Two weeks ago.

"As the top reader and gifter for this story, I think it's time I give a review.

First things first: this story sucks hard. Do not waste money on this!

The author is crazy. The plot will put you in an anger management class. And the villainess is so unreasonable, her death at the end doesn't do her any justice. After wasting seven years of my life reading this, it's only fair that right after this review, I thoroughly wash my eyes with bleach to prevent myself from reading stories like this in the future!"

Those were the words that got me into this mess.

Sure, I hated my life. Who doesn't? Living as a chronically ill twenty-five-year-old marketing executive in 2026 was a special kind of soul-sucking grind. My hobbies were simple: using my hard-earned money to buy trashy online novels, then fuming about them for hours afterward. I either thirsted over fictional men with the emotional intelligence of a teaspoon, or developed migraines from protagonists making decisions so stunningly stupid they could qualify as performance art.

But that didn't mean I wanted to die.

My greatest love-hate relationship was with 'The Secret Princess: Which Man Does Maryann End Up Choosing?' I started reading it when I was eighteen. For seven long, masochistic years, I purchased every single weekly chapter. Out of spite. Pure, undiluted spite.

Did I enjoy it? Absolutely not. It was a trope landfill. The female lead, Maryann, was a Mary Sue of such epic proportions. The sun shone brighter when she smiled. Birds sang in harmony around her perfectly coiffed hair. Grown men-dukes and assassins and princes alike-literally swooned if she so much as breathed in their general direction. It was ridiculous. It was absurd. It was two thousand five hundred chapters long.

The story started okay, I'll admit. Then popularity hit like a freight train, and the plot ballooned into an ungodly mess of fan service, unnecessary side quests, and me screaming at my laptop screen at 2 AM: "JUST PICK ONE, YOU FLIGHTY HISTORICAL DISASTER!"

My breaking point came with the finale.

After two thousand five hundred chapters of agonizing "Who will she choose?" tension, complete with dramatic fainting spells and approximately four hundred scenes of men brooding attractively in the rain... she chose all four. A "happy polycule" in Regency-era England. Because of course she did.

And the villainess? Beatrice Cruelton-yes, that was her actual surname, and no, the fact that I shared her first name was pure coincidence and absolutely not foreshadowing-the most hated character in the entire godforsaken novel, who had no other goals or personality traits beyond being a stumbling block to Maryann's inevitable happiness... she died off-screen. A passing mention in the epilogue.

"Oh, that terrible Lady Cruelton? She perished in some accident, poor thing. Anyway, here's another scene of Maryann giggling while four men fight over who gets to bring her tea."

The end.

I stared at my laptop screen, the glow burning my retinas in the darkness of my bedroom. Then I laughed. It was a high, slightly unhinged sound that went on for a full thirty minutes. My cat left the room in what I can only describe as feline concern for my mental health.

With the fury of seven wasted years and approximately $4,000 in chapter purchases fueling my fingers, I typed that review. I even considered throwing my laptop out the window for dramatic effect. My bank account, ever the voice of reason, whispered desperately in my mind: You can't afford a new one, you melodramatic idiot.

So I went to bed instead. Fuming. Seething. Fantasizing about finding the author and forcing them to read their own drivel at gunpoint. I had work in less than four hours, and my mood was already ruined for the entire day.

By a twist of truly cosmic unfairness-the kind reserved for people who leave one-star reviews on beloved internet novels, apparently-my recurring heart condition picked that night for its grand finale. A sudden cardiac arrest. One minute I was glaring at my ceiling, plotting a scathing follow-up comment about the author's questionable understanding of human romance. The next... nothing.

Darkness.

Silence.

And then-

I gasped, jerking upright so fast my vision swam. It felt as if I'd just run a marathon while being chased by wolves. My chest burned as I dragged in air, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. I blinked hard, trying to clear my blurry vision.

Where the hell was I?

"My lady? Lady Cruelton?"

I froze. Someone was talking to me. Lady? What?

