"Ugh." I collapsed onto the bed with a heavy thump and a long sigh.
I covered my eyes with my arm and bit my lip. Damn, that was exhausting. It was just dinner, but felt like arguing a case in court—only this time, every sentence had to sound like it crawled out of a history book, or I'd be doomed.
And that dinner—ugh. I'm not sure if it was the atmosphere, my mood, or if the food was just genuinely bland.
I stared at the ceiling.
Let's see... I used to work late nights at the law firm, grabbed food from convenience stores, got stabbed multiple times, bled to death, woke up in someone else's body—in a fictional novel, of all places—and have been working my brain to survive and avoid being burned alive... and the only decent meal I get here is a bland dinner.
Fantastic. I might actually die from malnutrition before any of the nobles get the chance to kill me.
A faint knocked and scent of lavender and starch drifted through the air as she moved quietly when she entered the room, lighting a single candle by the bedside. Night had fallen softly outside, wrapping everything in black. The quiet made each sound—each rustle, each breath—stand out clearly.
"My lady," Margot said softly, setting the linens on the chair near the hearth. "Would you like me to help you prepare for bed?"
I opened my mouth, ready to decline—it felt too awkward, too strange having someone serve me like this. Earlier, back in the room before we even reached the estate, I'd also tried to stop the maid from helping me, but she had moved so quickly, so naturally, that the words never even left my lips. And now, it was happening again.
Before I could speak, she was already stepping forward to assist me, her movements precise and practiced. For a moment, I just froze, caught off guard by how effortlessly she took over.
I realized this was normal here… expected, even. People like her were trained to serve without hesitation, and people like me—well, people like Laetitia—were expected to accept it. So instead, I swallowed the awkwardness, nodded slightly.
Well, I'm too tired anyways to do it myself. That dinner drained all my energy.
"Go ahead." My voice firm and confident.
The fabric slipped from my shoulders with a whisper, pooling at my feet. Beneath it, the nightdress she unfolded looked deceptively simple—a pale cream chemise, long-sleeved, trimmed with delicate lace at the cuffs. But when I touched it, my fingers paused.
The texture was different. Coarser than what I remembered from home—cotton, silk blends, even cheap polyester that clung smooth and weightless against the skin.
This… this was linen. Real, heavy, hand-woven linen. It felt rough in places, soft in others, carrying the faint scent of sun-dried flax and soap. The weave wasn't perfectly even. It breathed differently.
"How did they even sleep in this?" I muttered silently under my breath, almost amused. Margot glanced up, confused, but I waved her off. "Nothing. Go on."
She slipped the gown off completely and eased the chemise over my head. The fabric whispered down my arms, cool at first, then warming to my skin.
Margot's hands were deft and gentle, slightly shaky as she tied the ribbons near my shoulders, her head bowed the whole time. "Shall I braid your hair, my lady?"
I nodded again, sitting at the edge of the bed as she moved behind me. Her fingers combed through my hair with careful precision, but I barely felt it. My eyes caught the window and how the leaves from the tree's softly sway in the wind. I remembered it again—the man I'd seen earlier in the garden.
That silhouette. The way he'd looked up at my window, his gaze steady and unreadable before turning away. I couldn't see his face properly since it was hidden beneath his cloak.
Who was he? A servant? A guard? A noble?? Or someone sent by one of the many enemies Laetitia had earned throughout her vain and cruel lifetime?
The memory of his gaze clung like smoke—thin, but impossible to ignore.
The problem was… I didn't know who wanted me dead first.
The old Laetitia had been a storm wrapped in silk and jewels—a woman who burned bridges like it was some kind of a sport. Enemies, rivals, spurned lovers, bitter friends—Her social map might as well have been a battlefield. How resilient of her.
What I faced earlier wasn't even a true battle, it was merely the surface, and yet here I am—exhausted.
but couldn't help but sympathize her.
A life filled with silent suffering and hidden bruises—yet one she spent inflicting pain on others just the same.
