Thirteen Years Wrong

I was transmigrated into a novel as the wicked villainess.
But I never did a single wicked thing.
Not only did I become friends with the heroine, but I also married the gentle second male lead. I truly believed I was happy.
Until I found my husband’s diary.
It turned out he was reborn. His years of tenderness were nothing but a performance, all to prevent me from hurting the woman he truly loved.

1
I held the positive pregnancy test in my hand, my other hand resting on my stomach, on the tiny life growing inside me. An unprecedented sense of peace settled over me. I had lived in this world for thirteen years, but in this moment, I finally felt anchored, truly and completely bound to this life.
I arrived in this world after my own death, transmigrated into the body of the novel’s villainess who shared my name, a woman infamous for her cruelty. But I considered myself lucky. I had arrived before the story’s main plot began, before I could commit any of the terrible acts against the hero and heroine.
In fact, the heroine’s bright and cheerful personality drew me in, and we became the best of friends, sharing everything. I acted as her personal love guru, encouraging her to chase her own happiness. I watched her fall in love with the male lead, stood by her side as her maid of honor, and saw her marry the man of her dreams.
She was the second person I wanted to share my good news with.
The first, of course, was my husband.
My husband, Patrick East, was originally the novel’s gentle second male lead, the one who always protected the heroine from the shadows. But perhaps my presence created a butterfly effect, because he never became her silent guardian. Instead, he turned all of his attention, all of his affection, onto me.
After thirteen years together, I felt so deeply and genuinely loved that I married him without a second thought. And now, our little family was about to welcome a new life. I couldn't wait to tell him.

2
I decided against just telling him outright. It would be more fun to let him discover it himself.
I slipped into his study and sat down in his chair. Opening a drawer to hide the test, my eyes fell on an old, worn notebook tucked away beneath a stack of neat files. It was out of place, its corner peeking out as if forgotten in a hurry.
I carefully picked it up, a small, amused smile on my face. The cover was a faded, girlish design from our school days. It was old, but the curled edges and yellowed pages told me it was opened often.
We never had secrets between us, so I opened it without hesitation.
On the title page, in elegant, handwritten script, were two words: Forever Love.
A blush crept up my cheeks. Could this be a book of love letters he’d written for me?
I took out the pregnancy test, planning to slip it between the pages—my own precious love letter to him.
I turned to the first page, my heart full. And then, the world stopped.
My eternal love, Stella.
Stella. The heroine of the novel.
The blood in my veins turned to ice. I stared at the words, a thick wad of cotton stuck in my throat, making it hard to breathe. My fingers trembled, but with a self-destructive compulsion, I turned the pages, one after another, reading every single word.
It wasn't a diary. It was a collection of unsent love letters, and they all said the same thing:
Patrick East loved Stella. A desperate, unrequited love.
He was reborn.
He had always loved Stella.
And every bit of care, every moment of affection he had ever shown me, was a lie. An act.
He had to keep me close, to watch me at all times, to eliminate any possibility of me hurting the woman he cherished.
The joy of my pregnancy vanished, replaced by a bitterness that consumed my heart. In all these thirteen years, I had never once wanted to harm Stella. But in this moment, I was jealous of her. So fiercely, painfully jealous. Jealous that a small act of kindness she once showed him was enough to earn a man’s undying, obsessive love for over a decade—a love so profound he would sacrifice his own life, tying himself to the "wicked villainess" just to ensure her happiness.
I don’t know how long I sat there, a storm of grief and despair raging inside me, until the world around me felt like a terrifying, hollow dream.

3
Exhaustion finally claimed me, and I fell asleep on the sofa. I didn't wake until Patrick came home.
He reeked of alcohol, stumbling as he walked.
"Honey, I'm home..." he slurred, smiling at me. "Sorry, I had a work dinner. I'm late."
I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes and played the part of the dutiful wife. I helped him up, loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his shirt.
"Thanks, honey. You're the best."
His words were perfunctory. If he had been paying any attention at all, he would have seen the raw, swollen redness of my eyes. But perhaps this hollow performance had become second nature to him.
I guided him to our bed, helped him out of his clothes, and was about to get a warm cloth to wipe his face when he spoke. The alcohol had lowered his defenses, and in his drowsy state, the truth spilled from his lips.
"Stella..."
My entire body went rigid. I must have misheard. I stared at him, my nails digging into my palms.
"Stella," he whispered again.
The word was a cruel confirmation. In a moment of masochistic madness, I leaned closer, my voice a soft imitation of hers. "Patrick?"
His hand shot out, gripping mine tightly. His eyes, hazy with drink, were filled with a raw, unguarded tenderness. "Stella," he breathed, "as long as you're happy, everything I've done is worth it."
That one sentence locked me back inside the cage of his deceit.
I couldn't breathe. The room spun around me. I scrambled out of the bedroom, running from the man I thought I knew, from the lie I had been living.
The love I had thrown myself into, heart and soul, was nothing but a joke from the very beginning.