I looked up, then slowly around. The room was... massive. Ornate. The four-poster bed I was sitting in was the size of my old apartment. Heavy velvet curtains the color of burgundy wine framed windows that looked out onto manicured gardens. A chandelier-an actual crystal chandelier-hung from the ceiling. The sheets beneath my fingers were silk.

This was not my cramped studio apartment with the broken radiator.

"Lady Cruelton?" The woman in the maid uniform spoke again, her brows furrowed in concern. Three other maids stood behind her, all watching me nervously. "Is your headache better now? You've been asleep for four hours."

My brain short-circuited. "Hold up. Did you just say Cruelton?"

I threw my hands out in a gesture of pure confusion.

"Aah!" Several of the maids flinched dramatically, as if I'd just pulled a knife.

I raised an eyebrow. What was with the exaggerated reaction? I wasn't that scary. Was I?

The woman who'd addressed me stepped forward. She had the bearing of someone in charge, her posture straight and her expression carefully neutral. "Yes, Lady Cruelton."

I blinked at her. Then nodded slowly, reaching back to fluff the pillows before flopping down again dramatically.

This was a dream. Obviously. There was no way-absolutely no way-I was inside a trashy historical novel. Maybe this was some kind of stress-induced hallucination. Or astral projection? I'd read about that once in a Reddit thread at 3 AM. But it was too vivid. The scratch of the silk sheets felt too real. The faint scent of lavender and old wood was too specific.

Okay. Okay, Beatrice, calm down. Get some rest. You're going to wake up to your alarm any second now, realize this was all just a weird fever dream, and need to hurry to work where you'll face that smug receptionist Staring like always. Just breathe in and-

"Lady Cruelton? Lady Cruel-"

"FUCK, this isn't happening!" I jumped up, ignoring the way the other maids behind the head maid scurried backward like I'd spontaneously combusted.

I hurried toward the full-length mirror I'd spotted earlier, my bare feet slapping against cold hardwood floors. My reflection stopped me dead in my tracks.

No. No way.

I pinched my cheeks. Hard. The face staring back at me was entirely different from the one I'd worn for twenty-five years. Sharper features. Porcelain skin. And-

"What the hell, I have purple hair?"

It cascaded down in waves, an unnatural shade of violet that definitely didn't exist in any normal human genetic code. My eyes were different too-larger, a striking amber color that seemed to catch the light.

This was Beatrice Cruelton's face. The villainess. The woman who died off-screen like a footnote.

The more I tried to deny it, the more real it felt. The weight of the nightgown. The chill of the floor. The distant sound of birds outside-birds that were probably preparing to sing harmoniously the moment Maryann woke up.

I'd truly entered the world of the book. As the hated villainess.

DING!

The sound chimed in my head like a notification, and suddenly words appeared in my vision-floating, translucent, like some kind of augmented reality display.

SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE.

HOST CONFIRMED: BEATRICE CRUELTON.

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE FINAL CHAPTER.

CURRENT ODDS OF SURVIVAL: 0.3%.

Oh, great. Even the universe thought I was screwed.

ASSESSMENT: YOU ARE SCREWED.

I barked out a laugh. At least it was honest.

PROPOSED SOLUTION: THE HATRED POINT ECONOMY.

TUTORIAL BEGINNING IN: 3... 2... 1...

Before the countdown could reach zero, the bedroom doors slammed open.

"Lady Cruelton," a cold male voice said, "His Grace has summoned you."

The system text flashed violently red.

WARNING: THIS EVENT DIRECTLY LEADS TO YOUR CANONICAL DEATH.

I swallowed.

So the story had already started without me.

"His Grace is summoning Lady Beatrice."

The soldier's voice was flat, polite in the way people were polite when refusal wasn't an option.

Behind him, the maids froze-then exploded into motion like someone had set off a fire alarm.

"Arms up!"

"Quickly, quickly!"

"We're all going to die-"

Hands grabbed at my nightgown. I was yanked upright like a ragdoll, still processing the fact that I'd apparently been isekai'd by a bad review.

"Wait-what are you-oof!"

