"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.

My first test was a garden party.

In hindsight, this was a mistake. Garden parties were full of fragile people-men with egos made of spun sugar, women with opinions about teacups, and social rules so delicate you could shatter them by breathing wrong.

Which meant, of course, they were perfect.

I stepped onto the gravel path wearing the most dramatic dress I could find in Beatrice's wardrobe-deep burgundy with black lace that screamed "I'm here to ruin your afternoon"-and felt it immediately.

Eyes.

Everywhere.

Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Teacups paused halfway to lips. A lady actually gasped.

They would, of course. I'd gone all out with the makeup-deep red lipstick, dark eyeshadow, the kind of bold, beautiful look definitely not expected of my class in polite society.

Imagine my delight when I'd discovered makeup existed in the 1940s. Beatrice's vanity was a treasure trove.

This world never did stick to one century properly-titles from one era, fashion from another, manners stitched together by whatever the author thought looked pretty.

I lifted my chin and smiled like I owned not just the garden, but the air everyone was breathing.

A young man-barely twenty, hair slicked into submission with enough pomade to waterproof a ship-looked at me approvingly. His gaze snagged on my dress, lingered a bit too long on my neckline, then flinched when he caught my eyes.

"Lady Beatrice," he greeted awkwardly, flushing.

My lips curled up in practiced disdain. "Lord...?"

"Edmund. Edmund White."

"Ah." I looked him up and down slowly. "I was hoping someone here would bring some substance besides hair gel."

He flushed deeper. Though young, his expensive tailoring suggested he wasn't used to being addressed like that by anyone, let alone a woman.

"Bold choice of dressing," he bit back, loud enough for others to hear. "I didn't realize mourning was back in fashion."

Oh.

There it was. The opening.

Original Beatrice would have gone for the throat. Insulted his mother. His bloodline. Possibly questioned his masculinity in graphic detail.

But I had finesse.

I glanced at a silver tray drifting past, laden with petit fours so delicate they probably had emotional support servants.

Without breaking eye contact, I plucked one up, admired it for half a second, then leaned forward and pressed it directly into his perfectly styled hair.

The squish was obscene.

The garden went silent.

For one beautiful, crystalline moment, no one breathed.

Then-

"Oh my God!"

Gasps rippled outward like shockwaves. Someone dropped a teacup-actual porcelain shattering on stone. A lady clutched her pearls like they were life-saving flotation devices.

Lord Edmund froze, eyes crossing slightly as frosting dripped down his temple.

I smiled sweetly. "I'm so sorry. I thought you said you needed more color in your life."

DING!

HATRED POINTS +50

CURRENT TOTAL: 50

Oh. Oh, that felt good.

Worth it. Absolutely worth it.

Edmund sputtered, face turning the color of boiled beets. "You-you can't-!"

"Oh, hush," I said gently, patting his shoulder and getting more frosting on his coat. "You'll upset the roses."

I smiled, moving on before he could form a coherent sentence.

This was going to be easy.

Laughter burst from somewhere behind me-quickly strangled, but I heard it. People wanted to laugh. That was important. Hatred was best harvested when mixed with secret admiration and envy.

I drifted away, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing servant and letting my gaze roam.

Targets everywhere.

A woman with a pug tucked under her arm was scowling at me like I'd personally offended the concept of small dogs.

Perfect.

I glided over, all charm. "Lady...?"

"Darlington," she said stiffly.

"Lady Darlington! How brave of you to bring that creature out in public."

Her eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean-" I peered thoughtfully at the pug, which was staring at me with bulging eyes, "-I've heard some pets resemble their owners, but this is uncanny."

The pug snarled.

Lady Darlington went crimson.

DING!

HATRED POINTS +10

CURRENT TOTAL: 60

Delicious.

I moved on, feeling like I was playing the world's most entertaining video game.

At the card table, a group of older gentlemen were mid-game, whispering conspiratorially about something. One of them-Viscount Greymont, according to Beatrice's memories-glanced up at me with a tight smile.

"Lady Beatrice. What a... surprise."

"Careful, gentlemen," I said lightly, gesturing at their cards. "I hear cheating ruins the thrill. Or is that only when you're caught?"

Viscount Greymont's impressive mustache twitched. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, do," I said earnestly. "I absolutely insist."

DING!

HATRED POINTS +75

CURRENT TOTAL: 135

I was on a roll.

The System helpfully began organizing my success in a neat little mental ledger:

Lady Darlington: offended on behalf of pug

Viscount Greymont: publicly implied to be a cheat

Lord Edmund White: emotionally destroyed by pastry

I sipped my champagne, feeling victorious.

Villainy, I decided, was an art.

DING!

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: IMPORTANT PLOT POINT AHEAD

ONE OF THE FOUR MALE LEADS IS CURRENTLY AT THIS PARTY

QUEST: GET THE FEMALE LEAD NOTICED AT ALL COSTS

REWARD: BONUS HATRED POINTS

I straightened. This was it. Time to show how truly wicked I could be.

I glanced around, trying to spot any man brooding handsomely by the corner-probably seven feet tall with shoulders as wide as the ocean and a tragic backstory you could see from space.

My gaze glittered around the garden-

Then I felt it.

Eyes on me. Heavy. Assessing.

