Transmigrated as the wife of obsessive villian

The lingering ache in her chest, a phantom echo of her last moments, slowly faded. Amelia blinked, her eyes struggling to adjust to the unfamiliar, opulent room. The scent of polished wood and expensive perfume replaced the stale air of her cramped apartment. Confusion, thick and disorienting, swirled in her mind. Where was she?

A woman's voice, laced with a saccharine sweetness that grated on Amelia's ears, cut through the fog.

"Sister, what happened to you? How did you lose consciousness?"

Before Amelia could process the absurdity of the question or the sheer unfamiliarity of the face hovering above her, a gruff, impatient voice followed.

"Can you please stop creating trouble? Mr. Anderson is coming in two minutes, and I don't want any drama."

Mr. Anderson? The name struck a chord, a chilling echo from the novel she'd devoured just hours before. A cold dread seeped into her bones. She pushed herself up, the luxurious bed feeling alien beneath her. This wasn't her house. This wasn't her life. She was Amelia Smith, the minor character, the one engaged to the villain.

"Who are you people? And what am I doing here?" she managed, her voice a reedy whisper, the confusion outweighing the fear for a moment.

The livid man, who she now terrifyingly recognized as her 'father,' gritted his teeth.

"What are you planning now? Is this a new drama to not get married to Mr. Anderson?"

Amelia's heart plummeted. The novel. It was real. And she was trapped.