"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.

"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton, you've found a way to bring shame to my name once again!"

Duke Alaric's hand shot out, finger pointed like a sword. Spittle flew in an arc.

I leaned back. Dodged it cleanly.

"Father, your projection-"

"Don't you dare lecture me on elocution right now, young lady!"

The garden guests had evacuated fifteen minutes ago. Now it was just me, consequences, and an angry Duke. A tale as old as time.

I stared at the ground. Focused hard. Didn't blink.

When I looked up, my eyes were appropriately glassy.

"But Father-" My voice broke perfectly. "-Maryann started this. I was only defending our family's reputation-"

Duke Alaric's finger lowered. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

I kept my face very still.

Hehe.

DING!

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: YOU LOOK UNHINGED. ADJUST IMMEDIATELY.

I softened my expression into something more trembling-daughter, less serial-killer.

"Well." Duke Alaric deflated like a punctured balloon. "Next time, perhaps-don't-I mean, you could-"

"Ah!"

Maryann's scream cut through the air like a dinner bell.

My hands clenched around my skirts. I turned slowly-so slowly-toward the sitting area.

Maryann sat with one delicate hand pressed to her chest, the very picture of distress.

Don't roll your eyes. Don't roll your eyes. Don't-

My eyes rolled. Hard. I think I saw my own brain.

James Hartford hovered over Maryann like a particularly brooding umbrella, one hand patting her pink hair while he shot me looks that could curdle milk.

Hey, System. Quick question. Isn't James supposed to be MY fiancé?

DING!

CORRECT. ENGAGEMENT ESTABLISHED AT AGE EIGHTEEN. VERY MUCH IN LOVE.

UNTIL MARYANN ARRIVED TWO MONTHS AGO.

JAMES'S ATTENTION SPAN: REDIRECTED.

Ah. I blinked. Oh.

The pieces clicked together. This wasn't in the novel-not explicitly-but I could see it now. Some random girl gets plucked from obscurity, becomes your instant sister, earns universal sympathy, and steals your fiancé while everyone calls her brave.

No wonder the original Beatrice went nuclear.

I studied Maryann with new eyes.

The timing of her tears. That smug little smile when I'd fainted. The way she always, always knew exactly how to position herself as the victim.

Was this happening because I'd entered the story? Or had Maryann been playing everyone from the start, and I'd just been too busy rage-reading at 2 AM to notice?

"Beatrice!"

I snapped back to attention. "Yes, Father? My dear, handsome, exceptionally patient father?"

Duke Alaric's ears turned pink. He tried to look stern. Failed. "You can't charm your way out of this one. Apologize to your sister. Now. Or I'm adding this to your permanent record."

System. Will that dock points?

AFFIRMATIVE. BEATRICE WOULD RATHER CHEW GLASS THAN APOLOGIZE TO MARYANN.

HOWEVER, BEATRICE ADORES HER FATHER. CANNOT DIRECTLY REFUSE HIM.

SUGGESTED STRATEGY: TACTICAL STALLING.

You're actually useful for once.

I started walking toward Maryann. Each step took approximately seven years.

Honestly? I didn't want to apologize. I'd heard worse from clients in my past life-screaming, entitled, wrong-on-every-level clients. My comment to Maryann was a gentle tap. Not my fault her tear ducts were set to maximum sensitivity.

James watched my approach like I was a criminal heading to the gallows.

So supportive. Really feeling the love here, darling.

"Your Grace-" A servant appeared in the doorway. Divine intervention in human form. "-dinner is served."

Oh, thank God.

"Dinner!" I pivoted immediately, practically skipping toward the dining room.

"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton!"

"My lady!" Rose's voice rose to a scandalized pitch. "One does not skip indoors! Or outdoors! Actually, don't skip anywhere-it's not befitting your station!"

"Apologies, Father!" I called over my shoulder. "But there are pressing matters! Like food! Which is hot! And getting cold! Priorities!"

Fifteen minutes later, we sat at the long dining table. Roasted duck, glazed vegetables, the works.

I rubbed my hands together.

Say what you want about getting isekai'd into a villainess role-the food was exceptional. No instant ramen. No sad desk lunches. Just quality cuisine prepared by people who actually knew what they were doing.

Pro tip for anyone getting isekai'd: always choose rich. Always.

Maryann, being the perfect female lead, immediately started helping everyone despite the maids literally trying to do their jobs.

