Daily Life of a Transmigrating Villain

The silence of the night was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of city lights filtering through the drawn curtains. The woman jerked awake, gasping for air.

"Haaah...! Haaah...!" Her body lurched forward, drenched in sweat as her trembling hands gripped the silk sheets. She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to steady the pounding headache that had become her unwelcome companion these past weeks.

Her chest heaved, the room spinning as the remnants of the nightmare lingered like a phantom. Disjointed images flashed in her mind—faces she didn't know, names she couldn't place.

"Damien Raphael... Lin Wanruo..." she muttered, her voice cracking. "Who are you?"

The name Damien Raphael echoed in her thoughts, vivid and unshakable. Despite never meeting him, his face haunted her dreams, accompanied by emotions too raw to ignore.

"Why me?" she whispered hoarsely, dragging herself out of bed.

Her bare feet sank into the thick carpet as she shuffled toward the window, drawn by the faint glow of the city. The chilled glass against her palm grounded her momentarily, but her headache only throbbed harder as if punishing her for seeking clarity.

Returning to the bed, she grabbed her phone. Enough of this. Maybe there's something out there—an answer.

With trembling fingers, she typed: Damien Raphael.

Search results flooded the screen, illuminating the dim room. Her eyes scanned through the articles. A name once synonymous with power, wealth, and prestige, now tarnished.

"Ex-heir of the Raphael Group... disowned by his family for... questionable habits?" she read aloud. Her brow furrowed as she scrolled further. The deeper she dug, the more confused she became. Scandals, betrayals, and a fall from grace that seemed straight out of fiction.

The phone buzzed in her hand, pulling her out of her thoughts. The caller ID flashed Amelia.

She sighed, her headache spiking. Perfect timing.

Swiping to answer, she pressed the phone to her ear. "Amelia. It's late."

A cool, composed voice greeted her, tinged with a hint of impatience. "Late for you, maybe. For me, it's business hours. How's your headache?"

"As bad as ever," she replied, rubbing her temple.

"You really need to get that checked," Amelia said, her tone brisk but concerned. "Anyway, when are you coming to Camphorian City? You're stalling, and you know it."

She let out a weary sigh, leaning back against the headboard. "It'll take some time. I have to meet with Prince Asher first to finalize the engagement."

Amelia's silence stretched for a moment before she spoke, her tone sharp. "You're still going through with that?"

"Yes, Amelia, I am," she replied, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

"Look," Amelia began, her words clipped and professional. "I'm saying this as someone who cares about you and your future. This engagement—this whole 'marrying for peace and quiet' fantasy—isn't the solution you think it is."

She frowned, her free hand massaging her temple. "Amelia, I know what I want. I don't need a lecture."

"No, what you need is a reality check," Amelia retorted. "You think tying yourself to a prince will magically solve everything? What happens when his world, his ambitions, start clashing with yours? Do you plan to spend the rest of your life as an ornament, smiling for the cameras while someone else dictates your every move?"

"I don't want independence like you, Amelia," she snapped, the headache worsening. "I want a family. A husband who'll handle the chaos while I can just... breathe for once."

Amelia's tone softened, but her words remained firm. "I understand that, but breathing doesn't mean suffocating your potential. Independence isn't about doing everything alone—it's about having the power to choose. Right now, it feels like you're running from responsibility, not toward peace."

"I'm tired," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I don't want to argue."

"I know," Amelia said gently. "But you're capable of so much more. You're royalty, for heaven's sake. You have resources, influence, and a sharp mind. Why not use them for yourself instead of tying them to someone else's dreams?"

The woman pressed her forehead against her palm, the throbbing in her head growing unbearable. "Amelia, please. I just want some stability. Can't you respect that?"

"I can," Amelia replied, her voice softening. "But I don't want to see you lose yourself in the process. Promise me you'll at least think about what I've said."

She closed her eyes, sighing heavily. "Fine. I'll think about it. Happy?"

"For now," Amelia said, her professional tone returning. "Get some rest—and for the love of everything, see a doctor about that headache."

"By the way, Amelia," she said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips despite the dull throb in her head. "What happened to your boyfriend? What was his name again...?, you never told me."

There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by a low, deliberate cough. "That's not important right now," Amelia said, her tone suddenly brisk. "Anyway, like I said, you should really see a doctor for that headache."

