Free Web NovelChapter 1: Chapter 1: A Victim of Fiction
—CELIA—
If fictional men could be sued for emotional distress, my sister would already be serving multiple life sentences.
Unfortunately, she calls it "writing."
And I call it "systematic psychological warfare disguised as literature."
It started, as most tragedies do, in my own home.
"Celia," my sister said one morning, far too cheerful for someone holding what looked suspiciously like a manuscript draft, "I need your opinion."
That sentence alone should have been classified as a warning siren.
I didn’t even look up from my breakfast. "Last time you said that, I questioned my will to live."
"That means you’re improving," she replied.
No. That meant I was developing survival trauma.
Still, the manuscript slid onto the table in front of me like a formal challenge. Thick stack of printed pages. No escape routes visible. The air already felt heavier.
I stared at it.
It stared back.
Somehow, I knew I was going to lose.
"What’s this one about?" I asked cautiously.
Her eyes brightened in that dangerous way authors get when they’ve decided to ruin people’s emotions for sport.
"A noblewoman heroine," she said. "And four men who ruin a villainess’ life in different emotional directions."
I paused.
"...Different emotional directions?"
"Yes."
"That is not a genre."
"It is now."
I exhaled slowly, the way a person does right before making a mistake they will later describe as "character development."
"I’m not reading it," I said.
She smiled.
And that was worse than any threat.
"Just the first Chapter," she said sweetly. "For feedback."
That was how it always started.
I should have walked away but I did not.
Because I am weak in very specific, repeatable ways.
Three hours later, I understood betrayal on a spiritual level.
I closed the document and just sat there.
Silence filled the room, heavy and judgmental.
My sister leaned forward, expectant. "Well?"
I looked at her then at the ceiling.
Then at the empty void where my will to live used to be.
"I think," I said carefully, "that love should be regulated by law."
She blinked. "So... you liked it?"
"No," I said immediately. "I think I was psychologically assaulted."
"That’s still engagement," she said proudly.
"That’s called survival instinct failing."
This was my normal life.
Office job, dead eyes. Emotional endurance training every time my sister decided to "improve her plot."
People think burnout comes from overwork.
No.
It comes from reading fictional men say things like I hate you but I can’t let you go seventeen different times in seventeen different fonts of emotional manipulation.
My coworker Mina once asked me why I looked like I had "seen war" every Monday morning.
"I have," I told her. "It’s called Chapter 9 revision."
She never asked again.
Smart woman.
That evening, I tried to recover the remains of my dignity the only way I knew how.
Instant noodles, peace, and silence.
Existential neutrality.
My apartment was finally free of drama, betrayal, and men with tragic backstories.
Just me, the soft lighting, and temporary stability.
It lasted exactly seven minutes.
Then my phone rang.
Of course it did.
I didn’t even need to look to know who it was.
My sister.
I answered with zero enthusiasm. "If this is about another emotional disaster draft–"
"It’s not a disaster," she cut in immediately.
That was the first lie.
"I’ve been experimenting," she continued.
That was the second.
My eyes narrowed. "Define experimenting."
There was a suspicious pause on the other end, the kind that always came right before my peace got violated.
"Continuation of the one you already read," she said, far too casually.
I froze.
"...Earlier today?"
"Yes!" Her voice turned brighter, dangerously excited. "I emailed it. The team finished faster than expected. Please read everything, okay? I need feedback. Detailed feedback. Emotional notes are preferred. Toodles!"
Click.
And the call ended just like that.
I stared at my phone in silence.
"...Team?" I repeated slowly.
There was no answer, of course.
There never is when I’m being dragged into something I didn’t agree to survive.
My gaze shifted to the ceiling again.
"I am going to start charging her," I muttered.
The noodles beside me had gone cold.
Fitting.
I stared at the phone for a few seconds longer than necessary, as if it might develop shame and undo itself.
My sister had that confidence that bypassed all natural laws, including common sense.
I sighed, dragging the bowl of noodles closer.
"Fine," I muttered. "Let’s suffer responsibly."
I opened my laptop and there it was.
New Email: 1 attachment
The subject line alone felt aggressive.
"CONTINUATION. PLEASE DON’T SKIM"
I narrowed my eyes.
"I will absolutely be skimming," I told the screen.
Then I clicked it and the file opened.
And like an idiot who keeps returning to the scene of a crime, I started reading.
I ate slowly as I read, with one hand holding the chopsticks.
The noodles were decent at first. Comforting, predictable, and safe.
But the story was not.
It picked up exactly where the previous Chapter left off.
Lady Aria Valen who was still doomed, still radiant in that unsettling way, stood in the center of a courtroom-like hall.
Except now, the atmosphere was worse. freewebnovёl.ƈom
And the four male leads were watching her with disdain.
I chewed slowly.
"...Why are they all so emotionally constipated," I muttered.
Aria spoke in the story.
The narration described her voice as "a final bloom before winter."
I stopped chewing.
"That is not a sentence people should be allowed to write," I said flatly.
The story continued.
The accusations came first.
Then the silence.
Then the decision.
I ate another bite of noodles.
"...This is not romance," I told myself. "This is so heartbreaking for the villainess who only wished to be loved." I whined.
But I kept reading anyway.
Because I already knew I was not going to stop.
By the time I reached the halfway point, my noodles were nearly gone.
My brain, however, was not.
It was actively filing complaints.
One of the male leads stepped forward in the scene.
The narration described him as "merciless in silence."
I scoffed.
"Everyone in this story is merciless in silence. Do any of you talk like normal humans?"
As if offended, the next line arrived immediately.
"He looked at her as if love had long since turned into judgment."
I stopped eating.
"Oh really?" I said.
Every path forward closed like doors locking one by one.
I slowly set my chopsticks down as my phone buzzed with a message.
My sister asked, "HOW IS IT???"
I stared at it.
Then back at the email.
Then back at the message.
Then I typed: "Why does everyone in this suffer like it’s a group project."
She replied instantly.
"SO YOU’RE ENGAGED!!!"
I sighed and stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then leaned back.
"...I need to stop reading these," I said.
My voice sounded very calm for someone who had just voluntarily walked into psychological fiction again.
My phone lit up one more time.
"I knew you’d like it!"
"...I am going to block her," I said seriously.
Pause.
"...tomorrow."
And somehow, that was the first mistake I didn’t even notice making.
