Isha Smith had problems.

Plenty of them, in fact. But her most dangerous addiction—the one that made her lose sleep, skip meals, and occasionally question her life choices—was not caffeine, social media, or even online shopping. No. It was novels. Specifically, the dark, deliciously forbidden kind. The ones so spicy they made pearl-clutching aunties faint and respectable book clubs dissolve into whispered scandals.

Isha lived for those books. She devoured them like forbidden fruit, savouring every possessive growl, every morally grey anti-hero, and every scene that would have gotten her banned from polite society.

So when Chains of Forbidden Love exploded onto the shelves accompanied by the wildest rumours she had ever heard, Isha was equal parts sceptical and intrigued. The rumours claimed that anyone who read the book would find themselves trapped inside it—living the nightmare life of the villainess, only to meet a gruesome end at the hands of the second male lead.

At first, she laughed it off. “Please. People will say anything for clicks.”

But the rumours refused to die. They multiplied. Trending hashtags flooded Instagram and YouTube: #CursedBook, #SwallowedByTheNovel, #VillainessNightmare. Video after video featured terrified readers describing how they had been “sucked into the pages” and forced to experience the villainess’s tragic fate firsthand.

Isha scrolled past yet another dramatic confession and snorted. “Swallowed inside the book? What is this, some kind of literary python? Get a grip, people.”

She was convinced it was all a clever marketing stunt by the author. Or mass hysteria. Or both. But when even the government stepped in and banned the novel, her curiosity sharpened into something almost painful.

And everyone knows what they say about curiosity and cats.

That same evening, Isha practically body-slammed the last remaining copy off the bookstore counter, ignoring the cashier’s horrified gasp. She clutched the book to her chest like a thief escaping with stolen treasure and sprinted home, heart pounding with the thrill of doing something deliciously reckless.

The moment she cracked open the first page, she was gone—hooked, sunk, completely lost.

The female lead, Seraphina Lysandra, was the textbook definition of fragile innocence: a nineteen-year-old orphan with an angel’s face, wide doe eyes, and a personality so sweet it could cause tooth decay. She had been adopted by the mother of two dangerously attractive brothers—Damian and Vincent Veyrault—and naturally found herself caught in the middle of their icy, borderline-obsessive rivalry for her heart.

Classic love-triangle nonsense.

But no self-respecting dark romance could survive without its villainess. Enter Valeria Duclair: wealthy heiress, ruthless CEO of a luxury fashion empire, stunningly beautiful, politically powerful, and engaged to Vincent through a cold, calculated business marriage. Consumed by jealousy, Valeria schemed and plotted against the innocent Seraphina with every underhanded trick in the book. In the end, she crossed one line too many and was brutally killed by Vincent himself.

And then—because the author clearly possessed zero mercy—Seraphina declared she loved both brothers equally and married them. At the same time.

Isha slammed the book shut and scoffed so hard her throat hurt.

“Seriously? This is the big twist? The villainess had money, power, beauty, a loving family—everything—and she still chose to chase a man who didn’t even want her? Girl, buy a yacht, sip champagne, and stop humiliating yourself in public!”

She flopped back onto her bed with dramatic flair, arms spread like a starfish.

“Ugh. This is exactly why I say men are walking red flags wrapped in expensive suits. And if the female lead was going to end up with both brothers, why on earth wasn’t this marketed as reverse harem? False advertising at its finest!”

Her head throbbed, but she couldn’t deny the truth: she had both loved and hated the book in equal, ferocious measure. Especially the spicy chapters. Those had been a solid, scorching ten out of ten.

Remembering the ridiculous rumours, Isha sat up, eyes wide with mock anticipation. She waited. One minute. Two. Five. Fifteen.

Nothing.

She glanced at the clock. Past midnight.

“Great,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. “Even Cinderella’s magic had a curfew. This book couldn’t even deliver on its own curse. What a scam. I should demand a refund.”

With a resigned sigh, she placed the book on her nightstand, pulled the blanket over her head, and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

But while Isha slept, the book awakened.

