Watch The Discarded Villainess Shine Now

Sloane gasped for air.

Her lungs expanded violently, pulling in oxygen as if she had been drowning for hours. Her consciousness slammed into the foreign body with the force of a freight train.

A sharp, blinding pain throbbed behind her temples. Memories that didn't belong to her-pathetic, weeping, desperate memories-flooded her brain, making her stomach churn with sudden nausea.

She blinked, her vision clearing to reveal the sprawling, sterile living room of a penthouse apartment.

Axel Price stood directly over her.

His tailored Italian wool suit was immaculate, hugging his broad shoulders perfectly. His jaw was clenched tight, and his face was twisted into a mask of absolute, unfiltered disgust.

He raised his hand and slammed a thick stack of glossy paparazzi photos onto the glass coffee table.

The sharp smack of paper hitting glass echoed in the quiet room.

The photos scattered across the smooth surface. Sloane stared down at them. They showed the original host of this body, hiding in the damp bushes outside Axel's massive tech company headquarters, her face streaked with mascara, looking like a stalker.

Axel crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his suit pulling taut.

"I want a public apology drafted by tomorrow morning," Axel demanded, his voice cold and dripping with condescension. "You are embarrassing my corporate image, Sloane. This pathetic obsession ends now."

Sloane blinked slowly.

The throbbing in her head began to subside, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. She processed the foreign memories, the names, the setting. She had transmigrated. She was trapped inside the body of a trashy novel's ultimate villainess-a woman who had destroyed her own life chasing a man who despised her.

A dark, slow smirk crawled onto Sloane's face.

She felt the corners of her mouth lift, the muscles in her cheeks pulling into an expression the original host had never worn. She accepted the villainess identity instantly. It fit her like a glove.

Axel frowned, his perfectly groomed eyebrows pulling together. He mistook her silence for submission.

"If you don't release the statement," Axel threatened, leaning closer, "I will have my PR team release a statement of our own. I will destroy your career. You won't book a single commercial in this town again."

Sloane pushed herself off the leather sofa.

Her posture shifted completely. The meek, hunched shoulders of the original host vanished. She stood tall, her spine straight, her chin tilted up. She moved with a predatory, terrifying grace.

She took a deliberate step toward him, closing the distance between them.

Axel flinched slightly. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, genuinely confused by the sudden, chilling lack of desperation in her gaze.

Sloane raised her right hand.

Without breaking eye contact, she casually slapped the remaining stack of photos out of his grip.

The heavy, glossy paper fluttered through the air, raining down onto the expensive hardwood floor. The chaotic mess completely broke Axel's carefully constructed, untouchable CEO aura.

Before he could process the disrespect, she moved.

She grabbed the expensive, silk-lined lapels of his custom suit with both hands. Her knuckles turned white as she twisted the fabric, pulling him down slightly to her level.

"What the hell are you doing?" Axel shouted in sheer indignation.

He reached up, trying to pry her surprisingly strong fingers off his chest. His manicured hands clawed at her wrists, but her grip was like iron.

Sloane didn't waste breath on a reply.

She shifted her weight, pivoting on her heel, and executed a swift, brutal martial arts sweep kick directly into his ankle.

Bone cracked against bone.

Axel lost his balance instantly. His eyes went wide with shock as his center of gravity vanished. He stumbled backward, his arms waving clumsily in the air like a toddler learning to walk.

Sloane didn't let him recover.

She shoved him hard, her palms slamming into his chest, propelling him toward the apartment's heavy oak front door.

He hit the solid wood with a loud, sickening thud.

Axel groaned, his face contorting in pain as his right shoulder took the brunt of the impact. He slid down the wood slightly, gasping for breath.

Sloane stepped forward, her face completely blank.

She reached past him, her hand gripping the cold metal of the deadbolt. She twisted it sharply and ripped the heavy door open, exposing the brightly lit, carpeted hallway of the penthouse floor.

She gripped his collar again, her fingers digging into his neck.

With a surge of chaotic, unhinged energy, she physically hurled his heavy frame over the threshold.

Axel tripped over the brass doorframe. He fell hard onto his hands and knees, the expensive fabric of his trousers scraping against the hallway carpet.

Sloane looked down. Near her entryway mat lay a stray, glittering crystal stiletto heel.

She didn't think. She just acted.

She kicked the heavy, pointed shoe out the door with all her might.

The stiletto flew over Axel's head like a guided missile.

At that exact moment, the elevator doors down the hall chimed open. A tall, broad-shouldered passerby stepped out, his head lowered, wearing a dark baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

The flying crystal heel slammed directly into the stranger's broad shoulder.

The passerby halted in his tracks. The heavy shoe clattered loudly onto the floor. He didn't rub his shoulder. He just stood there, his face completely obscured by the shadow of the cap.

Axel scrambled to his feet.

