The Villains Must Win

Those who asked too many questions? Well . . . those questions would disappear, just like the camera footage. Just like the traces of what really happened.

She walked back to the bedside and looked at him one last time.

"You should've known," she murmured. "You locked up a dragon thinking that it's a bunny."

By the end of the week, the papers called her Madam Jones, inheritor of Fredrich's legacy. The estate, the empire, the wealth—it was all hers now.

This world was a Rank-A world—unlike anything Lina had experienced before. It wasn't scripted like the B-rank world she'd mastered.

It was unpredictable, volatile, and no one knew who the main character or the villain was, or whether the story even had a true ending at all.

But that was when the soul inside Lina—resilient, cunning, forged by countless resets and failures—began to formulate a plan.

She wouldn't wait for the narrative to assign her a role. She wouldn't chase the villain.

Instead, she would become the villain.

She would smile sweetly, act helplessly, win their trust like a lamb, and when the time was right—strike like the wolf she was.

If being the villain meant winning . . . if it meant getting the ending she deserved . . .

Then so be it.

She would rewrite the story on her own terms. And this time, she would get her happy ending.

No matter who she had to destroy to get it, just like a true villain should be.

====

For days, Lina cried like the perfect grieving widow. She wore black veils, clutched silk handkerchiefs, and stared blankly into the distance with red-rimmed eyes that made the estate staff whisper in hushed tones, "Poor Madam Jones . . . so young, so tragic."

She wept at the funeral so convincingly that even the priest's voice cracked during the final prayer. She collapsed dramatically by the coffin, sobbing, "You were my light . . . my world . . . my oxygen!"—though privately she considered oxygen overrated if it came with being under surveillance 24/7.

Reporters called her the modern-day Juliet. Sympathetic strangers sent condolences. One paparazzo even caught her tearfully kissing Fredrich's framed photo. (In truth, she'd almost laughed mid-smooch because someone had Photoshopped his face too smooth and gave him eyebrows he never had.)

But the very next morning, after the last candle at the wake flickered out, Lina rose from bed, peeled off her widow's weeds, stretched, and smirked at herself in the mirror.

She was back.

The first thing she did? March back into that basement and smash the command system locking the rooms where Fredrich had kept his "collection."

Yes. Collection. Because apparently, the man had a hobby of preserving ex-lovers and enemies like they were rare wine or porcelain figurines.

Lina released every single one of them.

Elara was the first to leave, eyes wide and lost. She was the girl she saw before in the glass mirror.

"You're free," Lina told her. "Though you might need six therapists and a new passport."

Some women sprinted out barefoot. Others just wept. A few flipped Fredrich's portrait off the wall. One even tried to set the library on fire. ("Respect," Lina muttered.)

The whole house needed exorcism.

And intensive therapy.

So, she paid for it. Lina made sure every single woman got the mental help and freedom they deserved. It was the one thing she took seriously, no strings attached.

====

Fredrich had left behind more properties than he had functioning morals. Luxury villas in ten countries. Shares in companies she couldn't even pronounce. Half a mountain resort in the Alps.

"I don't even ski," she muttered, sipping coffee on a balcony with a sea view she didn't know she owned.

She sold what she didn't understand.

Like that obscure crypto-startup called "ChainWhip." Or the biotech company that supposedly extended dog lifespans.

She kept the fashion brands though—because duh.

====

Now rich beyond comprehension, Lina didn't just sit on her gold throne. She invested—in things that mattered.

She created a luxury skincare line made from rage, revenge, and rare Mediterranean herbs. Its tagline?

"Glow Up, Girl. Burn His Reputation, Not Your Skin."

She opened a spa resort just for broken-hearted women. It offered screaming therapy, symbolic ex-boyfriend effigy burnings, and 24-hour chocolate fountains.

She even launched a wine label called "Villain Era." Each bottle came with a playlist and a silk robe.

Soon, she was everywhere.

Invited to galas. Sitting front-row at fashion week. Her followers on social media? Skyrocketed. People adored her "tragic widow to boss CEO" arc. They made memes. They called her "Saint Lina, Patron of Scorned Women."

Her favorite moment?

Flying to a luxury auction on her private jet and bidding on a sapphire necklace once gifted to a duchess—just because a snobby heiress wanted it first.

She outbid the heiress by ten million, winked, and said,

"Oops. Guess I got attached to shiny things after living in a cage."

When Lina needed a quiet life—one untouched by bloodstained suits, diamond rings that felt like chains, and the suffocating stench of control—she disappeared.

To a village nestled in the silent arms of Sweetlandz. A place so remote that even GPS signals hesitated to find it.

Surrounded by forests and sleepy hills, it was the kind of village where strangers became neighbors, and the only noise at night was the rustle of wind through lavender fields.

She had a modest villa built just outside the main square, with wide windows and a little garden she tended every morning.

Tomatoes, basil, a few stubborn blueberries—and her favorite: roses, which she pruned with surprising gentleness.

Peace came in small rituals. Reading on the porch. Walking barefoot in the garden. Drinking honeyed tea while watching fog roll in from the hills.

One day, a new bakery opened at the edge of the village. Word spread quickly that the pastries were divine—light, buttery, unforgettable.

Lina had to see for herself.

She walked in late in the afternoon, the scent of warm brioche and cinnamon pulling her in like a memory she couldn't quite place.

The pastries were divine. She complimented the young staff with a smile, praising the croissant's texture and the caramel tart that melted perfectly on her tongue.

"You should franchise this," she told the waitress, amused at her own sudden burst of capitalism. "If I could eat this in Berlin or New York, I'd be happier than most billionaires."

The waitress laughed. "I'll tell the chef. He's a bit shy and . . . uhm . . . a little serious."

That was the polite word for rude.

"I'd love to meet him," Lina said, not expecting much.

Moments later, the chef emerged from the kitchen. He wiped flour from his hands as he stepped into the light.

Lina froze.

He wasn't just young—he was familiar. Brown skin, short black hair tied back, strong jawline. But it was his amber eyes that stopped her cold. They reminded her of someone.

No—they were someone. If Han Feng had lived in this modern, peaceful world . . . if he'd cut his hair, traded his sword for a rolling pin, he might've looked exactly like this.

The man looked at her just as curiously, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to place a forgotten name.

"You . . ." Lina whispered, her heart skipping a beat. She laughed softly, trying to shake the nerves. "What's your name?"

He regarded her with quiet suspicion, as though unsure whether he was being pranked. "Have we met before?"

"Perhaps in another life," Lina mused, a glint of amusement in her eyes. She offered her hand. "My name's Lina."

He hesitated, then took her hand—warm, firm, cautious. "Alaric," he said. "I own the bakery."

Lina's smile widened. "Well, Alaric," she said sweetly, "I have a feeling we're going to be very good friends."