Its pages fluttered violently, as though caught in an invisible hurricane. The curtains whipped and snapped like living things. A pale, eerie blue light leaked from between the covers, growing brighter with every passing second. A soft, distorted voice slithered into the room, dripping with malicious amusement:

y̸̼̳̟̻̾͘o̶̡̜̞͔̹͕͇̒̑̓̎͒͌͋̆ù̶͔̥̩̗̜̠̻̾͜ ̴̢̟̘̜̖͙͒̏͋̽t̶̻̂h̸̥̼͔͈̀̿̈̈́͑͝ḯ̷̧̖͕̪̪̮̀̌̍͋͝͠n̵̺̳͇͗̍k̷̨̤̟̾̓̂͌ ̴̡̹̝̪̖͈̇̒̇̒͗ͅt̸̹̤̂ͅh̵̛͖̫̮̮̪͖̱̔̄̂͐̎͝e̷̢̧̲̬̺̪͂̉͊̃͋̇ ̸̧̗̫͙̝͈̣̰̀̽̋̅̓͝͝v̵̺̔̐̓̋̄̈͆̚i̷͖̺͂̅̽̚l̴̳̏l̵̲̦̯͇̂͛̚͜a̸̛̗̲̙͍̭̗͈͛́̍͊̊͒̕i̵̯̐̾n̶̡̛̝̼̈́̓͝ͅę̸͓̳͖̝̀̈́ͅs̶̫̏̓̇͘͝͠s̴͔͖͙̙̤̲͆͐͗͜͠ ̴̺͍͕͙͍̺̎͛͌̀i̷̥͒̀̽͝s̵͙̞̣͍̹̏ ̷̛̟͖̅͌͌̾̽̎͝s̷͉͑̂t̸̫̮͓̩̺̦̽͆ṷ̷͈̞̞̬̰̳͊̇̽̑̐͑́͠p̸͖̰̓̚͝ḯ̵͔̳͊ḍ̴̮̟̝͇̼̥̓̂͐̎ ̴̡̡̣̙̻̗̈́̈́̐̈́ț̴̢̡̬̜̟͑̔̀̽̆̚o̴̡̞̹͓͇͛͛̈̆ ̸̧̖̤̤̎̅̃̒̏̅͠l̷͔͗̎̽ò̷̡̢̜͔̙͆̏͂͑v̴͎̐̅̋̾̉ě̴̼͔͚͗͝.̷͚̬̗̳̦̆̉̀͌̌̃́.̴͇̬̼͉̭̌̀̈̔̎.̷̖͗̄̇̾̓͠.̶̢̠͈̫̤̰̬̌̇͛́͜ ̶̡̡̹̭͚͍͙͇̈́̈́̓́͠l̷̢͕̎̏͜͝e̷͇̖̭̓͆͜t̴̡͚̜̮͓͒̀̋̕'̴͙̈́̿̀̉͗̕ŝ̷͚͚̦̲̞̼͎̏̍͆̌ ̷͓̈̍̀s̴̨͇̱̻̤̮͑̈́̉̓̅̊̌̕ḛ̸̊͆͌̐è̸̡̥̱̮̥͎͇͌͂̇͑̕.̷̗̈͂͆̎.̶̞̉̊̈͆̑͊͆͘ẖ̶̢̢̨͎̫͖̗̈́͆̀̈͘o̴̧̦̭͚̝̻͉͒͒̽́͝w̸̛̮͎̳̄́̄́̒͌̚ ̶͚̞̭̲͋͐͛̓̌͂̃̚w̵̳̣̰̩̟̠̓́͋i̶̜̝̔̑̌́̕͝l̴̳̙͉̺͆͑̀͆̀̓͝l̵̛̗̝͆̋͆̑͒ ̸̛̼̓͐̈́̓̀̕y̵̨̆̉͂͋́̊̆͝o̶̢͍̟͎͓͚̥̠͊̅͋̈́̎u̴̦̲̦͗̾̂̀͛̀͛̾ ̶̖͑̔́ŗ̸͕͎͚̖̘̘̆͜e̵̤̖̍a̴͙̼̬̦̭̖̩̓̑̀̋͜c̷̨̭̻̟̭͓͕̼̄t̶͔͂̇̑͊̄͒̂̚ ̸̖̟̦̯͔̜̝͇͌͛͋̂ḯ̴̧̞̺̥̭͓n̵̛͇̟̗͚̗̹͂̏͛̒̔͝ ̷̖̫͕̞͐̏͜h̵̡̫̰̭̰̫̍̐̽͝ę̶̻̲̣̥̻̍̀̈̐̍̕͜r̶͖̪̝͍̫͗̂͗̊̕ ̸̥̺̣̲̟̭̳̱̔̾̂̒̇p̷͐̋ͅĺ̷̺̠̲̭͉̦̻͊͋͆̏͘͘ͅā̵̡̡͇̅͆̇̃͝c̸̫͚͇͔͉͐̋̈̃̿̄ͅe̵͇̟̋͋̀̃͒̊̕̚.̵̥͕̀͐.̵̧̺̗͓̯̦͖͉̈́͆̋͛̒.̶̢̢̬̬͓̱̖̞̐.̴̱̖̩̱͊̐.̷͖̱̝̏́̑̐́̉͘.̸̧̧̢̨̜̮͆̒̒̿̎̓̔