I sighed quietly, the sound drowned by the soft creak of the brush through my hair. I can't afford to be careless, I thought. The body I was in wasn't supposed to live past that trial. By all rights, Laetitia D'Aubigny was meant to die—disgraced, alone, and unloved.
But she hadn't.
I had taken her place and changed the event.
And fate, stories—whatever force rule this world—they didn't like broken scripts.
My hands clenched into fists in my lap. No, I thought fiercely. I won't be erased just because some author decided villains don't deserve endings. If this world thought it could drag me back into the plot's noose, it would have to fight me for it.
"You're quiet tonight, my lady," Margot said timidly. "Is something troubling you?"
I blinked, realizing my shoulders had gone stiff. "Nothing I can't handle," I said—but it came out harsher and more arrogant than I intended. I was surprised. I guess it's just in her nature to sound like that.
She immediately nodded and didn't continue to pry. When she finished braiding, she stepped back. "Would you like me to stay, or—"
"No," I interrupted. "You may go. Rest, Margot. It's been a long day."
I saw her flinch and then curtsied with a deep bow. "G-goodnight, Lady D'Aubigny." Then she left, shutting the door with a soft click.
Silence again. Only the faint crackle of the dying fire and the rhythmic tick of the mantle clock filled the air. I moved toward the bed, fingers brushing over the embroidered coverlet—fine needlework, intricate patterns of vines and roses stitched in faded gold thread. Even the mattress had that uneven softness of hand-stuffed down. Luxurious, but heavy. Like sleeping in the middle of history.
I lay down slowly, staring up at the canopy, its sheer curtains billowing faintly with every breath of wind from the half-open window. I should've been exhausted. My body ached for rest, but my mind wouldn't shut up.
The man in the garden.
The trial.
The faces of those who'd watched me fall.
Laetitia's family.
And her—Princess Serenelle.
Her name tasted bitter even in thought. The novel had painted her like some fragile angel—sweet voice, porcelain skin. The ideal heroine. The kind who could cry once and have nations kneel for her. But beneath that charm… there was steel. Cold, quiet hatred. I know she is because while reading the novel a lot of reader's like me also commented their opinion about how she was 'odd', 'out of the character' and 'creepy'.
Strangely, In the book, it was Serenelle's testimony—her tear-streaked face, her trembling accusation—that condemned Laetitia before the court. "She poisoned him," the princess had said. "She wanted his title, his wealth, his heart."
And the world believed her.
But... that didn't happened
The author never bothered explaining why Serenelle hated Laetitia so much. The narrative didn't care for motives when there was drama to feed. But now, lying here, I couldn't accept that blank space anymore. Hatred like that didn't just appear out of nowhere.
I understand why Céleste and the rest of the family but her?
What could Laetitia have done? Was it jealousy? Betrayal? Or something deeper—something personal, buried under layers of royal secrecy and noble politics? Or is it really just how vain and evil Laetitia is?
I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temples. "If that woman's hatred was enough to destroy Laetitia once," I muttered, "it can damn sure do it again."
The thought made my stomach twist. I'd seen how far jealousy could drive people—even in my previous world. Cases where envy turned to obsession, friendship to murder. Serenelle's smile in the novel had always seemed too perfect. Too deliberate.
"No one hides goodness that well," I whispered.
I turned onto my side, the sheets rustling softly. My mind began structuring itself instinctively, the way it used to back when I was still a lawyer. Logical, methodical, cold when it needed to be. If I wanted to survive, I couldn't play the heroine. I had to think like an investigator.
Step one, identify all possible motives. Step two, trace connections between Serenelle, Julian, and Laetitia's downfall. Step three, expose whatever truth the novel refused to tell.
A humorless smile tugged at my lips. "Old habits die hard—apparently even across worlds."
But it made sense. The moment I altered the outcome of the trial, I'd changed the story's foundation. Like throwing a stone into still water, the ripples would spread.
Every choice I made from now on could cause another divergence—small or catastrophic. The butterfly effect wasn't just theory here—it was law.
