If someone had told me reincarnation came with an early midlife crisis, I would've stayed dead.
Because the next morning, I woke up with one singular, horrifying thought:
Marian Stark wants revenge on me.
I sat up in bed, hair sticking up like a frightened cat, clutching the blanket around me like a shield.
"She definitely wants revenge," I muttered to myself. "That's why she said my name like that. That's why she texted me. She remembers something. What? WHAT does she remember?"
I had no idea.
And that terrified me.
I paced back and forth across my bedroom, the carpet soft under my feet, but offering no comfort.
"Maybe the original Violet insulted her," I said, gesturing wildly. "Or spilled wine on her at some banquet. Or—oh god—maybe she called her a 'budget alpha.' She WOULD. Original Violet would totally say something like that."
I gasped.
"Or maybe—maybe—maybe I stepped on her foot in middle school! Maybe she held a grudge."
I grabbed my head.
"—AND ITS NOT EVEN MY FAULT."
I stopped moving and stared suspiciously at the window.
"And—AND—she's the CEO of our rival company. What if she thinks I'm trying to sabotage her? What if she thinks I'm spying?..what if she thinks i'm a threat?"
I was not a threat.
I am a decorative background character at best.
I flopped onto the bed dramatically.
"My life was supposed to be easy. Rich. Comfortable. Quiet. But nooo… I had to meet a business tycoon with the emotional intensity of a tragic K-drama lead."
I stared at the ceiling, dead inside.
"This is all the author's fault. Why write characters like this? Why make CEOs so psychologically complex? Why make them stare so much?"
My phone sat on the nightstand like a cursed artifact. I glared at it but refused to touch it in case Marian had sent another message.
Eventually, after spiraling for an hour and exhausting myself emotionally, I did the mature thing:
I gave up and crawled under the blanket.
"Not my problem," I declared. "I'm not responding. She can stalk someone else. I will simply go into hiding. I will become a hermit inside my mansion. I will feed the koi fish. I will read books. I will—"
A knock on the door interrupted my delusions.
"Miss Violet," a maid called gently, "breakfast is ready."
I groaned into the pillow.
Another day passed like this.
Avoiding. Spiral-thinking. Googling 'how to legally disappear.' Watching mindless TV. Eating grapes while contemplating fate.
The Hawthorne estate was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made my paranoia invent plotlines.
By mid-afternoon, I found myself on the living room couch, wrapped in a blanket like a depressed burrito. The TV played the first episode of a courtroom drama—ironically triggering, but I was too lazy to change it.
The protagonist lawyer yelled:
"I will not be silenced!"
And I whispered back:
"I would LOVE to be silenced."
The drama continued.
I ate grapes.
Life was peaceful.
Sort of.
Mostly.
And then—
"Violet."
My soul left my body.
I jerked so hard I nearly fell off the couch. I scrambled upright, heart hammering, eyes wide as I turned toward the voice.
My father stood behind me.
I had no idea how long he'd been there. The fact that he had managed to approach without me noticing was more terrifying than any terrorist attack I had ever survived.
"Father," I croaked. "When—how—why—were you standing there?"
"It doesn't matter," he said in his usual calm, cold tone. "We need to talk."
Every muscle in my body tensed.
This was it.
I had embarrassed the family again merely by existing. The Hawthornes were going to exile me to a farmhouse in the countryside or lock me away in a reputational quarantine chamber.
Father stepped around the couch, his posture perfectly straight.
"You seem," he began, "to have a great deal of free time."
Free time.
Those two words landed like a punch to the gut.
He continued, "You have been awake for over two days, and yet you have not once left the estate for anything productive."
"I—productive?" I whispered. "I'm resting. Rest is important. Doctors say—"
"You seem to be in good health."
I closed my mouth.
My father clasped his hands behind his back—his "important announcement" stance.
"I believe," he said, "that an idle mind is harmful. Especially for someone of your upbringing."
My palms grew sweaty. My throat tightened. Something terrible was coming. I felt it the way animals sense storms.
"I have discussed this with your mother," he went on. "We agree that it would be best for you to begin contributing to the family's public image again."
Oh no.
No no no no no—
He kept speaking.
"We have decided," he said with grim finality, "that you will begin working at the Hawthorne Law Firm starting next week."
The world… stopped.
Like literally stopped. I think I even dropped a grape.
I stared at him. My brain became a static-filled TV screen.
"…What?"
"You will work under the litigation department," Father clarified. "A junior attorney role. We have already prepared your schedule. It is important that we present as a hardworking and harmonious family. Your absence has been noticed."
A ringing filled my ears.
My mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Work.
At a law firm.
Again.
Work at a law firm again.
CHAINED TO A DESK AGAIN.
DRAFTING DOCUMENTS AGAIN.
BURNOUT AGAIN.
OVERTIME.
DEADLINES.
HUMAN MISERY.
PAIN.
STRESS.
EMAILS.
OH GOD. EMAILS.
My breathing became shallow.
My father continued, unaware he was triggering every trauma I had ever collected in my previous life.
"You will shadow a senior attorney. Your hours will be standard. And you will attend the charity gala representing the legal division."
Gala.
Work.
Gala.
Work.
Work.
WORK.
I grabbed the blanket around me, clutching it like a life raft.
"Father," I whispered, voice trembling. "I… I don't think I should—"
He held up a hand.
"It is decided."
"But—"
"You will start Monday."
I opened my mouth again.
Closed it.
Opened it.
Closed it.
My father nodded, satisfied with my stunned silence, and left the room with the calmness of someone who had just solved a minor inconvenience rather than destroyed his daughter's will to live.
The moment he was gone, I collapsed backward onto the couch and stared at the ceiling in horror.
"No," I whispered. "No. No no no no. Not again. I JUST escaped this. Why am I being thrown back into legal hell? Why? WHY?!"
My voice broke.
Flashbacks hit me hard.
Papers stacked to the ceiling, in the other room, partners screaming for documents—all at 2 a.m.
Clients crying.
My wrist cramping from typing, paired with the back pain from being hunched over a desk all day.
And now, in this world—this beautiful, rich world—I was being forced right back into the jaws of corporate law.
I sat up abruptly.
"No. I refuse. I will run away and join a monastery. I will fake a medical condition, if i have to, i'll fake twelve medical conditions. I will—"
Then I remembered something tha was somehow worse:
The charity gala.
With Marian.
And now I wouldn't just attend as a background figure.
I would attend as part of the Hawthorne legal team.
Visible.
Within speaking distance.
Professional.
My despair reached otherworldly levels.
I pressed both hands to my face.
"This is the worst… this is literally the worst.."
I flopped sideways onto the couch dramatically, the blanket pooling around me.
"I reincarnated to escape suffering," I whispered.
"Not to relive it." I sighed
The TV continued playing the courtroom drama, the protagonist lawyer yelling about justice.
I pointed at the screen weakly.
And i'm sure, somewhere in the city, Marian Stark paused —her eyes narrowing, almost as if she sensed the exact moment my life became a disaster.