1. Isabella Deshanel

72 hours before transmigration.

Cruelly enough, ‘today’s weather’ looked just like me today.

“The first heat wave warning of the year has been issued. The midday temperature hit 35 degrees, the highest recorded this summer. High pressure will keep skies mostly clear across the country, though brief showers are expected in some areas during the afternoon.”

I, Bae Yura……

received my first breakup notice of the year, and my 35-month romance hit its worst point of the summer. The axe I trusted buried itself in my foot, and I shed tears for a while in the afternoon.

“The UV index is very high and ozone levels are very poor, so please take precautions. This has been weather forecaster Bae Yura.”

Which meant my rage index was very high and my dignity index very poor. Caution was advised.

A cheating ex-boyfriend.

The person he cheated with was a coworker.

And I’d been secretly dating that ex-boyfriend in-house for a full 35 months.

Part of me wanted to flip everything over, bury them both……

but I chose a graceful breakup. ‘Let’s break up.’ I matched that short notice with an even shorter reply and called it done. Under my firm belief that there’s no room for messiness in my love life, I broke up with him gracefully. Without a single curse, without a single tear, without my expression slipping even once. With every ounce of strength I had, gracefully.

It’s not like you’re the only man in the world. It was disgusting knowing you, and let’s never meet aga……

Oh. God. I had to see him again on Monday.

My mouth tasted bitter. I ended up raiding my fridge well past midnight and soldiered through eleven rounds of drinks all on my own.

And the following afternoon…

I woke up disheveled, like a dazed zombie. The excessive drinking produced a deep hangover without any twist. The fate of someone who mixed their drinks.

A churning stomach, a splitting headache, and empty bottles scattered all around. The remnants of a breakup. The time was 2:22 PM. I checked my phone with hollow eyes.

[1 unread message.]

It was a message from my now-ex-boyfriend.

[Don’t even call to apologize.]

Wh, apol, apologize?

I couldn’t believe it. You’re the one who should’ve apologized. I broke up with you cleanly. What on earth do I have to apologize for, huh?

Fragmented memories that had been submerged in alcohol began surfacing in scattered pieces. A creeping sense of dread came with them.

No way.

No.

This memory is a dream. This is a dream, a dream, a dre, it’s a dream, oh god, I’m insane. Bae Yura, are you out of your mind?

[Recent call log — 2:16 AM outgoing call — 18 minutes]

About twelve hours ago. I spent 18 minutes building a monument to my own humiliation.

‘You piece of sh*t, do you know how much I liked you. Waaah.’

I cursed. I confessed.

‘What’s wrong with me, huh! My face is nice, my body’s nice, my personality is nice. Ha…… well, maybe not the personality.’

I did some self-reflection.

‘The one who left me couldn’t even make it ten steps before getting h*rny.’

I lamented the fact that he cheated with the coworker who sat right next to me……

and then, declaring I had to purge this pent-up resentment, I belted out a medley of every breakup song chorus I could think of. Switching between chest voice and falsetto. Banging on drums and janggu. And if that wasn’t enough, I threw in backup vocals too.

The completed puzzle of my memories, assembled without mercy, was devastating. I’d acted so impossibly cool during the breakup, but there was no bigger mess than this. And what stung my pride the most, in the middle of all this, was that I’d given those 18 minutes everything I had.

A thousand blanket kicks couldn’t begin to cover this humiliation.

Only 18 hours left until Monday. 18 hours until I’d have to face him. 18 hours, 18, 18, 18, 18……18.

Standing before this brutal reality, I prayed to God.

Just make Monday……

disappear.

Please.

* * *

Hey, excuse me.

Even so, this is too much.

This is genuinely insane. My prayers actually worked this well? Was it God’s mercy, taking pity on my impending death by embarrassment? Or the grace earned by three thousand blanket kicks?

Monday disappeared.

The problem was that Bae Yura disappeared along with it. I couldn’t be Bae Yura anymore. The moment I saw my reflection in the mirror, I knew it was transmigration.

