After the incident of the "heavenly fist" that nearly went down in the history of criminality, I—Liliane von Hohenberg—the potential goddess of love and makeshift hero driven by panic—could finally breathe a sigh of relief.
The carriage gently rocked, leaving the forest where the robbers' pride lay buried alongside two eggs of honor that would never be the same.
"Mary," I said, sipping the tea that, for some reason, tasted better after the chaos of life.
"Yes, Mistress?"
"If I die today, please write on my gravestone: 'She lived with style, died with a fist.'" I said, contemplating a situation where the robbers might return for revenge.
What do I expect as a villainess in this novel? Maybe after avoiding the engagement, death will come in another way, right?
But behind the death joke, Mary gave me a flat look. "Very well, Mistress. I will ensure the epitaph is written in starry, sparkling ink."
I smiled with satisfaction. "Thank you. I want my death to be aesthetic."
