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling. The bed looked big enough to drown in. A plush sofa sat near a wall of tall windows overlooking a glowing garden.
There was even a vanity table with neatly arranged cosmetics and perfumes.
And the closet…
The closet was not a closet.
It was a dream.
A walk-in lined with clothes and shoes I had never imagined owning.
I stepped inside slowly, afraid touching anything might cause it to vanish like a mirage.
"Wow…" I breathed.
The maid smiled politely. "If you need help selecting outfits, please let us know."
Oh, I would.
I absolutely would.
Not because I couldn't do it alone, but because letting someone help made me feel even more ridiculously rich.
When the maid left, I stood in the center of my new bedroom and turned in a slow circle.
Silence settled around me.
Warm. Soft. Peaceful.
For the first time since waking up here, reality hit me fully.
I was home.
Not the cramped apartment with creaking pipes.
Not the office cubicle lit by fluorescent misery.
Not the endless grind of bills and expectations and exhaustion.
Here.
In a mansion.
In a wealthy household.
In a world where I had a family—complicated but present.
A brother who worried about me.
A future that wasn't carved out by necessity, but by possibility.
I sat on the edge of the bed and let myself sink into the mattress. It hugged me like a cloud.
"Okay…" I whispered to no one. "New life. New start. New goals."
I held up a finger.
"Goal one: stay alive."
Second finger.
"Goal two: avoid pheromones at all costs."
Third, higher.
"Goal three: make so much money that my grandchildren won't have to work."
Fourth finger.
"Goal four: stay out of the main story."
I nodded, satisfied.
These were good goals. Reasonable goals.
Achievable.*
*Maybe.
I lay back, staring at the ornate ceiling, and allowed a smile to creep onto my face.
Tomorrow, I'd start figuring out this world properly.
Tomorrow, I'd plan how to keep Mack and Logan's plot on track.
Tomorrow, I'd begin the delicate art of survival in an Omegaverse storyline.
But for now?
I curled into the softest bed I'd ever touched and whispered:
"…I'm never leaving this mattress."
Sleep claimed me almost instantly.
The world could wait.
I was rich now.
If you'd like, I can continue with Chapter 4, where Violet begins her life in the estate, goes to work as an executive, AND has her first coincidental encounter with Marian during a shopping trip—or you can request a different direction for the next chapter!
Below is Chapter 3, 1,500+ words, continuing immediately with Violet returning to the Hawthorne estate and meeting Mack. Violet is acting like a normal person with occasional sarcasm/disinterest—not fully characterized every moment.
CHAPTER 3 — The Hawthorne Estate, Unfortunately Still Real
The next morning, I was discharged with the kind of efficiency only rich people ever experienced. No paperwork shoved at me. No chaotic waiting room. No doctor hurrying between five patients at once. Just a polite nurse, a quiet elevator, and a sleek black car waiting outside like something out of a luxury commercial.
I stepped into the sunlight and froze.
The car wasn't just sleek.
It wasn't just expensive.
It was one of those cars.
The kind I'd only seen in celebrity scandal photos or articles titled "10 Vehicles You'll Never Afford, Peasant."
A chauffeur in a polished suit opened the back door with a practiced bow.
"Miss Violet," he said. "Your parents are expecting you at home."
I nodded, trying to act like I wasn't internally screaming. "Of course."
I slid in.
The leather seats hugged me. Literally hugged me. My back felt supported in areas I didn't know could be supported. The interior smelled faintly like cedar and new money.
For a moment, I genuinely considered crying again.
The engine started with a purr softer than my old cat—may he rest in peace, his memory forever tied to claw marks on my couch. The city blurred past as we drove, tall buildings melting into smaller ones, then into the gated hills of true wealth.
When the car turned onto a long, winding private road lined with trimmed hedges taller than me, I realized we were close.
My stomach tightened.
The Hawthorne estate appeared at the top of the incline like a scene from a prestige drama series: sprawling, symmetrical, imposing. The kind of house that screamed "old money and emotional repression live here."
Columns.
Fountains.
A garden so perfectly manicured it probably had a personal therapist.
The car eased to a stop at the front steps.
Home.
I swallowed hard.
If home was a place where anxiety and wealth intermingled to form a quiet pressure on your lungs, then yes—this was home.
The chauffeur opened my door. "Welcome back, Miss Violet."
"Thanks," I mumbled, stepping out.
The air smelled like jasmine and something expensive I couldn't name. The front doors swung open before I reached them.
A line of staff waited inside—housekeepers, butlers, a few guards—bowing slightly as I walked past.
I wanted to wave awkwardly and tell them I had no idea what to do with this level of formality, but I remembered the original Violet was… less approachable. More stoic. More bratty.
So instead, I nodded once and kept walking like I had somewhere important to be.
Which I didn't.
But confidence looked better than confusion.
I barely had time to take in the marble floors and the sweeping staircase before I heard footsteps approaching quickly.
Then he appeared.
Mack Hawthorne.
My new older brother.
The Male Lead™.