4
My sleep was a battlefield of nightmares.
The original villainess’s deeds played out in my mind on a horrifying loop. Cathy bullying the heroine. Cathy hiring thugs to assault her. Cathy using her family’s power to crush her…
In the dream, the villainess turned, and her face was mine—twisted with a rage so vile it terrified me. The dream fast-forwarded. The hero and the second male lead, now powerful men, came for their revenge. Patrick stared at me, his eyes as cold and empty as if he were looking at a piece of trash.
"You love ruining people's lives so much," his dream-self sneered. "Let's see how you like it."
I died in that dream, violated and broken, my body tossed onto a filthy garbage heap.
"No!"
I screamed myself awake.
My eyes shot open to see Patrick looking down at me, his face etched with concern. The image of his gentle expression overlapped with the brutal cruelty from my dream, and a violent shiver racked my body.
He was tucking a blanket around me. "Honey, what's wrong? Why are you sleeping out here? You'll catch a cold." He sat on the edge of the sofa. "Are you mad at me for drinking last night? I'm sorry, the client was really important."
I just shook my head, too shrouded in fear and exhaustion to speak.
We didn't have a guest room. Patrick had sworn he would never do anything to make me kick him out of our bed. And even if he did, he’d said, he would sleep on the floor beside me.
Now I realized the truth. There was no escape. No space that was just mine. He was always watching.
He didn't seem to notice my inner turmoil. He just frowned, his voice a pathetic whine. "My head is killing me, honey. Where's the hangover soup?"
"I forgot," I said flatly. The truth was, I hadn't made any.
Patrick came from a modest background; I was the heiress. He had always been driven, insisting he had to earn my father’s respect on his own merits. He refused my family’s help, started his own company, and nearly drank himself into a stomach ulcer closing deals in the early years.
Because I loved him, because I was his wife, I cared for him. I found remedies for his hangovers, stayed up all night with him, doing everything I could to ease his suffering.
If I didn't know the truth, I would still be that devoted wife.
But his diary had revealed his true motive. [Cathy used her family’s power to hurt Stella. I cannot let her have even the slightest chance of doing it again. I must build my own power in the business world, enough to stand against her father. If they try to harm Stella like they did in the last life, I will make the entire family pay a painful price!]
All his hard work, his relentless ambition—it was all to protect his real love.

5
"Honey, what's wrong today? You look pale. Are you feeling unwell? Let me take you to the doctor."
I stared at the man before me, wondering if there was a single shred of sincerity in his concern. I was about to confront him, to lay everything bare, when my phone rang.
The caller ID flashed in big letters: STELLA.
Before I could move, Patrick snatched the phone and handed it to me, his eyes urging me to answer.
I numbly pressed the button. Stella's cheerful voice filled the silence. "Cathy, sweetie! You didn't forget about the art exhibit today, did you?"
"I remember."
"Great! Let's meet at the cafe in front of the gallery. Leo’s dropping me off on his way to work."
"Okay."
I hung up. Before I could say a word, Patrick spoke. "You have plans with Stella today? Let me drive you."
"You don't have to. Your office isn't on the way."
He stroked my cheek, his touch meant to be affectionate. "Silly girl, anywhere you're going is on my way. Go on, get changed."
He stood up and went to the bedroom to get ready, a lightness in his step. Of course he was happy. He was going to see the woman he loved. And he had conveniently forgotten his earlier suggestion to take me to the doctor.
In Patrick’s world, nothing was more important than Stella.

6
When Patrick dropped me off at the cafe, Stella was already there, sipping a frappuccino. She handed me a glass of warm milk, her smile bright.
Patrick turned to me, his voice gentle. "You shouldn't have too many cold drinks. It’s bad for you, especially during your period. You're not a kid anymore."
Stella giggled. "Wow, look at you two, being all lovey-dovey right in front of me."
Patrick smiled back at her, adding smoothly, "That goes for you too. Less cold drinks!"
All that preamble, just for a chance to say one caring word to her. The warm milk in my hands felt like it was scalding my skin. I wasn't the one who liked cold drinks. The concern he was offering had never been for me.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. You're such a nag. I don't know how Cathy puts up with you," Stella teased.
Patrick just smiled, then turned back to me. "I'll pick you two up for lunch. I remember you said you wanted to try that new Spanish place downtown."
Once you start looking for the lies, you realize how clumsy the actor is.
I wasn't the one who wanted to try the Spanish restaurant. Stella was.
But I had been blinded by love, and he had been committed to his role. Now that the truth was out, I saw how I had been living with my eyes wide shut.
Stella linked her arm through mine. "Okay, okay, you can go now. Don't interrupt our girls' time." She pulled me toward the gallery entrance, chattering excitedly. "Cathy, I can't wait to see the new exhibit..."
I glanced back over my shoulder. Patrick was still standing there. His gaze was sharp, analytical, watching our every move. The moment our eyes met, his expression shifted instantly, melting into one of deep, adoring affection. A perfect performance.
Patrick, I thought, aren't you tired?

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