Flyspree

CHAPTER 1: The Portrait That Killed Me

My death was supposed to come with a paintbrush in hand, in the roaring flames of creation. I would expire while the colors of my last magnum opus danced in my vision, exquisitely blurring in a whirling rush of color as my fingers clenched them desperately while my last breath escaped my lungs.

Not electrocuted by a faulty lamp in a flooded studio apartment. Not alone. Not screaming. Not like this.

As I lay there — or rather, as she lay there — like a broken doll on the ground, the acrid odor of burnt wires still heavy in the air and the soft patter of rain from the leaky window above me, my last image had been the painting I was working on when everything went to hell, carefully illuminated by my jury-rigged spotlight and stand. My portfolio. My golden ticket. My one chance to make it.

And then... light.

Oh. It wasn't that kind of light. Not gallery light. Not even heaven's light. This was the sort that burned your retinas out like a migraine, shattering your senses before you could even make a sound.

And then silence.

And then... silk.

I woke up in a bed so soft it was like someone had wrapped me in a cloud and sealed the edges with a lace ribbon. The bed sheets were the softest cream I'd ever seen, probably worth a small fortune all on their own, and there was the faintest scent of roses and wealth about the room like the air itself was an expensive ghost. Blinking blearily and a little dazed, I sat up.

And immediately realized something was very, very wrong. My body felt... wrong. Not hurt, just... different. Lighter in some places. Heavier in others.

I took a look in the floor-length mirror across the room and gasped.

This was not my face.

Where my usual plain features and paint-speckled cheeks should have been was instead a woman who was probably a billboard model's nightmare: smooth flawless skin, shiny chestnut curls, eyes expertly lined, lips. Pouting. Lips that even at rest, still managed to appear to be kissing.

And — pardon me? — an enviable body that could not have come from the fantasies of a lesser billionaire.

"Oh no," I breathed.

Because I knew that face. I had drawn that face. Years ago, during one of my many life-long transatlantic layovers, I'd picked up a trashy romance novel I found abandoned on a park bench, Thorns of Ivy. It was cheesy. Predictable. I rolled my eyes with every page.

The main character was your classic good girl, kind of sweet, hardworking, and woefully under appreciated. But the villainess? Kendra Ainsley? She was so impossibly over-the-top, I'd actually drawn her as a joke.

And now... I was her. Kendra Ainsley.

The villainess of a third-rate romance. Gorgeous. Rich. And as stupid as they come. So blinded by her affection for her childhood fiancé Chris that she spent the whole book sabotaging herself to keep his attention.

Spoiler alert: it didn't work. He left her for the angelic, scholarship-genius Ella and Kendra was publicly shamed, alone, and had plot armor shoved up her ass in a dumpster.

I was in a book.

As the villainess.

Excellent.

I sat in silent shock for a moment, hands splayed on my lap like they were not my own. Because they weren't. Panic licked at the back of my brain, and I pushed it back.Okay. Think. If this was real, and everything was real, I couldn't let myself panic.

Kendra Ainsley was stupid, but I wasn't.

If I knew how her story ended, I also knew how to stop it from happening.

First rule: Don't chase Chris.

Second rule: Stay out of Ella's way.

Third rule: Don't be a hero.

And fourth? Paint. Stay alive. Get out.

I still had no idea how I ended up here or why I was thrown in at all, but if fate had handed me this, I wasn't going to waste this by acting like an idiot.

No, this Kendra Ainsley was not going to be the redacted, background character of some man's life. She was not getting thrown away like that. Not by a man. Not by a plot. Not by anyone. This was my new life and I wasn't going to let a story be my undoing.

Once more, with feeling. A sharp knock on the door startled me out of my motivational speech. I hopped to my feet, forgetting the bulk of this ridiculous body until it yanked at my center of gravity, and the door opened with the silent sort of grace reserved only for those who had had to tiptoe through life for far too long.

"Miss Kendra?" A maid poked her head in.

A pretty young woman in a crisp black-and-white dress that made her look like an extra from a Regency drama, holding a tray that was probably about to explode.

"Your breakfast. Lady Ainsley asked that you prepare for a fitting this morning, and you're due at the academy today. I'll draw your bath?"

Academy? Fitting? Bath?

I blinked, trying to remember what the original Kendra's mornings were usually like. It was said in the book she was a pampered porcelain doll on a schedule to her death, fed to the point of rotting out of a tea tray and made to wear a selection of dresses that could easily be confused with a royal wedding every Tuesday.

"Uh..." I coughed. Trying not to sound like a total as***le in my own body. "Sure. Yes. Thank you."

The maid flounced out, and I was left staring at myself again, trying to process it all.

Kendra Ainsley. I was Kendra Ainsley. And that meant I had a vast legacy to uphold or deconstruct, depending on which iteration of her I decided to keep.

I started listing out what I knew about Kendra Ainsley from Thorns of Ivy. Most of it was fluff, the usual underdog/bitchy rich girl trope with Ella being the perma-grinning, sunshine-girl underdog and Kendra being the spoiled rich brat who was just petty with her power.

Except... Kendra in my story wasn't here to be anyone's bitch anymore. And Ella? From what I remembered, Ella had a bit more bite than her superficial image would suggest.

Either way. One thing at a time. And for now? I needed to survive breakfast without giving myself away.

An hour later, I sat down at an absurdly large marble table. The chandelier above it was so large it must have contained the baleful eye of a hundred thousand diamonds. And opposite me, Lady Ainsley herself sipped her tea like it had personally named wealth after her.

"You're rather quiet this morning," she noted, those keen eyes over the edge of her porcelain cup.

"Uh. Mhmm. Reflective." I said. Being Purposefully-Vague Mystery.

She blinked. "Well, that is like you."

No, no. Original Kendra was all elbows and energy and introspection and, most of all, zero breakfast conversations about not monologuing about her and Chris's future.

Speaking of which... Lady Ainsley dabbed at her mouth with her linen napkin.

"The photo session is today, of course. We'll be making the announcement. They're anxious."

I clamped down on my fork, midway through a bite of eggs that probably had a diploma engraved in them.

"Announcement?"

"To Chris, love. " Her smile was thin and practiced. "Your father wants to make sure the image is strictly controlled. You are looking very well today. Excellent. His mother won't have a single complaint."

Oh, she would. I swallowed, hard. Because I'd forgotten the part where their families started pushing for an engagement once Chris met Ella and publicly fell for her and the humiliation Kendra was just foisting upon herself by clinging like a barnacle, the original. Not on my watch.

I set the fork down delicately. "Actually... I've been thinking. I don't know if this is the best idea. What if we wait on the announcement?"

Her brow dipped. "And why would we do that?"

"Well," I began slowly, "Chris and I barely talk. Wouldn't it be more... genuine if we reconnected first?"

Lady Ainsley regarded me with the sort of expression a lion might give to a sheep who had just requested a pay increase. She smiled. Thin. Cold. Deadly.

"How... mature of you."

I smiled back. "Improving."

And in my head, I was already bolting. Because if I could wiggle out of the engagement, skirt around Ella, and claw back some semblance of dignity without scandal or catastrophe or death, I just might survive.

And live for the art. Because this time? I wasn't going to die unknown and in squalor under a leaky roof and a dream half-finished. This time, I'd draw my own ending.

Some places just make you pause ❤️