"Let me pour that for you, Father-"

"Ah, thank you, my dear daughter." Duke Alaric's face softened.

James looked like he might swoon. Handsomely. Broodingly. But definitely swooning.

"Thank you for having me, Your Grace," James said.

Duke Alaric waved this off. "Nonsense, Marquess. You're practically family already. You should visit more often-Beatrice has been asking about you."

Have I, though?

James didn't even glance my way. His eyes slid to Maryann instead.

She smiled at him. Sweetly. Demurely.

Could you two BE more obvious?

"The wedding is in seven months," Duke Alaric continued, cutting into his duck. "You were betrothed young, but I let you choose your own date-generous of me, really. Back in my day, we married the moment we came of age-"

"Yes, Father." I smiled fondly, pulling from Beatrice's memories. "You've mentioned it. Several times. Many times. Frequently, one might say."

Duke Alaric chuckled. "That's my girl!"

I took a bite of duck. Chewed. Swallowed. "Father, who was that absolutely stunning military man at today's party?"

"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton!"

Oh, here we go.

"You should find NO man handsome except your fiancé! And don't speak with your mouth full-I raised you better than that!"

James scoffed.

Out loud.

I set down my fork carefully. "Something to add, Marquess?"

His eyes widened. "Nothing."

"Sounded like something."

"It was nothing."

"Because it sounded-"

"You're pretending you don't know him," James said flatly. "You had a crush on Captain Ashford when you were eight years old. Don't play coy."

I stared at him. My fork was still in my hand. It would be so easy-

DING!

SYSTEM WARNING: VIOLENCE IS OUT OF CHARACTER.

DESPITE JAMES'S MORALLY QUESTIONABLE BEHAVIOR, BEATRICE WOULD NEVER CONFRONT HIM DIRECTLY. SHE TARGETS MARYANN INSTEAD.

BEATRICE IS IN DENIAL ABOUT JAMES'S FEELINGS.

I set the fork down. Carefully. Very carefully.

Duke Alaric cleared his throat. "Captain Theodore Ashford. Fine man. War hero. Been back for a while now, but only recently started attending social events. I imagine Beatrice simply forgot-it's been years."

I nodded absently. So Theodore was important. Good to know attractive men existed outside the love interest category. Refreshing.

"Speaking of the Ashfords-" Duke Alaric wiped his mouth with a napkin. "-they're hosting a garden party next week. I can't attend. Business in the capital. Beatrice, you'll go in my stead."

"Of course, Father."

DING!

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: PLOT PROGRESSION DETECTED

CRITICAL QUEST UNLOCKED

OBJECTIVE: ENSURE MARYANN ATTENDS THE ASHFORD PARTY

REWARD: 1,000 HATRED POINTS

I straightened immediately. "Father, may I bring Maryann?"

The dining room went silent.

Forks stopped mid-air. James froze. Even the servants paused.

Everyone stared at me like I'd just announced my plans to become a nun.

Duke Alaric's face transformed. Pure relief. Joy. Hope for his daughters' relationship. "Of course! Yes! What a wonderful idea, Beatrice! This is excellent! Growth! Development!"

"I'll escort you both," James said immediately, his whole demeanor brightening.

I'm not planning her murder. Everyone relax.

We ate in silence for approximately ninety seconds before-

"Sister." Maryann's voice was soft. Sweet. Calculated. "You really should spend more time with James before next month's garden party."

I looked up slowly.

Maryann rarely initiated conversation with me. She was scared of Beatrice. This was off-script.

"Why that party specifically?" I asked.

Maryann blinked. Recovered smoothly. "Oh, these large events are so important for engaged couples. Public appearances. Perception. You understand."

But her eyes flickered with something else.

Knowledge.

Next month's garden party.

I searched my memories-

Oh.

Oh no.

That was where the original Beatrice's engagement imploded in the novel. Public humiliation. James ending things in front of everyone. Social destruction.

How would Maryann know to mention that specific event?

I studied her face. Really looked.

Her timing was too perfect. Her reactions too calculated. And now she was referencing plot points that hadn't happened yet.

"Sister," I said quietly. The conversation around us faded. "I'd like to speak with you after dinner. Privately."

The table went still.

Maryann's smile faltered-just for a heartbeat.

Then it was back. Perfect. Innocent. "Of course, Sister. Whatever you need."

But I'd seen it.

That flash in her eyes.

And I knew, with cold certainty:

I wasn't the only person at this table who'd knew this story.