The wind roared louder, knocking over her pen holder. The clack of metal on the floor jolted Isha awake-just in time to hear glitchy, distorted words echoing in her head:

N̵̥͆̀̀̿̆̈͂͒ȏ̸̺̟̎t̵̨̩̗̗̝̉̀̿͗ ̷̨̰̤͙̂̒̐ȅ̶̯͕̺̩̱͗͜v̵̥͂͗́̾̈͘e̶̛̲̍̑̒̈́̏͘ͅr̶̩̫̰̣̮̐́̈́̑́̐̈̈́ȳ̸̙̥̤̥̙̘̼͖͗͑̑ö̵̱́̂ņ̵̨͍̗͕͍͎̤͑̊̋́́͝ȩ̶̗̱̮͔̱̅̒̎̔ ̶̮̲̥̬͈̝͓̫̈́̀͋̈́̏̕w̵̬̌̆̎ẽ̵̮̹͚́r̵̨̩̰̥̲̲̭̓͒̽̔e̷̘̗͍̊̿̿͘ ̵̡̹̳͕̣̜̞̟̏a̴̧̠̿̿͛̄b̴̨̨̤̳̮̤̈̍͗͜l̴͇̙̄͗̍͂͒͒͑̌e̶̬̐̈́̈̐ ̸̮̰̬̣̬̈́t̴̮͇̠͔͚̱̫̰́͊̏ó̷̟̺̾̊̊ ̴̩͎̭̉̆͆̅̂̅̓s̴̰̭̠̾̐̉̏̉̏̓̀u̸̧̢̞͇͑̅͗̓ȑ̵̲͇͖̺̟̻̈́͑̌̿́̿͘ṽ̸͍i̸̼͈̍̌̄̊͝v̶͖̲̎̽̂̀̈́̕ͅè̷̡̲͖͖̳͐̋̏͊́ ̴̛̖̲̇́̎̌̃͒͆į̸̖͚̗͌̿̏̓̈́̽̕͠n̸̨̰͎͔̺̦̙̟͋ ̵̥̻͒̒̈́̏͐̕ḣ̶̛̺̇̀̀̽͝͝è̶̡̗͉͚̪r̵̼̰̪̭̹͝ ̷̨̠͖̯͇̽p̸̨̡̿̾͌͗̑͝l̶̞̓̿ä̶͈̤̭͚́́͊̆͝c̷̭̠̲̱̟͓̋́̉͒̕ͅe̶͕͚̤̦͇̜̋͛͝,̶̘̲̳̲̩̞̐ ̸̳̖͉͍̙̻̾̓͐̃͠l̵̢͆͛͂̌e̸̢̛͈̩̣̳͌̂̈̓̚̕̚t̵̳͎͖̫͌̃̈̉͋ͅ'̷͖̭̭̹͎̮͋́͑̃̄͜ͅs̴̯̤̰̗̯̞͆̀̓͂̕ ̶̭͇̓̌̈̂̀͆͠s̵͓̗͙̖̲̆̐̓̌͑͊̕e̵̟̘͙̗̐͐͊̍̀̀͌̚ȅ̸͔̔ ̴̡̢̬̞̜͚̞̂̀̽͝ͅi̸͔͓̪̠̻̬̽̓͗͌f̷̙̺̈ ̷̨̡̛̩̣͍̲͙̖̌̔̅͋͐͠y̷̡̯̳͖̣̬͛̍͆̃̎̌͝o̷̥͓͇̯̱̹̐͂̈́̏̏͆̇͜u̴̬̘̿͛͘͘͠ ̵̧̰̠͗̑̌̽͘c̸̟͚̫̲͉̥̖͂͆̉a̶̹̼͛̈̎n̶̤͙̞̠͛ ̵̩̤̘̗̃̾̆̓͑̀͘c̷̘̮̗̗͍̼̝̀́̾̊̃͌̚͝h̸̞̮͙̠̎̉̈́ấ̸̞̱n̶̫̲̣̫͎̟͉͆́͒g̸̯̾̄͊̀̋̕̕ẽ̵̡͔̣͖̟͎͓̅́͂̒̕ ̷̮̯̂̂͛h̷̡̙̰̦͌́͂̕͜e̷̟̱͐r̷̘͚͍̭͉̩͙̓̉̍̀͜ ̵̮̯͓͇̰̹͛f̴̨̩͉̔̃̃̇̈́ͅã̴͙̦̼̍̇̋̌̐̚t̷̲͇̳̓̆́̌̓͘é̴̲̻̠͓̳̣͎̩͑