Someone shoved a corset against my ribs and started lacing it like they were preparing a thanksgiving turkey.

"You look radiant today, my lady!" a maid chirped while actively trying to rearrange my internal organs.

"Radiant?" I wheezed. "I can taste my own spleen-"

"His Grace will surely be pleased!"

"Yes, of course, very pleased!"

Another maid threw a powder-blue gown over my head. It had approximately seventy-three layers and enough ruffles to clothe a small village.

"Is this a dress or a military fortification?" I asked, muffled by fabric.

No one answered.

Some maids eagerly pushed me toward the door, faces tight with barely concealed panic. Others straight-up vanished. One second they were fluffing my sleeves, the next they'd discovered urgent business behind curtains, under tables, possibly in another dimension.

The ones who remained kept shooting me nervous glances.

"My lady, you look-"

"Stunning!"

"-like you could kill a man!"

"What?"

"I said you look thrilling!"

I squinted at them. "That's not better."

Not gonna lie though-going from a corporate drone who had to smile through client tantrums to a villainess everyone was terrified of?

Yeah. I could see the appeal.

Except for the whole dying horribly part.

As we descended the grand staircase, my head throbbed. Then-without warning-memories slammed into my brain like someone had dumped a file cabinet on my head.

Beatrice's memories.

Birthday parties where she'd gotten three ponies. Three. A father who'd given her literally everything except boundaries. Servants who treated her like a tiny dictator in petticoats.

And recently-a pink-haired girl who'd waltzed in and stolen half the attention.

"Lady Cruelton, are you all right?"

The soldier glanced back, concerned but also clearly thinking please don't make this difficult.

"Oh, I'm fantastic," I said. "Just having someone else's memories uploaded into my brain. Normal Tuesday."

"My lady?"

"Nothing. Onward to my doom."

The marble hallway stretched before us, all cold elegance and judgmental dead people in portraits. And then-

"Ah-!"

That sound.

My stomach dropped.

Oh no.

Absolutely not.

There it was. The scene I'd rage-read while eating instant ramen at 2 AM.

A shattered glass on pristine marble. Liquid spreading like an accusation. A girl on her knees, bleeding, shaking with perfectly timed sobs.

And standing in a convenient beam of sunlight-because of course there was a convenient beam of sunlight-

Maryann.

With her bright. Pink. Hair.

I stared. "Is no one going to mention the hair?"

The soldier gave me a confused look.

"The pink hair!" I gestured wildly. "In what world-you know what, never mind."

Maryann looked like she'd stepped out of an anime. Pink hair in impossible waves. Porcelain skin. Huge doe eyes currently filled with crystalline tears. She wore literal rags-who even owned rags in a duke's household?-and blood streaked her trembling fingers.

Every inch of her screamed PROTECT ME.

I wanted to gag.

A middle-aged man loomed over her, and I didn't need Beatrice's memories to know who he was.

Duke Alaric Cruelton.

The father.

Oh boy.

His expression darkened the second he saw me, like I'd personally murdered his favorite horse.

"Your Grace," the soldier said quickly, smart enough to step aside. "Lady Beatrice has arrived."

Maryann was still on the floor. Still bleeding. Still shaking.

Then-

"I've had enough of this, Beatrice!" He pointed at me like I was a war criminal. "Why do you keep bullying your sister? Why do you refuse to listen to me?"

DING!

NEW CHARACTER UNLOCKED:

Name: Duke Alaric Cruelton

Title: Duke of Blackthorne, Lord Marshal, Supreme Commander, Probably Has More Titles

Relationship: Your Father

Threat Level: High

Note: Currently believes you're a monster. Good luck!

Oh great. Fantastic. Love that for me.

I blinked at the Duke, following his pointed finger then glanced behind me.

No one there.

"Are you speaking to me?" I asked slowly.

The collective gasp was insane. Servants clutched their chests. One maid made the sign of the cross. Another straight-up fainted into a potted plant.

Duke Alaric's face went burgundy. "Who else would I be addressing? There's only one person in this household cruel enough to orchestrate such- such wickedness!"

