season 1

The smell of expensive sandalwood and cold, sterilized air was the first thing that hit me. It didn’t smell like a hospital; it smelled like a mausoleum for the living.

I opened my eyes and didn't see the flickering fluorescent lights of the emergency room where I’d died. Instead, I saw a canopy of midnight-blue silk and a chandelier that looked like it cost more than my previous life’s college tuition.

Then, I saw him.

Duke Cassian von Astel. The "Obsidian Butcher." The man who, in the pages of the webnovel Roses for the Tyrant, would eventually be beheaded after burning a third of the empire to the ground in a fit of unrequited rage over the female lead.

And I, according to the memories currently flooding my brain like a broken levee, was Evelyn—his neglected, "pitiful" wife who died of a broken heart (and a very convenient fever) in Chapter Two.

"You’re awake," a voice rasped. It was deep, like stones grinding together at the bottom of an ocean.

Cassian sat in a velvet armchair by the window, a book resting on his thigh. He didn't look like a monster. He looked like a masterpiece carved from ice. His dark hair fell over eyes the color of a bruised sky, and his expression was one of profound boredom.

"The doctor said you were pining," he said, his lip curling in a faint, cruel sneer. "Do you truly find my absence so unbearable that you’d try to die just to spite me?"

In the book, Evelyn would have wept. She would have apologized for her weakness and begged for a scrap of his affection.

I sat up, my head spinning. If he followed the plot, he’d be dead in three years, and I’d be executed alongside him as his "traitorous kin." I had no intention of being a decorative corpse.

"I wasn't pining," I said, my voice thin but steady. "I was hungry."

Cassian’s hand paused on the page of his book. He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time. "Hungry?"

"Extremely. And cold." I kicked off the heavy silk sheets. "And I’ve decided that if I’m going to be the Duchess of Astel, I might as well enjoy the perks before we both end up on a scaffold."

The Strategy of Spoiling

The next week was a blur of calculated kindness. If Cassian was a wolf, the original Evelyn had tried to tame him by throwing herself into his jaws. I decided to try a different tactic: I was going to turn his den into a spa.

I started small.

I replaced his bitter, charcoal-like morning tea with a blend of honeyed chamomile and orange zest. I didn’t wait for him to ask; I simply placed it on his desk and left without a word.

The second day, I brought him a plate of warm lemon tarts.

"What is this?" he asked, staring at the pastry as if it were a live grenade.

"Sugar," I replied, leaning against his mahogany desk. "It stimulates the brain. You’ve been staring at those tax ledgers for four hours. You look like you’re about to bite someone’s head off, and I’d prefer it wasn't mine."

Cassian looked at the tart, then at me. His gaze was sharp, searching for the hidden motive. "You’ve changed, Evelyn. You used to tremble when I entered the room."

"I realized trembling is exhausting," I said with a shrug. "And besides, you have very nice hands. It seems a waste to be afraid of someone with such excellent bone structure."

He didn't smile—I wasn't expecting a miracle—but his fingers twitched. He picked up the tart.

The Breaking of Obsession

The real test came on Friday. It was the night of the Royal Autumn Gala, the event where Cassian was supposed to meet the original female lead, Lady Lilian, and begin his descent into obsessive madness.

In the novel, Evelyn stayed home and cried.

I, however, spent three hours being sewn into a gown of shimmering silver that made me look like a moonbeam. When I walked into Cassian’s study, he was already dressed in black, looking every bit the villain.

"You’re coming?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

"I’m your wife," I said, stepping close enough to smell the sandalwood. I reached up—he stiffened, his hand instinctively flying to the hilt of the ceremonial sword at his hip—and straightened his cravat.

I felt his heart hammering against his ribs. It wasn't the slow, steady beat of a monster. It was fast. Erratic.

"There," I whispered, patting his chest. "Now you look like a Duke instead of a common brigand."

"Evelyn," he warned, his voice low. "What are you playing at?"

"I’m not playing, Cassian. I’ve decided I like you. It’s a pity no one else does, but I suppose that just means I don’t have to share."

At the gala, the moment arrived. Lady Lilian entered the room in a cloud of pink silk and sunshine. The room went quiet. She was the "Sun of the Empire," the woman Cassian was destined to burn the world for.

I felt Cassian’s arm tense under mine. He turned his head toward her. This was it. The pivot point of the entire story.

I didn't make a scene. I didn't faint. I simply leaned my head against his shoulder and whispered, "The champagne here is dreadful. Can we go home early? I asked the chef to prepare that chocolate souffle you liked."

Cassian paused. He looked at Lilian—the woman who would eventually reject him and lead to his execution. Then he looked down at me.

For a second, the "evil" in his eyes flickered. It wasn't replaced by light, but by something deeper, darker, and infinitely more focused.

"The souffle?" he asked.

"With the whipped cream," I promised.

He didn't look at Lilian again. He turned his back on the Sun of the Empire and led me toward the exit.

"Fine," he muttered, his grip on my waist tightening just a fraction too much to be casual. "But if it’s fallen, I’m holding you personally responsible."

The Unintended Side Effect

I thought I was just saving my neck. I thought I was smoothing the edges of a rough man to ensure a peaceful retirement.

But as we sat in the carriage, the flickering lamplight caught the expression on Cassian’s face. He wasn't looking at the window. He was watching me with an intensity that made the air in the carriage feel heavy.

"You said you liked me," he said suddenly.

"I do," I said, trying to keep my tone light.

He leaned forward, his gloved hand coming up to rest on the seat next to my head, effectively pinning me into the corner. The coldness was gone. In its place was a simmering, quiet heat that the book had never mentioned.

"I am not a good man, Evelyn," he whispered, his breath ghosting over my lips. "I am selfish, and I am possessive. If you keep treating me this way... if you keep making me look at you... I won't let you go back to being 'pitiful.'"

I swallowed hard. "I don't want to go back."

"Good," he said, his eyes darkening to a shade of violet I’d never seen before. "Because I think I’ve found a new obsession. And this one belongs to me."

The story was changing. The villain wasn't disappearing—he was just changing targets. And as he reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering a second too long, I realized that surviving the villain might be more dangerous than the execution ever was.

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