An evil laugh filled the room.

Isha blinked blearily at the glowing book. “Okay… so they weren’t lying after all. Or maybe someone is pulling the world’s most elaborate, expensive prank. And—wait. Why does that laugh sound exactly like Kira?!”

Before she could move, the pale glow surged, wrapping around her like the world's glitchiest electric blanket.

Before she could scramble away, the pale blue light surged forward, wrapping around her like a malfunctioning electric blanket from hell.

“Universe!” she shrieked, half terrified, half indignant. “This is so rude! I didn’t even do anyth—AAAAHHH!”

And then—nothing but darkness.

The first thing Isha felt when consciousness returned was a brutal, stabbing pain in her skull, as if someone had used her brain as a pincushion. Her hair was a wild mess, sticking out in every direction, and her body was tangled in layers of cool, luxurious silk sheets that smelled faintly of roses and expensive perfume.

She sat up slowly, groaning.

The room was enormous. Opulent beyond reason. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, heavy velvet curtains framed tall windows, and every piece of furniture looked like it belonged in a billionaire’s fever dream. Gold trim. Marble. Silk. It was like waking up inside a Pinterest board titled “Old Money Aesthetic.”

Then she looked down.

A silky, blood-red gown clung to her body like a second skin.

Isha’s jaw dropped. “Oh. No. No, no, no, no!”

She scrambled out of bed and stumbled toward the full-length mirror. The reflection that stared back at her was both breathtakingly beautiful and utterly terrifying in its familiarity.

Valeria Duclair.

Isha’s stomach plummeted. She clutched her chest, feeling the rapid, frantic beat of a heart that was no longer entirely hers.

“I dug my own grave the second I bought that cursed book,” she whispered, voice cracking with dawning horror. “Even after I knew it sucked readers inside and turned them into the villainess!”

She sank to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth like a child who had broken her favourite toy.

“It’s because I made fun of the book, isn’t it? The universe is petty and vindictive and now it wants me to learn a lesson the hard way.”

After a long moment, she stumbled back to her feet, pointed an accusatory finger at the ceiling, and declared with all the drama she could muster:

“Fine! Lesson accepted! But I am not scheming against an innocent, angel-faced cinnamon roll. I refuse! …Unless she turns out to be secretly evil from that one webtoon that I read. Then all bets are off.”

A sharp knock on the door made her jump nearly out of her skin.

Heart hammering, Isha straightened her spine, drawing on every reincarnation manhwa, Wattpad story, and anime trope she had ever consumed for strength."Okay."

Step one: figure out exactly which point in the plot I’ve landed in.

Step two: act like the real Valeria, or they’ll think I’ve lost my mind and ship me off to the nearest asylum. And I refuse to live out 'Wednesday Addams’ therapy arc.

She arranged herself elegantly on the edge of the bed, the red gown pooling around her like spilled wine, her posture ruler-straight and imperious.

“Come in.”

The door opened. A trembling young maid entered, carrying a soft pastel-pink gown that looked like it had escaped from a Disney princess movie.

Suppressing the urge to sigh at the girl’s obvious terror, Isha asked in a cool, perfectly aristocratic tone, “And what, pray tell, is this dress for?”

The maid nearly dropped the garment. “F-for you, my lady… for your engagement ceremony today. With Lord Veyrault.”