The hall went dead silent.

Only Maryann's delicate sniffles filled the air.

"I-"

"It's only been two months since I brought your sister home, and look at her!" He gestured dramatically at Maryann. "Look at how bruised she is! I understood you were spoiled, being an only child, but I will not tolerate this cruelty any longer!"

I stared at him. At Maryann, who was doing her best wounded-bird impression. Back at him.

"Okay, real talk?" I said. "I was literally unconscious until ten minutes ago. So unless I've developed sleepwalking superpowers, I don't see how I'm responsible for-" I waved vaguely at the chaos, "-this."

DING!

SYSTEM WARNING:

OUT OF CHARACTER DETECTED

Beatrice Cruelton would NEVER talk back to her father in public. She's a Daddy's girl who maintains perfect behavior in front of him.

Suggested Action: Cry prettily and blame the servants.

"Oh, so now you give me tips?" I muttered.

Duke Alaric's jaw clenched. "What was that?"

"I said-lovely weather we're having!"

His eye actually twitched. "Bring in those maids. Now."

Two servants scurried forward, dragging two sobbing girls whose wails immediately tripled in volume when they saw me.

"AHH!" Maryann screamed at that exact moment, flinging herself at Duke Alaric's legs like he was a life raft.

I raised an eyebrow. Did she do that in the novel? I couldn't remember. Early chapters all blurred together.

"Lady Cruelton, please save us!" one maid sobbed.

"Mistress, we only followed your orders!" the other wailed. "Don't let them punish us!"

I recognized them from Beatrice's memories. Samantha and Sienna. The loyal minions who'd done Beatrice's dirty work. Spilled tea on Maryann. Spread rumors. Generally made her life miserable.

And now they were being fed to the wolves.

Every eye in the hall locked onto me.

"Well, Beatrice?" Duke Alaric's voice could have frozen hell. "Do you know these maids?"

"Mistress, please!" Samantha reached toward me, tears running.

"We did everything you asked!" Sienna's hands shook.

I looked at them. Then at Maryann, still clinging to the Duke's legs.

And I saw it.

Just for a second.

Her lips curved up. A tiny smirk.

Then it vanished, replaced by trembling innocence.

My eye twitched.

Oh, you clever little-

A laugh burst out of me. Couldn't help it.

"Beatrice?" Duke Alaric looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. "What is funny about this?"

"Nothing," I said, still laughing. "Absolutely nothing. This is just-" I gestured at the whole ridiculous scene, "-peak comedy. The timing. The drama. The convenient sunbeam. It's chef's kiss."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Possibly!" I turned on my heel. "Anyway, I'm out."

"What?"

"Lady Cruelton!" Rose, the head maid, hurried after me. "Your Grace is calling you!"

"Yeah, I heard him. Still leaving."

I kept walking, heels clicking on marble.

The original Beatrice died because she kept playing the villain. Kept tormenting Maryann until the plot demanded her removal.

But me? I didn't have to follow that script.

I could just... leave. Grab some jewels, yeet myself to another continent, open a bookshop. Live my best life far away from this garbage fire of a plot.

"Lady Cruelton, please!" Sienna's voice cracked behind me. "Don't leave us!"

"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton, you stop this instant!" Duke Alaric roared.

Even Maryann had stopped crying. Just staring at me, frowning.

I took another step toward the doors.

Freedom. Survival. A life that was actually mine.

One more step.

Something red flashed behind my eyes-hot, sharp, wrong.

DING!

SYSTEM ALERT: CRITICAL OUT OF CHARACTER ACTION DETECTED

WARNING: YOU ARE DEVIATING FROM CORE NARRATIVE PATH

ATTEMPTING TO LEAVE THE SCENE EQUALS STORY COLLAPSE

TURN BACK IMMEDIATELY OR FACE PENALTY

The words blazed across my vision in angry crimson.

"Like I would." I took another step.

PENALTY: IMMEDIATE PLOT CORRECTION VIA FORCED SYNCHRONIZATION

THIS WILL HURT.