He looked exactly as the book described him—tall, handsome, sharp-eyed, an aura of competence radiating off him like the protagonist he was. His black hair was slightly tousled as if he'd run a hand through it one too many times, and there was a faint tiredness in his eyes that screamed overworked CEO but still emotionally available to the love interest.
He stopped a few steps away from me, his expression tight but relieved.
"Violet," he said, voice low. "You're home."
Something in his tone made my chest ache for a second.
He really did care.
Despite the strict family, despite the cold upbringing, despite everything… Mack truly cared about Violet. Deeply. Quietly.
And in the novel, Violet had thrown that affection back at him with bratty attitude and emotional distance.
No wonder their relationship was awkward.
I cleared my throat. "Hey."
He blinked.
That… was probably not what he expected. I saw something flicker in his eyes—confusion? Surprise? Suspicion that someone had swapped his sister with a clone?
He looked me up and down, checking for injuries. "You should still be resting. You're sure you're alright?"
"Oh. Yeah. I'm good."
I lifted a thumb. "Very alive."
His brows knit. "That's… good."
Silence stretched between us like a rubber band pulled too tight.
In the original story, Violet would have rolled her eyes, said something like "Why are you fussing? I'm fine."
Not exactly affectionate.
But I wasn't the original Violet.
And Mack—despite being a little oblivious—had been disowned in the novel for the simple crime of falling in love. He deserved better.
"I heard you came to visit while I was unconscious," I said, trying to sound casual.
His eyes softened. "Of course. You're my sister."
Oh.
Oh no.
Emotion.
In my Omegaverse novel?
Impossible.
I quickly looked away before I started feeling things.
"Well," I said lightly, "I'm alive. So you can stop worrying. You look like you haven't slept since the industrial revolution."
To my shock, Mack actually huffed a laugh.
A small one, but still.
"I haven't slept much," he admitted. "I had the police, the fire department, and three different lawyers updating me. And our parents were… concerned."
Concerned was generous.
Terrified of a PR disaster was probably more accurate.
He studied my face again, quieter this time. "I'm glad you're okay."
I shifted on my feet, suddenly embarrassed. "Yeah. Me too."
He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more but didn't know how. The awkwardness between us was still thick—but not hostile. Just… unpracticed. Untested.
Finally, he cleared his throat and stepped back. "You should rest. Mother prepared your room and had the maids bring in new bedding."
"Oh." I blinked. "Fancy."
He gave a stiff nod—the sort meant to be affectionate but came off more like a CEO approving a quarterly report.
"If you need anything," he added, "tell me. Or call me. Don't… handle things alone."
Ah.
That hit a little too close.
I swallowed. "Okay. Thanks."
He nodded again, then turned and walked toward the main hallway, probably off to collapse on a sofa or return to CEO-ing before the building lights went out.
I watched him go, a strange warmth settling in my chest.
Maybe I wasn't the original Violet.
But maybe I could do better than she did.
A maid quietly approached me after Mack left.
"Miss Violet," she said with a bow. "Allow me to show you to your room."
I followed her up the sweeping staircase, down a long hallway lined with framed artwork, each piece probably worth more than my old annual salary.
Soft carpets. Ornate molding. High ceilings.
Everything felt like stepping into a museum where I wasn't sure whether to admire the art or apologize for breathing too loudly.
We stopped at a door near the end of the hall.
"This is your room, Miss."
She opened it.
My jaw dropped.
The room was enormous.
Not large—enormous.
Spacious enough to park two cars or host a small wedding.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling. The bed looked big enough to drown in. A plush sofa sat near a wall of tall windows overlooking a glowing garden.
There was even a vanity table with neatly arranged cosmetics and perfumes.
And the closet…
The closet was not a closet.
It was a dream.
A walk-in lined with clothes and shoes I had never imagined owning.
I stepped inside slowly, afraid touching anything might cause it to vanish like a mirage.
"Wow…" I breathed.
The maid smiled politely. "If you need help selecting outfits, please let us know."
Oh, I would.
I absolutely would.
Not because I couldn't do it alone, but because letting someone help made me feel even more ridiculously rich.
When the maid left, I stood in the center of my new bedroom and turned in a slow circle.
Silence settled around me.
Warm. Soft. Peaceful.
For the first time since waking up here, reality hit me fully.
All of the things I lacked in my previous life... A family—one that cares, well, in their own way.
I sat on the edge of the bed and let myself sink into the mattress. It hugged me like a cloud.
"Okay…" I whispered to no one. "New life. New start. New goals."
I held up a finger.
"Goal one: stay alive."
Second finger.
"Goal two: avoid pheromones at all costs."
Third, higher.
"Goal three: make so much money that my grandchildren won't have to work."
Fourth finger.
"Goal four: stay out of the main story."
I nodded, satisfied.
These were good goals. Reasonable goals.
Achievable.*
*Maybe.
I lay back, staring at the ornate ceiling, and allowed a smile to creep onto my face.
Tomorrow, I'd start figuring out this world properly.
But for now?
I curled into the softest bed I'd ever touched and whispered:
"…I'm never leaving this mattress."
Sleep claimed me almost instantly.
The world could wait.
I was rich now.