Isha’s eyes widened in pure panic.

Oh no.

Not this day.

The cursed engagement scene.

The exact moment Valeria publicly slapped Seraphina, turned both brothers against her, and set her doom clock ticking irreversibly toward a painful death.

Colour drained from her face.

“I’m doomed,” she whispered.

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To Be Continued

A/N :

Thank you so much for reading! Please remember to comment and rate-it keeps me motivated! ❤️

Father- Edward Veyrault

Age: 48

The Patriarch. Polished in public, merciless in private. Every deal, every smile, every silence is calculated. Family, to him, is legacy-not love.

"Empires aren't built on kindness-they're built on control."

Mother -Eveloria Veyrault

Age: 45

The Matriarch. Grace wrapped in iron. Fiercely protective of her sons, obsessed with appearances, and willing to excuse any sin if it keeps the Veyrault name untouchable.

"A Veyrault does not bend. The world bends for us."

Master-Damian Veyrault

Age: 29

The elder son. Ice in his veins, obsession in his heart. A strategist who plays chess with lives and guards his pieces with terrifying devotion.

"If you're mine, you'll stay mine-no matter the cost."

Master -Vincent Veyrault

Age: 27

The younger brother. Where Damian manipulates, Vincent dominates. His love is chains disguised as protection, his rage quick, his devotion deadly.

"You're not leaving me. Not now. Not ever."

Seraphina Lysandra

Age: 20

The Angel in the Veyraults' gilded cage. Fragile, soft, and untouchable-except by the brothers who would burn the world to keep her.

"Please... don't fight because of me."

Father -Victor Duclair

Age: 47

The Iron Fist. A father who measures love in victories, not affection. Family is duty, reputation, and strength. Nothing more.

"Win first. Bleed later."

Mother-Arabelle Duclair

Age: 43

The Rose with thorns. Polished, graceful, and sharp enough to gut you with a smile. Her words leave scars deeper than blades.

"A sharp smile wounds deeper than steel."

Master -Adrian Duclair

Age: 27

The Charmer. Witty, magnetic, dangerously underestimated. Masks his sharpness behind laughter, but his loyalty to family is iron-clad.

"I smile so you don't see me strike."

Lady-Valeria Duclair

Age: 24

The Infamous Villainess. Proud. Brilliant. Terrifyingly beautiful. Destined for jealousy, destruction... unless fate has other plans.

"Better a villainess than a victim, don't you think?"

Theo Laurent [imagine his hair long and eyes blue]

Age: 27

The Loyal Shadow. Calm, competent, and always watching. Valeria's right hand, her secret keeper, her sword in the dark.

"I follow orders... even the ones I don't agree with."

Lady -Sabine Marlowe

Age: 24

The Fierce Friend. Bold, wild, and unflinchingly loyal. She's laughter in the storm and fire in the dark.

"If you fall, I'm falling too-and we'll make it look fabulous."

✦ Valeria's POV Author's Note ✦

"Well, well... you've met the cast. A family of snakes, a few would-be angels, and me-the villainess you're all so eager to hate.

I do hope none of them disappointed you. If they did... tough luck. Life isn't a fairytale, darling.

But if you enjoyed the introductions, don't just sit there-vote, comment, and tell me which fool you're betting on.

After all... your applause is the only crown I'll ever bother wearing." 👑

- Lady Valeria Duclair

A/N :

Guys ignore her she's just joking besides

That's it for the character introductions! 💕

I really hope you guys enjoyed meeting them all, and that none of them disappointed you.

Please don't forget to vote, comment, and share your thoughts-your feedback means everything! ✨

Who's your favorite so far? 👀

“No. No, no, no!” Isha screamed inside her head, even as her face remained a mask of perfect, aristocratic calm.

The maid—still trembling, still clutching the offending pastel-pink gown to her chest like a shield—stood frozen in place, head bowed so low she looked in danger of folding herself in half.

Isha forced her lips into what she hoped was a serene smile. “Ah, yes. My engagement to Vincent Veyrault this evening. I am… positively delighted.”

The words came out in a giggle. Then a laugh. Then a full, unhinged cackle that echoed off the marble walls.

Hannah trembled harder with every note. Just when Isha thought she had nailed the villainess persona, hot tears welled up in her eyes without warning.

She started crying.