Before she could press further, the line abruptly went dead. She stared at her phone, blinking in surprise, before shaking her head. "Figures," she muttered, tossing the phone onto the bed.

The call ended, leaving her in the quiet stillness of her room once more. She leaned back, closing her eyes, but the reprieve was short-lived.

A sharp knock at the door startled her.

She groaned, forcing herself up. Wrapping her robe around her, she moved toward the door, the headache now a dull roar in her skull.

When she opened it, the family butler stood before her, his face grim.

"Miss, the master's health has taken a critical turn. We must leave immediately."

Her blood ran cold. "What? How bad is it?"

"Very serious, Miss. The doctors are with him, but they've requested your presence immediately."

Panic surged through her as she grabbed her belongings. "Give me a moment."

Within minutes, the hotel lobby was a flurry of activity. Her guards, dressed in sharp suits, fell into formation as she descended the grand staircase. The opulence of her surroundings blurred as urgency overtook her senses.

Outside, the convoy was already prepared—a line of sleek, black luxury cars glinting under the streetlights. She slid into the lead car without a word, her butler briefing her on the situation.

The fleet moved swiftly through the city, their path cleared by the guards stationed ahead. Her hands gripped the armrest tightly as the cityscape blurred past her window.

Her father. The thought of losing him, despite their strained relationship, sent a pang of fear through her chest. For all her wealth and status, she felt powerless.

The convoy approached the estate, its towering gates swinging open. The grandeur of the mansion, with its gilded arches and sprawling lawns, seemed cold and unwelcoming now.

As the car rolled to a stop, she stepped out, the crisp night air biting against her skin. The butler led her inside, his pace brisk and efficient.

The house was eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of medical equipment. Her heart pounded as she entered the master bedroom.

There he lay—her father, pale and fragile, surrounded by doctors working tirelessly. The sight was a stark reminder of her own mortality and the fragility of even the strongest among them.

"Father," she whispered, her voice trembling as she approached his bedside.

The weight of the night, the decisions ahead, and the storm brewing within her was almost too much to bear.

But for now, she had to focus.

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Damien sauntered across the room, his shirt hanging loose with a couple of buttons undone, and fixed Natasha with a steady, calculating look. "Yefan's downfall is already in motion," he started, his voice smooth but with an edge of quiet confidence. "It's not just about the money; it's really about credibility. Once that goes, everything else falls apart."

Natasha leaned back, her fatigue slipping away as curiosity kicked in. "But how? He's been super careful… even cocky. What makes you so sure this is gonna work?"

Damien grinned, a spark of mischief dancing in his golden eyes. "Yefan's big on his reputation—he makes everyone believe he's untouchable. That's his strength, but it's also his Achilles' heel. The second doubt creeps in for those around him, he'll unravel faster than he can fix things."

He pulled out his phone, flipping through a stream of messages and what looked like fake documents. "I've set up a trap, Natasha. A deal that's way too tempting—one where he'll throw in a lot of cash, thinking he's outsmarting me. But each layer of that deal is crafted to expose every flaw. His mistakes, his greed, his desperation—it'll all come out."

Natasha frowned, biting her lip a bit. "But what if he figures out it's a scam before it all blows up?"

"That's the beauty of it," Damien said, his tone sharp and confident. "I've added just enough truth to make it believable. He'll spot opportunities he can't resist. By the time he figures out it's a setup, it'll already be game over. All the key players around his dad will lose faith, his allies will turn against him, and his influence will just fall apart."

Her eyes widened as his words sank in. "So, it's not just about taking his cash… it's about tearing down his whole network?"

"Exactly," Damien replied, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "Without his credibility, Yefan is merely a shadow of his father. That's where we can hit him hard. With you showing off your breakthrough, your dad is gonna have the upper hand—better support from the family, plus proof that his leadership is thriving."

Natasha let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of what he was saying. "You've really put a lot of thought into this."

"I always do," Damien said, stepping in closer. His fingers brushed against her cheek, a rare tender moment softening his usually hard features. "But you're gonna need to back me up in the future, with all your heart… and body."

Her cheeks flamed as his touch lingered. "Thanks, Damien," she managed to whisper. "You're such a perv."

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