Chapter 2 : The Cursed Engagement Dress

“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

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