Chapter 1
When I found myself inside the novel, my pampered sister, Jocelyn Allen, was slicing her own arm with a fruit knife.
Blood beaded along the cut.
She looked at me and smiled.
"Ashley," she said. "Let's see who Mom and Dad believe this time."
My mind went blank, then flooded with memories that weren't mine.
I was Ashley Allen.
I'd been dropped into a story about a cherished fake heiress and the real one.
Jocelyn, the impostor, was the darling of the family.
And I, the actual heiress, was just her foil.
My entire purpose there was to be disliked by everyone—to make her kindness and innocence shine even brighter.
*****
Just a moment ago, Jocelyn had slipped Mom's limited-edition bracelet into my drawer.
She started crying and accused me of stealing.
Everyone in the family started calling me a thief and saying I was trash.
Furious, I shoved her.
She crashed into the edge of the table, ending up with a nasty bruise on her arm.
Dad slapped me across the face.
He told me to get out of his sight and locked me in the attic to "think about what I'd done."
Now, Jocelyn was holding her bloody arm high for everyone to see.
She was ready to run straight to Mom and Dad.
She would tell them I'd sliced her skin out of pure malice.
If the story followed its original path, I'd be finished.
Everyone would turn their backs on me.
I'd get kicked out of the house.
And in the end, I'd freeze to death on the streets on a bitter winter night.
I stared at those drops of blood.
Then I looked at Jocelyn's smug face.
Suddenly, I felt exhausted.
What was I even fighting for?
What did I really want?
Just to be the one they used to make themselves look good?
Was I even worth that?
No, I wasn't.
Might as well just give up and let it all go.
I said calmly, "Oh."
Jocelyn's smile froze.
She stared at me, shocked. "What... What did you just say?"
I walked past her and pulled the door open.
"Move," I said. "I'll go do my time in the attic, just like Dad ordered.
"Don't forget to put away your knife.
"And don't pin it on me again."
Her bloody arm was still lifted high, but she just stood there, dumbstruck.
I headed straight up to the attic.
I pushed open the attic door.
A musty, dusty smell hit me.
The space was small, maybe 100 square feet, but it had a window.
Could be worse.
I found an old rag, wiped down the only wooden bed in the room, and lay down.
It was rock hard.
So uncomfortable, it felt like lying on a pile of bricks.
But at least, for once, my heart finally felt at peace.
Jocelyn's sobbing and yelling floated up from downstairs.
She said, "Dad, Mom, Ashley's gone crazy!
"She slashed me with a knife.
"It hurts. It hurts so badly."
Soon, heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
With a bang, the door was shoved open.
Three people stood in the doorway.
Richard Allen, my dad, looked thunderous—absolutely furious.
Katherine Allen, my mom, stood with her hand pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief.
And my older brother, James Allen.
His glare was sharp enough to cut glass.
Jocelyn stood behind them, her arm dripping blood, held high for everyone to see.
She was crying her eyes out, looking all pitiful and heartbroken.
Dad pointed at me, his finger trembling with rage.
"Ashley, how dare you hurt Jocelyn with a knife!" he roared. "What did we do to raise someone so vicious?"
Mom came charging at me, her face twisted with anger.
She tried to grab my arm.
"Ashley, how could you do this to Jocelyn?" she yelled.
I shrank back onto the bed, pulling out of her reach.
"I didn't touch her," I said. "She cut herself."
Jocelyn cranked up the waterworks, crying even louder.
She sobbed, "Ashley, how could you frame me like this? Why would I ever do that to myself?"