I Got Stuck In a Forbidden Romance as The Villainess

Chapter 4 : Red Pandas Are Not My Type

The moment Valeria Duclair stepped into the grand hall on her brother’s arm, the entire room froze as though someone had pressed pause on a lavish period drama.

Conversations died mid-sentence. Crystal glasses halted halfway to painted lips. Every head turned—slowly, deliberately—toward the siblings.

Toward her.

She, who had once been infamous for her razor-sharp tongue and gaudy, headline-grabbing behaviour, now looked… elegant. Refined. Almost decent in that limp, pale-green gown that hung like a forgotten curtain.

Isha’s stomach plummeted. Why are they staring at me like I’ve grown a second head? This was NOT in the plan! I wanted to be wallpaper—tasteful, forgettable background wallpaper—not the main antique centerpiece of the entire cursed party!

Mission abort! Abort—!

Then her gaze snagged on the long buffet table groaning under silver platters and delicate pastries.

She blinked.

Okay, fine. I’ll abort… after tasting the food.

Because in this world or the next, nothing—not even a homicidal plot—mattered more than a well-stocked buffet. Not even survival.

Abandoning Adrian’s side without a backward glance, Isha made a beeline for the table like a woman on a mission. She snatched a plate and stacked it high with delicate macarons in every pastel shade. The first bite dissolved on her tongue—crisp shell giving way to silky, almond-sweet filling—and she let out a tiny, involuntary moan.

“These macarons… they’re borderline divine,” she mumbled around a mouthful, devouring them with the single-minded focus of a starving gremlin who had discovered ambrosia.

Next came a creamy chocolate pastry layered with hazelnut ganache. She had barely sunk her teeth into the first heavenly bite when a smooth female voice cut through her bliss.

“Vale, you should eat slower—otherwise you’ll choke to death before the ceremony even begins.”

Startled, Isha promptly choked.

“Cough—cough—!”

The woman pressed a glass of water into her hand and patted her back with efficient concern until the coughing subsided. Isha gulped the water, chest heaving, then turned to snap at the intruder—only to find herself speechless.

The woman was stunning: golden-blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon, flawless porcelain skin, and eyes the colour of crushed amethysts. Purple? Are those even real? Isha thought, then caught herself. Oh right. This is a novel. Physics and biology take a backseat to aesthetics.

Recognition slammed into her. Sabine Marlowe. The villainess’s best friend—the one who tried to negotiate with Vincent right before he…

Panic surged, hot and prickling along her spine. Crap. How close were they? I didn’t check the rest of Valeria’s chats. What if I say something wrong? Okay, calm down. When in doubt… unleash the villainess sass.

Isha summoned her most practised smirk, the one she had perfected in front of the mirror. “I don’t know about choking to death, Sabine, but I will certainly die of a heart attack if you keep sneaking up on me like a particularly stylish ghost.”

Sabine chuckled, low and warm. “Oops. My apologies.” Her amethyst eyes swept Isha from head to toe, taking in the hideous green gown, and her expression brightened. “I see you’ve finally come back to your senses!”

Isha tilted her head, feigning polite confusion. “When had I lost them?”

Sabine gave her a knowing look. “Do I really need to remind you, Vale?” When only blank politeness met her gaze, she sighed theatrically. “You truly don’t remember your… antics?”

“What if I say no?”

Sabine’s grin turned delightfully mischievous. “Then I get to recount every single embarrassing deed in glorious detail.”

Isha winced. Yep. Definitely the best friend.

“You seriously don’t remember trying to seduce Vincent Veyrault in that scandalously revealing dress?” Sabine continued, ticking off on her fingers. “Or the time you drugged your soon-to-be fiancé so you could—”

Isha’s heart dropped like a stone.

“—sleep with him? And then you copied his stepsister Seraphina’s entire wardrobe just to catch his eye?”

She did WHAT?! Isha’s jaw slackened. I knew about the copying, but drugging him too? The original Valeria was unhinged!

