The first thing Alice McKinley registered was the agonizing throb behind her eyes, a percussion section of pain that mocked the gentle chirping of unseen birds. The second was the dizzying scent of lavender and polished wood, utterly alien to the stale coffee and recycled air of her usual apartment. Where am I? she thought, attempting to open her eyes, but the mere effort sent a new wave of nausea through her.
"My Lady, are you quite well?"
The voice was a low, resonant baritone, laced with a familiar, yet out-of-place, formality. It was Ren. Ren Watson, Alice's mind supplied, even before her eyes fluttered open. Her own creation.
She blinked, the world swimming into focus. Sunlight, filtered through sheer, embroidered curtains, painted stripes across a vast, opulent room she'd only ever described in her manuscript. A four-poster bed, draped in silk, was her current perch. And standing beside it, a silver tray laden with a delicate teacup, was Ren.
He looked exactly as she had written him: impeccably dressed in a dark waistcoat, his dark hair falling just so over his forehead, his eyes a deep, intelligent grey that missed nothing. He was effortlessly handsome, and utterly, terrifyingly real.
This isn't happening. This isn't real. I'm dreaming. I'm dead. I'm…
A gasp escaped her lips, raw and unladylike. "Ren!" she croaked, the name feeling foreign on her tongue. The voice that came out was higher, softer than her own, imbued with a delicate lilt she hadn't possessed. Estelle's voice.
Ren's expression remained perfectly neutral, but Alice, his creator, could practically see the subtle tightening around his eyes – 'the look' she'd described so many times. It wasn't quite a glare, more a silent, analytical assessment. She's acting strangely, he's thinking. This is not the Duchess.
"Yes, My Lady?" he replied, his voice calm, steadying. "You've been unconscious for nearly a day. Do you recall what transpired?"
Unconscious for a day? The last thing Alice remembered was the sickening lurch, the blinding flash of light, and the roar of a train. Her own death. This wasn't a dream. This was transmigration. And not just into any story, but her story, one that had already begun to unravel thanks to that rogue "wish."
Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at her throat. She, Alice McKinley, a twenty-six-year-old author with a penchant for instant noodles and messy buns, was now the Ice Duchess Estelle Marillia. The villainess she had meticulously crafted, the woman whose miserable end she had already written. The woman who, in the version the world had read, had wished she hadn't fallen for the Prince.
"A-a train," Alice stammered, the word sounding absurd in this refined chamber. "There was a… a really big train."
Ren's eyebrow arched, almost imperceptibly. "A train, My Lady? There are no such conveyances within the capital. Perhaps you had a vivid dream during your fever." He reached out, his cool fingers brushing against her forehead. His touch was professional, yet she felt a ghost of a tremor. He was checking her temperature. He was concerned.
"No, it wasn't a dream," Alice insisted, pushing herself upright. The silk sheets rustled around her, and she suddenly became aware of the weight of her long, white nightgown. It was the kind of garment Estelle would wear – expensive, impractical, and annoyingly restrictive. "I… I was pushed. By a fan. A really angry fan."
Ren's expression, for the first time, flickered. Confusion, stark and brief, crossed his features before he regained his composure. "Pushed, My Lady? By whom? And what is… a 'fan'?"
This was going to be harder than she thought. How did one explain internet fandom, disgruntled readers, and authorial transmigration to a loyal, 19th-century-esque butler?
"A… an admirer," Alice tried, grasping for a suitable term. "One who was very… disappointed. With the story."
Ren's grey eyes narrowed. "Disappointed? With your story, My Lady? Which story might that be?" His tone was polite, but the underlying steel was unmistakable. He was testing her. The real Estelle would know precisely what Ren was referring to, the whispers about her ruthless family dealings, the grand narrative of her ascent.
Alice swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "The one… about the Duchess," she mumbled, feeling ridiculous. "The Ice Duchess."
A muscle in Ren's jaw tensed. "Indeed. A common moniker, given your reputation, My Lady." He paused, pouring a cup of tea with practiced grace. "Perhaps a spot of chamomile will help clarify your thoughts. You've been rambling about curious things since you awoke. Trains, fans, and… a particularly vexing desire for instant noodles."
Alice froze. Instant noodles. She must have said that out loud in her delirium. He was observant, almost supernaturally so. He knew Estelle's every habit, every preference. He would undoubtedly know that the Ice Duchess had never, in her entire life, craved a bowl of MSG-laden convenience food.
She looked at her reflection in the polished silver of the teapot Ren held. Not Alice's reflection. Estelle's. Pale skin, striking white hair spread across the pillow, and those unnervingly cool blue eyes. Her own blue eyes. The ones she'd invented for her character.
This is it, Alice. A cold dread settled in her stomach. You're not just reading your story anymore. You're living it. And Ren, your most loyal creation, is already onto you.
"Thank you, Ren," she said, trying to mimic Estelle's regal, slightly aloof tone. It felt forced, unnatural. "I… I believe I am indeed feeling a bit… disoriented. Perhaps I do require a moment to recollect myself."
Ren merely nodded, a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher in his eyes. He handed her the teacup, his fingers brushing hers. His hand was warm, steady. A genuine, human warmth.
As she took a tentative sip of the tea, the floral scent wafted up, calming her frayed nerves slightly. But as Ren turned to quietly arrange some papers on her bedside table, Alice caught sight of her own pale hand, resting on the silken sheet. She traced the delicate lines of her palm. The hand of a Duchess. A hand that, if she couldn't play her part convincingly, would soon be clasping the cold iron bars of a dungeon. And then, the chopping block.
The author had become the character, and the first act of survival was to fool the one person who knew the Ice Duchess better than anyone: her silently vigilant butler, Ren Watson.