I stared at the candlelight flickering against the wall. "If I survive, it means Laetitia's ghost doesn't have to," I murmured. "But if I fail…"
My hands clenched around the sheets. Then both of us vanish.
For a long while, I just listened—to the clock, to the wind outside brushing against the windowpane, to the soft sigh of the house settling into the night. It was strange, lying there among the remnants of another woman's sins and luxuries. Her perfume still clung faintly to the pillows—rich and heady, the kind of scent that announced itself before you even entered the room. Her jewelry gleamed quietly on the dresser, her books lined neatly in rows.
Everything about this life screamed her. Every polished surface, every silken hem, every mirror whispering her face back at me. It wasn't just a second chance—it was possession. And it felt bitter on my tongue.
"I'm living among ghosts," I whispered. "And they all wear her face."
My thoughts circled back—again—to the man outside. His gaze, steady and too deliberate. What if he wasn't just a servant? What if he was watching? Sent by someone—by Serenelle herself—to make sure the villainess didn't outlive her story?
If that were true, then my existence was already marked. A villainess isn't meant to live past her fall. She's meant to die beautifully—tragically, conveniently—so the heroine's light can shine brighter.
My jaw tightened. "No," I said aloud, the word cutting through the quiet. "Not this time."
If this world expected me to stay within its neat lines, it was going to choke on its own script. I wasn't here to survive. I was here to fight back.
I sat up, pushing the sheets aside, heart thudding hard against my ribs. The moonlight spilled across the floor in silver ribbons, catching the edge of the mirror on the dresser. I stood, crossing the room until my reflection met me halfway.
The woman who stared back looked nothing like the frightened prisoner from days ago. Her hair gleamed dark as ink in the pale light, her green eyes sharp, alive. Dangerous. The same rose with thorns—only now, the thorns looked deliberate.
"Villainess or not," I said softly, meeting my own gaze, "I'm the one writing this story now."
The night air slipped in through the open window, cool against my skin. I walked to it, resting my palms on the sill. The gardens stretched below, silvered under the moon. For a fleeting second, I thought I saw movement again—a flicker of shadow near the hedges. Maybe him. Maybe not. But I didn't look away this time.
"Watch all you want," I whispered. "But if you come for me, make sure you don't miss."
The wind carried my words away, scattering them among the rustling leaves.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl cried. The clock struck once—midnight.
I turned back toward the room, eyes catching on the desk by the window. Papers, quills, sealing wax. I sat down, pulled one sheet toward me, and dipped the pen in ink. The nib scratched faintly as I began to write—names, places, connections in my native language so no one will understand it. My first real evidence board, born out of candlelight and paranoia.
Princess Serenelle—motive unknown. Julian—accomplice or pawn? Nanny, servants, family—possible links.
The ink bled slightly into the fibers of the paper, but I didn't stop until the page was filled with tangled lines and notes. When I finally leaned back, I felt lighter. Focused. Alive.
I folded the paper neatly, tucking it into the drawer. "First step," I murmured. "Find the truth behind Serenelle's hatred. Second… make sure no one can use it against me again. Third, make them pay."
I rose and looked out the window once more. The sky stretched endless and cold, the stars sharp as needles against the dark. Somewhere out there, my enemies slept soundly.
"I may be living in your story," I said under my breath, "but I won't die in it."
The candle guttered behind me, its flame flickering low before catching steady again. I stood there until my heartbeat slowed, until the fear dulled into something harder. Determination.
Tomorrow, I'd start small—observe, listen, gather. I'd learn who still whispered Laetitia's name in hate, who smiled too sweetly when they saw me alive. I'd uncover every hidden motive, every buried sin. Because truth wasn't just power—it was survival.
And if the world of this novel wanted its villainess to fall, it would have to rewrite itself to make me.
I smiled faintly, eyes still on the horizon. "I'll fight your story with my own," I whispered. "And this time, I'll win."
The night pressed close around me, soft and cold. The moonlight traced the sharp edge of my jaw, and for the first time since I'd woken in this body, I didn't feel trapped.
I felt awake.
Alive.
And cringe may it sound but, I'll bring them danger.