FINAL WARNING: TURN BACK NOW

The pain hit like a truck.

White-hot agony exploded through my skull. Every nerve ending caught fire. My legs buckled.

"Oh-ow-okay, that's-OW-"

I was falling-

The world tilted. Marble rushed up to meet my face.

"LADY CRUELTON!"

Screams erupted around me, but they sounded far away, muffled.

My vision went fuzzy. Then dark.

The last thing I saw was Maryann's face.

No tears.

No fear.

Just a small, satisfied smile.

And one thought managed to pierce through the pain

That conniving little-

Then everything went black.

"So you're telling me-" I shoved another grape in my mouth, "-that I literally can't leave?"

DING!

The system notification glowed that annoying blue, and I swear I could feel it wishing it had eyes just so it could roll them at me.

CORRECT. I'M GLAD YOU'VE FINALLY REACHED THIS OBVIOUS CONCLUSION AFTER MULTIPLE ESCAPE ATTEMPTS.

"Was that sarcasm? Did you just use sarcasm on me?"

A smiley face popped up on the screen in response.

"Oh, you're definitely being snarky."

It had been three days since I'd face-planted into this world as Beatrice Cruelton, and I'd realized three critical things:

First: There were no phones here. I mean, yeah, obviously-the novel was set in the 1940s-but I could practically feel my soul withering every time I remembered I'd have to live without scrolling through social media for the rest of my life. What was I supposed to do? Read books? Like some kind of peasant?

Second: I couldn't leave. Not the mansion. Not the grounds. Not even think about leaving without the system reading my mind like some kind of digital N S A agent and knocking me unconscious.

And third: I was absolutely, completely, utterly in trouble.

"But why?" I groaned, ignoring the multiple nervous glances from the maids scattered around the embroidery room. "If being the villainess is destined to get me killed, why can't I just run away and live in peace? Open a bookshop. Adopt seventeen cats. Not die."

Honestly, I didn't give a single rat's behind about Maryann and her four broad-shouldered love interests with the collective emotional intelligence of a brick.

There were only two things I cared about in this world: myself and money.

THAT WOULD BE OUT OF CHARACTER.

"Oh, shut up about the out-of-character crap!" I threw a grape at the air where the system notification floated. It passed right through. Obviously. "I need actual explanations! Are you telling me I'm in a luxurious cage?"

"Lady Cruelton."

Rose, my head maid, spoke up. Her voice was respectful, but her eyes were firm-the look of someone who'd dealt with noble tantrums before and had opinions.

I looked at her. "Yes?"

"Would you like the maids to excuse themselves?"

I glanced around the room. At least a dozen maids were scattered about, supposedly focused on their embroidery. But they kept shooting me looks-quick, nervous glances-then flinching when I made eye contact.

Right. I probably looked like a lunatic, talking to myself and gesturing at empty air.

"Oh. Yes. Good call." I smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Rose."

Then I waved at the room. "Shoo, everyone! Go do random things away from here. Polish something. Dust something. Gossip about me-I know you're going to anyway."

The room cleared in approximately 2.5 seconds.

Rose gave me a small nod and retreated to her usual spot by the window, picking up her embroidery but keeping one eye on me.

Good woman, Rose. Very sensible.

The system chimed.

BEATRICE CRUELTON IS ONE OF THE MAIN CHARACTERS OF "THE SECRET PRINCESS." YOU MUST BE A PERFECT BEATRICE CRUELTON-AT LEAST FOR THE BEGINNING OF THE STORY-OR THE ENTIRE PLOT STRUCTURE WILL COLLAPSE.

I stood up to pace, grabbing my chin like I was some kind of detective solving a murder.

"Okay, let me see if I understand this correctly. Basically, this book is super trashy-"

...

The system put out a series of ellipses. Judging me. A computer program was judging me.

I rolled my eyes. "Fine. Allegedly trashy. According to Beatrice's memories, Maryann was brought to this mansion two months ago, right?"

CORRECT.