The maid nearly dropped the dress. “M-my lady! Are you quite all right?”

“Nothing is all right!” Isha wanted to shriek. But she caught herself just in time.

Villainesses do not cry. Villainesses make other people cry.

She dashed the tears away with the back of her hand and straightened her spine. “I am perfectly fine,” she said, voice cool as chilled champagne.

Inside her mind, however, she was mentally slapping her own cheeks. Come on, Isha. You still have time. Think. Recap. Where exactly are we in this dumpster-fire plot?

She paced mentally like a stressed anime protagonist on the verge of a breakdown.

Engagement day. Today is the day Valeria publicly humiliates Seraphina with a slap heard around the ballroom. So far, the original Valeria had only roasted the girl verbally—at charity galas, garden parties, anywhere she could open her perfectly painted mouth. But tonight… tonight the gloves came off. Literally.

Isha drew in a shaky breath and squared her shoulders. If I want to avoid becoming the empire’s most glamorous corpse, I must not lay a single finger on that cinnamon roll. Operation Avoid the Original Character starts now. Stay away from Seraphina, enjoy the buffet, and let the plot implode on its own.

She cleared her throat and asked in her most imperious tone, “Tell me your name.”

The maid stiffened as if expecting execution. Her hands shook violently. “M-my lady… my name is Ha-Hannah.”

Isha nodded with regal detachment. “Very well, Hannah. What time is this engagement ceremony?”

Hannah almost sagged with relief. “It is scheduled for eight o’clock this evening, my lady.”

Isha snatched the sleek phone from her nightstand. The screen glowed mockingly: 10:00 AM.

Ten hours. Ten measly hours until the doom clock struck zero. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Her gaze slid back to the pastel-pink gown still clutched in Hannah’s white-knuckled hands. Soft. Sweet. Disney-princess-core. It screamed innocent heroine, not icy villainess.

Isha’s stomach plummeted. Why on earth would Valeria wear something like this? This is the opposite of her signature “I’ll-step-on-you-in-Louboutins” aesthetic.

She began pacing, ignoring the way poor Hannah’s eyes widened in fresh horror.

Think, Isha, think! Why this dress? Why pastel pink instead of something scandalous and dramatic? Was she trying to look like a princess?

She stopped mid-step and shook her head. No. Valeria would never stoop that low.

“God, why is my brain refusing to brain when I need it most?” she muttered, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I’m not even in an exam hall!”

And then it clicked.

The pastel dress. The girly ruffles. The ridiculous cotton-candy aesthetic.

Oh my God. This is one of Seraphina’s outfits. A cheap knockoff version.

The memory slammed into her. In the novel, Valeria had fallen for Vincent at first sight during a blind date arranged by their parents. But Vincent had brought Seraphina along as his “adopted sister.” He had complimented Seraphina’s soft, feminine dress with genuine warmth. Valeria, desperate for even a scrap of that attention, had decided to copy her exactly.

Not “inspired by.” Not “similar vibe.” Exact copy.

She had planted spies to track Seraphina’s wardrobe and quirks, then paraded around in identical clothes, mimicking her mannerisms like a lovesick fool. And this particular dress? It was the very same one Seraphina would wear to Valeria’s own engagement party.

Isha facepalmed so hard it stung. No wonder the guests mocked her mercilessly. Imagine showing up to your own engagement in the same outfit as your fiancé’s adopted sister. Mortifying.

But the original Valeria had ignored the whispers. She had eyes only for Vincent. And what had Vincent done? Smiled warmly at Seraphina. Chatted with her sweetly. While treating Valeria to nothing but icy stares the entire night.

Then came the jealousy. The slap. The public humiliation. Valeria tossed out of her own engagement like yesterday’s garbage.

Meanwhile, Vincent had comforted Seraphina in her private rooms and kissed her passionately.

At Valeria’s own engagement party.

Isha made a disgusted face. “Ugh. I actually enjoyed that kissing scene when I was reading. But living it? Hard pass. Cheating is still cheating, even if the fiancée is the designated villainess.”

She turned to Hannah, who was still clutching the cursed pastel gown like it might bite her.

“You expect me to wear this to my own engagement?” Isha sneered, voice dripping with disdain.

Before the maid could answer, Isha snatched the garment and hurled it to the floor. Hannah gasped as though she had just witnessed a murder.