Green eyes like the lush greenery of midsummer. Golden hair spun from threads of gold. Skin that glowed softly, as though cast from ivory pearls. And wrapped around everything, the unmistakable aura of the highest nobility.

I couldn’t look away. The face in the mirror was so beautiful that I actually understood Narcissus falling for his own reflection in the lake. But beauty wasn’t all there was to it.

At the end of that gaze, deep despair settled in. A golden camellia bloomed brilliantly beneath the left collarbone. This flower was the crest of the Deshanel family, a house destined for utter annihilation.

It was unmistakable.

The person in the mirror was Isabella Deshanel. The villainess who meets a terrible end in the romance fantasy novel 『Your Hidden Ruin』.

She’d lived up to the name of villainess without fail. She was the type who needed to treat men like stones to survive, yet her hobby was marriage and her specialty was divorce. She threw herself into flames like a moth. Her excessive string of men and inappropriate scandals only poured oil on that fire.

The seventeen divorces she’d already racked up over the past six months proved it.

And with each divorce, the misfortune she’d accumulated was set to lead her straight to death and the destruction of her house. After the eighteenth divorce, she’d attempt a nineteenth marriage, and that would bring the ruin of her family and her own death. It was an ending so brutal that even the words on the page reeked of blood.

It felt like a nightmare.

It had to be a nightmare.

And so, one day, two days, three days……by the sixth day. I passed through the stages of denial, fury, and resignation, and finally arrived at acceptance.

I looked steadily at Isabella Deshanel in the mirror, at the reality in front of me, and at the future I’d have to face.

My mind worked quickly.

The original novel 『Your Hidden Ruin』 began after Isabella Deshanel’s eighteenth divorce. It’s not too late yet. I made up my mind to step outside the original story’s reach. If I simply didn’t divorce, I’d have no reason to get swept up in it.

Once I let go of Bae Yura’s life, which I’d been clutching until the very last moment, my goal for this life became clear.

Surviving as Isabella Deshanel.

And for the safety and long life of my family, stopping at the eighteenth marriage.

I decided I’d play with my husband instead of letting the original story play me.

Right. Let’s try living quietly for once. No more divorces.

* * *

I was arrogant. I thought that as long as I was sincere about this marriage, there’d be no divorce.

“I’d like a divorce.”

The man who called himself my husband brought up divorce. It happened right after I’d purified myself, resolved to pour my whole heart into this marriage. We were a married couple, so I’d steeled myself to share a bed and walked into the bedroom, only to have divorce thrown at me. It wasn’t part of the plan.

“Let me just get a glass of water and come back.”

I’ll come back and we can talk. In response to his request for a divorce, I said I’d just get a glass of water and come back, then walked straight out of the house. It was avoidance. I couldn’t ask him to reconsider, couldn’t convince him that living with me would be fun, couldn’t even curse or threaten him by saying he’d die young if we divorced. I just ran. Continuing that conversation felt like it’d end in divorce before the day was out. I wanted at least tonight to pass without incident.

It was late. The only places still open were bars. The glass of water became alcohol. One glass turned into a bottle, then another, then another. The alcohol had long since passed the point of no return, rising all the way to the top of my head. I was thinking I didn’t want to go home as I ordered another bottle. That’s when a low voice curled softly into my right ear.

“Have you been well?”

Warm, considerate speech. And a tone that sounded like he knew me well. My head lifted on its own. Through the haze of alcohol, the man’s lips caught my eye, and his smile looked unusually beautiful. ‘……Who are you.’ Through a vision that kept blurring with drink, the man parted his lips slowly. His tone said: try to remember.

“Cigarettes. Cherry tart.”

I stared at the man’s lips and repeated it back to him. Cigarettes. Cherry tart. Cigarettes. Cherry tart. Memories suddenly tangled in reverse. Did Isabella Deshanel have a lover? With my brain thoroughly soaked in alcohol and hopelessly knotted, pulling out the right memory wasn’t easy. I let out a groan, and the man laughed.