"And if I remember correctly, we're around chapter ten, where Beatrice-future heir of the Cruelton estate-was introduced as the main villain."

CORRECT.

I remembered my first impression of Beatrice when I'd read those early chapters. I'd actually been impressed.

Most transmigration novels were painfully patriarchal. Men were soldiers, warriors, assassins. Women were maids, healers, delicate flowers who needed rescuing every five minutes. A novel set in the 1940s followed those rules even harder.

But not Beatrice Cruelton.

As the only child of doting Duke Alaric Cruelton, she was the heir to the entire Cruelton estate and legacy. A powerhouse in her own right. Educated. Sharp. Capable.

I'd understood her at first. Suddenly having a sister appear from nowhere-a sister who threatened your inheritance, who everyone bent over backward to please, who eventually stole your fiancé-couldn't be easy.

But then it went downhill fast.

"So let me guess," I said slowly. "The villainess is super important in the beginning chapters because her cruelty is the main reason the male leads meet the heroine?"

THE DIRECTION OF YOUR THINKING IS CORRECT. BEATRICE CRUELTON'S ROLE IS TO BE UNREASONABLY CRUEL TO MARYANN. WITHOUT AN EVIL PERSON, HOW WOULD THE MAIN CHARACTER BE PITIABLE ENOUGH TO EARN THE LOVE OF FOUR IMPOSSIBLY HANDSOME MEN?

"Ah. Classic trope." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "She only exists to be a punching bag generator for the protagonist."

ESSENTIALLY, YES.

"In that case, why was I the one transmigrated?" I demanded. "If we're being fair, it should be that crazy author getting a taste of their own trashy writing! I was just an honest reviewer!"

The system blinked. Didn't reply.

Awkward silence.

"Hello?"

Still nothing.

"Are you... are you ignoring me?"

ANYWAY, MOVING ON.

"Oh, you are! You're totally avoiding the question!"

The system chimed brightly, completely dodging my accusation.

PROPOSED SOLUTION: THE HATRED POINT ECONOMY.

I stopped pacing. "Oh! Yes! You mentioned that when I first woke up. What does it mean?"

EXPLANATION: ORIGINAL BEATRICE CRUELTON'S FATAL ERROR WAS UNIVERSAL LOATHING. NO ALLIES. ONLY ENEMIES. BY THE END, EVEN THE SERVANTS CELEBRATED HER DEATH.

"Wow. Harsh."

YOU CANNOT CHANGE THIS NARRATIVE. IT IS TOO ENTRENCHED IN THE PLOT STRUCTURE.

"So I'm doomed to be hated?"

THEREFORE, YOU MUST LEAN INTO IT.

I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

ACCUMULATE HATRED. CONVERT IT TO CURRENCY.

"You want me to-wait, back up. Convert hatred into money?"

PRECISELY. EVERY TIME SOMEONE HATES YOU, YOU EARN HATRED POINTS. HATRED POINTS CAN BE EXCHANGED FOR VARIOUS ADVANTAGES: INFORMATION, SMALL PLOT CHANGES, DELAYS TO CRITICAL SCENES, AND EVENTUALLY-ENOUGH POINTS TO FAKE YOUR DEATH AND FLEE THE CONTINENT BEFORE THE PLOT CRUSHES YOU.

I stared at the floating notification. The system continued.

THINK OF IT AS A SPITE BASED RETIREMENT FUND.

"A spite-based-" I started laughing. I couldn't help it. "You're telling me I can monetize people hating me?"

CORRECT.

"This is the best terrible idea I've ever heard."

The system chimed cheerfully.

WITH THIS SYSTEM, THE HOST CAN ADVANCE THE PLOT ENOUGH TO ENSURE THE MAIN CHARACTER MEETS THE MALE LEADS ON SCHEDULE, THEN ESCAPE BEFORE YOUR CANONICAL DEATH IN SIX MONTHS.

I stopped laughing. "Wait. Six months?"

YOUR DEADLINE.

"I die in six months?!"