His face was beet red, a vein pulsing visibly in his forehead. His suit was wrinkled, his hair a mess. He opened his mouth, drawing in a breath to scream a string of vicious threats.

Sloane raised her hand.

She flipped him the middle finger with a perfectly deadpan expression.

Before the first syllable could leave his mouth, she slammed the heavy oak door shut right in his face. The loud boom echoed through her apartment, followed by the sharp click of the deadbolt locking into place.

Sloane leaned her back against the heavy oak door.

She let out a long, slow breath. The air left her lungs in a rush of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. The adrenaline pumped through her veins, making her fingertips tingle.

Outside, muffled, angry thumping vibrated against the thick wood.

"Open this door, Sloane!" Axel's voice was distorted by the oak, but the raw fury was unmistakable.

Sloane rolled her eyes.

She pushed off the door and walked away, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. She headed straight toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sprawling city skyline.

She peered through the gaps in the expensive blinds, looking down at the street level far below, watching the tiny cars move like ants.

The thumping on the door stopped.

Sloane walked over to the kitchen island and picked up her tablet. She tapped the screen, bringing up the live feed from the hallway security camera.

On the grainy screen, Axel was standing in the corridor, his face twisted in rage.

He turned away from her door and marched toward the tall passerby standing near the elevator. Axel pointed a demanding finger at the crystal stiletto lying on the carpet.

Even without audio, Sloane could tell Axel was aggressively ordering the stranger to hand him the shoe.

The tall passerby slowly bent down.

He picked up the glittering crystal heel. He held it in his large hand, weighing it for a second, his posture completely relaxed.

Then, instead of handing it over, the passerby casually tossed it directly at Axel's face.

The sharp heel smacked Axel right in the center of his forehead.

Axel yelped, his hands flying up to cover his face. He tripped backward over his own expensive leather shoes.

He landed hard on his rear end, right in front of the closed elevator doors, his legs splayed out in a pathetic, undignified V-shape.

Sloane burst into uncontrollable laughter.

The sound echoed in the empty penthouse. She clutched her stomach, her shoulders shaking as she watched the billionaire CEO sitting on the floor like a scolded child.

She quickly hit the record button on the security app.

She captured the exact moment Axel rubbed his red forehead, looking up at the stranger with an expression of pure, helpless shock.

The passerby didn't even look back. He simply stepped into the open elevator, the metal doors sliding shut before Axel could even formulate a yell.

Sloane paused the video.

She dragged her finger across the timeline and took a high-resolution screenshot of Axel looking utterly pathetic on the carpet.

She picked up her phone from the kitchen counter.

She opened the Twitter app. The notification bell was currently sitting at 99+, filled with thousands of hate mentions from Axel's rabid fanbase, calling her a stalker and a psycho.

Sloane ignored all of it.

She tapped the compose button and attached the humiliating screenshot of Axel.

Her thumbs flew across the digital keyboard.

"Trash took itself out. Next time, duck."

She hit post.

She tossed the phone onto the plush leather sofa without waiting to see the reaction.

Sloane walked to the massive stainless-steel refrigerator. She pulled the handle, the cold air washing over her face. She spotted a cardboard box on the middle shelf.

She pulled out a leftover slice of thick, greasy pepperoni pizza.

She didn't bother heating it up. She took a massive bite, the cold cheese and spicy meat hitting her tastebuds. She groaned in pleasure. The original host had starved herself for months to maintain a fragile, waif-like figure for Axel.

Sloane chewed aggressively, swallowing the heavy carbs with delight.

On the sofa, her phone began to vibrate.

It wasn't a gentle buzz. It was a violent, continuous vibration, the device rattling aggressively against the expensive leather.

Sloane walked over slowly, taking another bite of pizza.

She glanced down at the glowing screen.

The notification banner was a waterfall. Retweets, likes, and shocked comments were pouring in by the thousands every second. The algorithm had already caught the engagement spike.

An incoming call popped up, taking over the screen.

It was her talent manager. The contact photo showed a stressed-looking woman in a headset.

Sloane swiped the red button to decline the call. She didn't care about industry politics, and she certainly didn't care about her manager's incoming panic attack.

She tapped the screen again, navigating to the settings, and blocked her manager's number entirely.

Peace and quiet restored.

She opened Twitter again. Her post had already hit the number one spot on the trending page.

Users were losing their minds. They were zooming in on Axel's face, creating memes comparing him to a sad toddler who dropped his ice cream. The hashtag AxelPriceFloored was climbing the charts.

Sloane scrolled down, her lips curving into a genuine smile.

She liked three of the most brutal, mocking memes, her official account adding massive fuel to the viral fire.

A surge of triumphant energy coursed through her. This called for a celebration. She needed to fill the silence, to replace the ghost of his pathetic whining with something powerful.

She walked over to the entertainment console and turned on her Bluetooth speaker.

She cranked the volume to the max, blasting heavy, distorted rock music through the apartment to drown out any remaining noise from the outside world.