Isha forced a nervous laugh and opened her mouth to deflect—when the entire hall fell silent once more.

The chandeliers dimmed, casting the ballroom in a hush of golden shadows. Every head swivelled toward the grand staircase.

Beside her, Sabine leaned in, voice dripping with wicked amusement. “Speak of the devil… and the devil arrives in matching couture.”

And there they were.

Damian Veyrault descended first, his arm linked protectively with Seraphina Lysandra’s. The girl looked every inch the fragile heroine: soft curls, wide innocent eyes, a pastel gown that practically glowed with purity. Behind them came Vincent Veyrault—tall, cold, untouchable.

Isha’s stomach sank. Why does this already look more like their engagement than mine?

Her gaze locked on Vincent and her breath caught. Okay… wow. He’s gorgeous.

Tall and lean, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, a jawline carved from marble, and hair the colour of deep crimson that caught the light like spilled wine. He was exactly the type she had always secretly crushed on in her novels—dangerous, brooding, unfairly beautiful.

Isha fanned herself mentally. No. Nope. Stop it right now. He’s the one who kills Valeria. And right now I am Valeria. If I want to live past chapter twenty, I need to stay as far away as possible.

She squared her thoughts with fierce determination. And he’s not handsome at all. He’s… ugly. Yes! Ugly like… like a red panda.

Her brain paused. Wait. Red pandas are adorable.

“Adorable?!” she hissed under her breath. No! He is not adorable! Stop it, brain!

She shook her head violently, as if she could physically dislodge the traitorous thoughts.

Sabine glanced at her with open concern. “Vale, are you quite all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Isha shot back, a little too quickly.

“Then why were you shaking your head like someone possessed by a particularly dramatic demon?”

“I wasn’t,” she denied, far too defensively.

Before Sabine could press further, Edward Veyrault—Vincent’s father—clinked his wine glass, the sharp sound slicing through the murmurs like a judge’s gavel.

“It is time for the engagement,” he declared, voice commanding and final. “Valeria, dear, come onto the stage. And you too, Vincent.”

Isha froze. No. I can’t do this. If I go through with this ceremony, I’ll end up exactly like the real Valeria—publicly humiliated, then murdered. I’ve read enough of these web novels to know how the plot works. Even if the villainess tries to change her fate, the story drags her back kicking and screaming to the original script.

No. Nope. I refuse.

Yet despite the screaming panic inside her skull, her traitorous feet began to move. Step by step, she walked toward the raised platform. Before she could stop herself, she was standing directly in front of Vincent Veyrault.

Up close, he was even more devastating.

Her heart stuttered. No, no, no. This is not happening.

His hand reached for hers, cool and steady. Isha’s brain, the absolute traitor, supplied helpfully: …But he really is handsome.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. No! I love my life more than hot men. Life first! The world is full of attractive men. If I survive this, I can stare at as many as I want—preferably from a safe distance!

Just as Vincent’s fingers brushed hers, Isha cleared her throat and stepped back abruptly.

The crowd stirred, a ripple of confused whispers spreading like wildfire.

She glanced around wildly—at her parents’ shocked faces, at Adrian’s raised eyebrow, at Sabine’s questioning stare, at Damian and Seraphina’s perfectly poised expressions, and finally at Vincent himself, whose cold gaze remained unreadable.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Before anyone could stop her, she snatched the microphone straight from Edward Veyrault’s hand.

“Uhh—sorry, sir, but I need this for a moment.”

The hall fell into stunned silence.

Isha gripped the mic like a sword, heart hammering so loudly she was sure the entire room could hear it. She drew in a deep, steadying breath.

Then, loud and crystal clear, she declared:

“Before we begin the engagement ceremony, I would like to say a few words.”

Another breath.

“I don’t want to do this engagement. I am cancelling it.”

The hall erupted in a collective gasp of shock.

But Isha stood tall on the stage, fingers white-knuckled around the microphone, a fierce, defiant smile curving her lips.

You know what, plot? I don’t care if my decision changes everything. I’m not playing your script anymore.

I refuse to die.