TECHNICALLY, THE ORIGINAL BEATRICE DIES IN APPROXIMATELY CHAPTER 2,547. BUT TIME COMPRESSION IN NARRATIVE STRUCTURE MEANS-

"Six months," I said flatly. "I have six months."

CORRECT. BETTER GET HATING!

I took a deep breath. Okay. Okay. Six months. I could work with six months.

"Right. So how much are we talking? How many hatred points do I need?"

TO SUCCESSFULLY FAKE YOUR DEATH AND ESTABLISH A NEW IDENTITY IN ANOTHER COUNTRY WITH ENOUGH WEALTH TO LIVE COMFORTABLY: 500,000 POUNDS.

I choked on air. "I'm sorry, how much?"

500,000 POUNDS.

"Five hundred thousand-" I couldn't finish the sentence. My brain was short-circuiting.

IN 1940s CURRENCY, YES. The system added

I almost levitated off the floor.

500,000 pounds. In the 1940s.

My hands started shaking. My heart hammered. That wasn't just money-that was generational wealth. That was "buy a castle and retire at thirty" money. That was "never work again and spend the rest of your life eating fancy cheese" money.

"Rose!" I practically shouted.

She looked up from her embroidery, startled. "Yes, Lady Cruelton?"

"How much is 500,000 pounds? Like, in terms a normal person would understand?"

Rose's eyes widened. Her normally composed mask cracked, revealing genuine shock.

"That is..." She paused, searching for words. "Lady Cruelton, that is generational wealth. Money like that can only be dreamed of amongst ordinary people. Most families would never see even a fraction of that amount in their entire lives."

The words hit me like a blessing from the heavens.

I jumped up, twirling in place, my dress flaring out.

"YES! Yes yes yes yes yes!"

Rose gave me a small, amused smile and returned to her embroidery, clearly used to my antics by now.

It was insane.

It was perfect.

I could do this. I could be so villainous, so absolutely despicable, that everyone in this godforsaken plot would hate me enough to fund my early retirement.

I cackled out loud, probably sounding unhinged.

"I'm going to be such a good villain," I announced to no one in particular. "I'm going to be so terrible that people will write legends about how awful I was. Historians will study my villainy. Children will cry at the mention of my name."

THAT'S THE SPIRIT! The system cheered.

"I'm going to make the original Beatrice look like an amateur!" I declared

Rose looked up briefly, one eyebrow raised, but said nothing.

I grinned at the system notification.

"So. How do I start earning hatred points?"

SIMPLE. BE YOURSELF.

"Rude."

BUT ALSO: BE THE PERFECT VILLAINESS. FOLLOW THE SCRIPT-FOR NOW. TORMENT MARYANN. CLASH WITH THE MALE LEADS. MAKE EVERYONE DESPISE YOU. THE MORE AUTHENTIC THE HATRED, THE MORE POINTS YOU EARN.

"And then I can escape?"

AND THEN YOU ESCAPE. SIX MONTHS. 500,000 POUNDS. ONE TICKET TO FREEDOM.

I looked out the window at the sprawling Cruelton estate. The manicured gardens. The marble halls. The life of luxury I was about to weaponize.

"Alright then." I cracked my knuckles. "Let's make everyone hate me."

Rose glanced up again. "My lady?"

"Nothing, Rose. Just planning my future."

"Very good, my lady."

I smiled. A real, genuine smile.

For the first time since landing in this ridiculous novel, I had a plan.

A terrible, spite-fueled, absolutely perfect plan.

Maryann and her harem of brooding men had no idea what was coming.

DING!

TUTORIAL COMPLETE.

WELCOME TO THE HATRED POINT ECONOMY.

CURRENT HATRED POINTS: 0

GOAL: 500,000 POUNDS (EQUIVALENT TO 500,000 HATRED POINTS)

TIME REMAINING: 6 MONTHS

GOOD LUCK! TRY NOT TO DIE! :)

That smiley face was definitely mocking me.

But I didn't care.

I had a number. I had a deadline. I had a plan.

And for the first time in three days, I felt something other than panic.

I felt motivated.

Let the games begin.