Isha stormed to the massive walk-in closet and flung the doors open—only to freeze.

Left side: an entire rack of soft pastel Pinterest-princess gowns in every shade of blush, lavender, and mint.

Right side: scandalous, dramatic villainess dresses—black silk, blood-red velvet, daring necklines, and enough lace to make a courtesan blush.

Her jaw dropped. “She really kept both aesthetics in heavy rotation. Pick a struggle, Valeria.”

She spun around, eyes gleaming with sudden purpose. “Hannah, I want every single one of these pastel monstrosities removed from my closet in the next twenty minutes. Burn them.”

Hannah’s eyes widened in pure terror. “B-but my lady! You purchased these yourself—from Celestine Dress Boutique. The most expensive boutique in Italy!”

Isha’s ears perked up like a cat hearing the can-opener. “Expensive, you say?”

Her lips curved into a slow, shark-like grin. “In that case, do not burn them. Pack them up neatly. Return every last one. I want a full refund.”

Hannah nodded so vigorously her head became a blur and scurried out to summon the other maids.

Left alone, Isha crossed her arms and smirked.

Step one: avoid Seraphina at all costs.

Step two: reclaim the proper villainess wardrobe.

Step three: survive tonight’s engagement without turning into the plot’s sacrificial clown.

She cracked her knuckles. “All right. Time to rewrite this doomed love story.”

Isha sank back onto the bed, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on the silk sheets like an over-caffeinated squirrel plotting world domination.

“Okay. Engagement at eight. Death flags armed and ready. I have exactly ten hours to make sure I don’t become the empire’s most glamorous cautionary tale.”

Around her, Hannah and three other maids scurried like frightened mice, carefully folding the pastel dresses while carefully avoiding eye contact. Isha ignored them and began muttering to herself like a slightly unhinged general preparing for battle.

“Rule number one: absolutely no slapping Seraphina. Hands to myself at all times. Even if she trips and conveniently lands in Vincent’s lap right in front of me—which, let’s be honest, is probably going to happen—no violence.” She raised her index finger like a stern lecturer. “Villainesses who slap heroines do not survive past chapter twenty.”

“Rule number two: I am not her budget cosplay. No more pastel cotton-candy nonsense. I am silk, lace, and expensive evil couture, thank you very much.”

She paused, glaring at her reflection in the ornate mirror.

“Rule number three: intimidation. Valeria does not giggle. Valeria does not blush. Valeria makes other people tremble like Hannah over there."

Hannah, halfway through folding a gown, flinched so hard she nearly dropped it.

Isha winced. “Not you, Hannah. You’re safe. Keep folding. I’ll… give you a raise later. Or a bonus. Something.”

She leaned closer to the mirror and practised.

First attempt at a smile: looked painfully constipated.

Second attempt at a smirk: terrifying. As though she were about to devour the souls of five innocent toddlers.

Hannah squeaked, “M-my lady… are you feeling quite well? You look… possessed.”

Isha waved her off. “Shh. Character development in progress.”

She tried again—tilting her chin, narrowing her eyes, letting one corner of her mouth curve with cool disdain. Elegant. Cold. Untouchable.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face. “Ohhh. Yes. That’s the trademark villainess smirk. Ten out of ten intimidation points.”

She pointed at her reflection. “Remember this, Isha. You are Valeria Duclair now. You are rich. You are terrifying. You are a walking Chanel advertisement with fangs.”

She flopped dramatically back onto the bed, arms spread wide like a starfish in silk. “All right, Isha. You have a plan. You can survive this. Just stay cool, avoid drama, and maybe fake a sudden stomachache if everything goes sideways.”

For a moment she closed her eyes, picturing the glittering ballroom: crystal chandeliers dripping with light, the weight of a hundred judging noble gazes, Vincent’s frosty indifference, and Seraphina glowing like she had bathed in holy water and good PR.

Her stomach twisted with dread. “Oh God… I’m so, so doomed.”

Still, she sat up again, forcing her spine ramrod straight and her expression into icy composure. “No. Not doomed. This is Survival 101. I will not die today.”

She raised her fist toward the ceiling with theatrical defiance. “Hear me, Universe! This villainess refuses to be stupid!”

From the corner of the room, Hannah whispered to the maid beside her, “She is definitely possessed.”

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To Be Continued