Sloane collapsed onto the couch, crossing her bare legs.

She gazed up at the high ceiling, chewing the last piece of Italian sausage, a broad smile on her face, by which time her number of fans had soared to millions.

Sloane dragged herself from the living room couch.

The heavy rock music had faded hours ago. Bright, harsh sunlight streamed through the gaps in the blinds, hitting her directly in the eyes.

She walked into the bedroom, her muscles slightly stiff from sleeping on the leather sofa.

She found a cheap burner phone tucked away in a drawer, a pathetic last resort the old Sloane had bought, hoping he might one day use it to contact her secretly. Pathetic. She had long since left it behind.

Suddenly, the cheap, plastic backup burner phone started ringing. The screen lit up with an unknown number.

Sloane groaned. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, picked up the small device, and hit the green answer button without checking the caller ID.

"Delete that tweet right now."

Axel's voice barked through the tiny speaker. He sounded out of breath, his tone laced with a frantic, barely controlled rage.

Sloane's eyes snapped open.

The lingering sleepiness vanished instantly. A wicked, sharp smile formed on her lips. Her thumb moved quickly over the screen.

She tapped the home button, swiped to the utility folder, and activated the call recording application. A small red dot appeared at the top of the screen.

"I will blacklist you from every major studio in Hollywood," Axel threatened, his voice rising in pitch. "You think this is a game? I own half the production companies in this city. You are done, Sloane."

Sloane forced her breathing to hitch.

"Axel... please," she said, pitching her voice up to mimic the original host's pathetic, trembling tone. "Are you really going to ruin me over a picture?"

Axel let out a harsh, arrogant scoff.

"Ruin you? I made you," he sneered, the arrogance dripping from every word. "I own the media. You are nothing but a cheap accessory I got tired of wearing. You will issue a public apology in ten minutes claiming your account was hacked, or I will make sure you never work again."

Sloane dropped the fake crying act instantly.

She let out a loud, sharp, mocking laugh. The sound was bright and completely devoid of fear.

"You know, Axel," Sloane said, her voice dropping to a cool, deadpan drawl. "For a billionaire CEO, your ego is more fragile than cheap glass."

Axel froze.

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. He was clearly shocked by the sudden, whiplash-inducing shift in her tone.

"What did you just say to me?" Axel whispered, his voice shaking.

Sloane didn't bother replying.

She pulled the phone away from her ear and hit the red end-call button mid-sentence, cutting off his angry sputtering entirely.

She immediately opened the recording app and exported the audio file to her laptop sitting on the bed.

Her fingers flew across the trackpad. She dragged the file into a basic audio editor. She quickly trimmed the dead air, highlighting only his threats of blacklisting, his claim of owning the media, and his blatant, disgusting arrogance about treating women like accessories.

Sloane opened her social media accounts on her laptop.

She uploaded the raw, unedited audio clip.

She typed a simple caption: "CEO or Mafia Boss? You decide."

She hit publish.

Within minutes, the audio went viral. The internet, already primed by the meme from the night before, exploded. Industry watchdogs, feminist groups, and furious fans flooded the comment section, sparking massive outrage.

Sloane opened a new tab and checked the stock market ticker.

Axel's tech company stock took a noticeable, sharp dip. A red arrow pointed downward as investors began to panic over the escalating PR disaster.

Thirty minutes later, Axel's PR team scrambled.

They released a hastily written, desperate statement on their official corporate page, claiming the audio was a malicious, AI-generated deepfake designed to extort him.

Sloane didn't even blink.

She took a screenshot of her burner phone's call logs, showing the exact duration and timestamp of the incoming call from his private number.

She replied directly to the PR team's statement with the screenshot.

No words. Just the evidence.

The internet turned entirely, viciously against Axel. The hashtag CancelAxelPrice trended globally. Users crowned Sloane the undisputed queen of receipts.

Sloane's laptop chimed.

Her agency, which had been ignoring her calls for weeks, sent a frantic, high-priority email begging her to stop posting and come into the office for damage control.

Sloane highlighted the email and hit delete.

She glanced at the clock. The reality show pickup was in two hours. No rest for the wicked, apparently. Fine. The chaos could come with her.

She walked over to her massive walk-in closet and pulled down a huge, hard-shell black suitcase. She threw it open on the floor.

She began packing for the reality dating show she was contractually obligated to attend today.

She bypassed the pastel, innocent, floral dresses the original host loved. She left them piled on the floor. Instead, she tossed in heavy combat boots, ripped black denim, and vintage leather jackets.

Sloane zipped up the massive suitcase.

She slid a pair of dark, oversized aviator sunglasses onto her face, hiding her eyes completely.

She pulled out her phone, ordered an Uber Black, and walked out the door, the wheels of her suitcase clicking against the hardwood.

She stepped into the elevator, watching the numbers descend, fully ready to bring her specific brand of chaos to national television.