I turned slowly and locked onto a tall, imposing man standing at the edge of the flower beds, partially shadowed by a rose trellis.

Okay. I took a breath. The author had questionable logic, but I had to admit-she knew what women found attractive.

Tall. Military bearing. Well-built and impeccably dressed in what looked like a captain's uniform. Dark hair. Sharp jawline. And he was watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

He'd been watching me before I noticed him.

Probably cataloging every mean thing I'd done.

If he was one of the male leads, this was perfect. I'd cement how wicked I was before he met Maryann and inevitably fell for her gentle, suffering nature.

And speaking of her-

Oh. There she was.

Maryann stood near the refreshment table wearing a pale blue dress that screamed fragile protagonist. Guests surrounded her, cooing. Even the porcelain teacups seemed to lean in her direction.

The sun-again of course it did-found her through the trees and highlighted her pink hair like she was in a Renaissance painting.

And she was holding a cat.

A fluffy white cat cradled gently in her arms.

(God, I missed my cat so much.)

As I watched, she carefully passed the cat to an elderly woman, who patted Maryann's hair and smiled warmly.

Quiet applause rippled through the nearby guests.

"Such a sweet girl. That's His Grace's second daughter, isn't it?"

"And such a lovely disposition! Is she an angel?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain.

Okay. Time for the big show.

I glanced back at the military man. Still watching me with those intense dark eyes.

Right. Watch carefully, sir. I'm about to bully your future lover so badly she'll need emotional support for decades.

I walked toward Maryann, my heels clicking purposefully on the stone path.

"Maryann, darling."

Every head turned.

She looked up, eyes bright and innocent. "Yes, Beatrice?"

God, even her voice was irritating. Soft. Musical. Designed to make people want to protect her.

I smiled. Not a kind smile. The kind of smile you gave right before stepping on a bug.

"I was just wondering," I said pleasantly, loud enough to carry, "if you've finally decided what it is you do all day."

The garden stilled.

Conversations died. Forks paused. I swear even the birds stopped singing.

Maryann blinked, confused. "I-excuse me?"

"I mean-" I tilted my head thoughtfully, "-you don't manage the estate. You don't oversee the staff. You don't handle correspondence or attend council meetings. So I assume you must be doing something useful with all that free time."

A ripple of discomfort passed through the assembled guests.

Maryann flushed. "I-I help where I can-"

"Oh?" I leaned forward, genuinely interested. "Where would that be exactly? Moral support? Decorative breathing?"

Someone choked on their tea.

DING!

HATRED POINTS +320

CURRENT TOTAL: 455

Oh. Immediate massive payout. I loved this.

Maryann's smile wavered. "I read. I learn. Father says-"

"Father says many things," I interrupted smoothly. "Most of them incorrect."

I glanced back toward the military man, checking if he was watching.

He was. His expression had darkened considerably.

Good.

Wasn't that mean enough? Should I push further?

I looked back at Maryann, ready to deliver another cutting comment-

And froze.

Her eyes were filled with tears.

Actual, genuine tears welling up and threatening to spill.

"I'm-I'm sorry, Beatrice," she whispered, voice breaking. "Please. I'll do better. I promise I'll-"

Wait. What?

DING! DING! DING!

HATRED POINTS +12

HATRED POINTS +75

HATRED POINTS +67

HATRED POINTS +43

The points rolled in rapidly from all directions.

Maryann's tears spilled over, trailing down her cheeks.

I didn't even touch you! I wanted to scream. I just made a comment!

I raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused.

Then-as if summoned by damsel-in-distress pheromones-a shadow fell over us.

A man appeared at Maryann's side, his face furrowed in concern, his expression pained like he'd been physically wounded by witnessing her tears.

DING!

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:

FIRST MALE LEAD INTRODUCED:

NAME: JAMES HARTFORD

AGE: 29

TITLE: MARQUESS OF RAVENHILL

ARCHETYPE: THE PROTECTIVE HERO

THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE

COMPATIBILITY WITH HEROINE: 94%

Wait.

James Hartford? This was the male lead?

Then who was-

I looked back toward the rose trellis.

The military man was gone.

Vanished like smoke.

But I was sure he would be one of the leads. Everything about him screamed main character energy.

DING!

ONLY ONE MALE LEAD IS PRESENT AT TODAY'S EVENT: JAMES HARTFORD

THE MAN YOU NOTICED WAS CAPTAIN THEODORE ASHFORD

CLASSIFICATION: WILD VARIABLE

ROLE: UNPREDICTABLE

Theodore Ashford. The name was familiar-not a male lead, but someone in the novel. I just couldn't remember his role.

Curse those 2,500 chapters. Half of them were filler anyway.

DING!

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'VE SUCCESSFULLY EVOKED PITY FROM MALE LEAD FOR FEMALE LEAD

QUEST COMPLETE

BONUS: +500 HATRED POINTS

CURRENT TOTAL: 1,152

YOU MAY REST NOW

Like hell I can.

James was staring at me with open disgust, one arm wrapped protectively around Maryann's shaking shoulders. He pointed at me, his voice echoing in the suddenly silent garden.

"Beatrice! Haven't you taken this far enough? This poor girl is crying!"

Oh hell no.