Reincarnated As The Female Lead Of A Tragic Novel

The cold seeped through my bones, a biting chill that matched the icy weight of realization. This wasn't my world. This wasn't even my body. Yet here I was, trapped in the frail shell of a girl whose life was one long, unending tragedy.

Ophelia. That was her name. A pathetic, broken creature from a dark fantasy novel I used to read for fun, long before my own life had unraveled into chaos.

I was no stranger to cruelty. Growing up as Elena De Luca, daughter of one of the most feared mafia lords, had given me skin thick enough to withstand daggers. But even in the underworld, I had never encountered torment like this. These people didn't just destroy her—they obliterated her, piece by piece, every single day.

And now I had to live it.

The door to the small, dim room slammed open so hard it rattled on its hinges. Two girls stalked in, their presence suffocating the already stale air.

Anastasia, the eldest, led the charge. Her face was all sharp lines and venom, her mouth curling into a cruel smile that made my stomach churn—not in fear, but in disgust. Behind her, Beatrix hovered like a shadow, smaller and less assured, but just as vicious when the mood struck her.

"Oh, look who's sulking again," Anastasia sneered, her voice dripping with mockery. "Poor, useless Ophelia."

I glanced up from the corner where I sat, legs tucked beneath me on the thin mattress. My hair hung in damp strands around my face, framing a body I was still getting used to—a body far too fragile for my liking. I didn't respond, keeping my head low.

Anastasia strode closer, her boots clicking against the worn wooden floor. She loomed over me, her shadow cutting off what little light streamed through the cracked window. "Didn't you hear me, you little rat?"

"I heard you," I said softly, letting my voice quiver just enough.

It worked. Anastasia grinned, pleased by what she thought was submission. "Good. Then you'll understand what happens next."

Her hand moved too fast for me to react. A sudden splash of icy water hit me square in the face, soaking my hair and dress, trickling down my skin in freezing rivulets. My breath hitched at the shock of it, but I didn't flinch.

"Oops," she said, feigning innocence. "Guess my hand slipped."

Beatrix giggled behind her. "She looks even more pathetic wet."

I wiped the water from my face with deliberate slowness, my fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, definitely not from fear, but from the effort of keeping my rage in check. The old Ophelia would've burst into tears by now, sobbing apologies or begging for mercy. But me? I had spent my life facing worse monsters than these two.

"Oh, she's quiet today," Beatrix said, her tone lilting with mockery. "Maybe we should give her some encouragement."

Anastasia's smile widened, and before I could move, she grabbed a fistful of my wet hair and yanked me to my feet. Pain shot through my scalp, but I bit down the hiss that threatened to escape.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," she hissed, her face inches from mine.

I did.

Slowly, I lifted my gaze to meet hers, letting her see the fire simmering in my eyes. It wasn't Ophelia's defeated stare. It wasn't meek or apologetic. It was a glare born of fury, of years spent surviving a world that wanted me dead.

Anastasia froze. For a moment, her grip slackened, her confidence faltering.

"What's wrong with her eyes?" Beatrix whispered from behind her sister.

I smirked faintly, just enough to make Anastasia flinch. "Is something the matter?" I asked, my voice calm, steady.

Anastasia stepped back as if I'd burned her, her hand falling away from my hair. Her face twisted into something between fear and confusion. "What's wrong with you?"

They could feel it.

They didn't know what had changed, but they could sense it. The old Ophelia was gone, and the woman standing in her place wasn't someone they could push around so easily.

"She's trying to scare us," Anastasia said, her voice wobbling slightly. "Pathetic little Ophelia couldn't hurt a fly."

"Maybe," I said lightly, brushing past them toward the small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall. My reflection stared back at me—wet, bedraggled, and pale. The body was weak, but the eyes... the eyes were all mine. Sharp, calculating, unrelenting.

I tilted my head, letting a small, sardonic smile curl my lips. "You'd better hope you're right."

Behind me, the sisters shuffled awkwardly, their confidence crumbling by the second. Beatrix tugged on Anastasia's sleeve. "Let's just go," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "She's creepy."

Anastasia hesitated, torn between pride and unease. Eventually, she huffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Fine," she snapped, her tone defensive. "But don't think this is over, you little rat."

They left, slamming the door behind them.

I exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from my shoulders. The act was harder to keep up than I thought it would be, but it was necessary. I couldn't let them know who I really was. Not yet.

Because this wasn't just a fantasy world anymore. It was my reality. And if the plot of Enslaved by the crown was anything to go by, things were only going to get worse.

But I wasn't afraid.

The old Ophelia was gone, and Elena De Luca—daughter of Ricco, survivor of hell—was here to stay.

And I wasn't going to let anyone forget it.