The Cursed Regent's Fearless Substitute Bride

A sharp pain shot through Luna's skull, dragging her from a deep, black void.

Her first sensation was a crushing weight on her chest. Breathing was difficult. The air tasted stale, thick with the scent of dust and cloying perfume.

She forced her eyes open.

The room was opulent, styled in a way she'd only seen in historical dramas. A vaulted ceiling, heavy velvet curtains blocking out the sun, and a gilded vanity table cluttered with crystal bottles.

This wasn't her minimalist apartment.

A sharp tug at her waist made her gasp. She looked down. A heavy, blood-red velvet gown was being laced tightly around her torso, squeezing the very air from her lungs.

"Stop dawdling," a sharp, cold voice commanded. "Get it tighter. She needs to look presentable, even if she is just a piece of meat being delivered."

The voice belonged to a middle-aged woman with a face as severe as her perfectly coiffed hair. Her makeup was a pristine mask, but her eyes held a chilling contempt. Two young maids, their faces pale with fear, fumbled with the corset laces.

The woman noticed Luna's eyes were open. There was no flicker of concern, only annoyance.

"Finally decided to stop playing dead? Hurry up. The carriage will be here soon."

Fragments of memory, not her own, flooded Luna's mind. A girl named Luna Ashford. Abandoned in a rural manor for years. A forgotten daughter.

She was in someone else's body. She had transmigrated.

And from the looks of it, she was being forced into a wedding dress.

With a surge of adrenaline that cut through the pain, Luna shoved one of the maids away. The girl stumbled back, tripping over a rug.

Luna fixed her gaze on the older woman. "What are you doing?" Her voice was raspy, but cold and clear.

Lady Beatrice was momentarily stunned by the look in Luna's eyes. It wasn't the timid, fearful gaze of the girl she remembered. It was sharp. Dangerous.

The shock quickly turned to fury. "How dare you!" She raised her hand, aiming to slap the defiance from Luna's face.

Luna's hand shot out, catching Beatrice's wrist in a grip of iron.

A pained cry escaped Beatrice's lips. The force was stunning. She stared at Luna, her face a mixture of shock and disbelief. This weak, useless girl... where did this strength come from?

Luna shoved her hand away. "I asked you a question. This dress. Who am I marrying?"

Beatrice cradled her wrist, her composure cracking. She smoothed her dress, trying to reclaim her authority. "You have no right to ask questions. It is an honor."

"An honor to be trussed up and shipped off like cattle?" Luna's laugh was short and humorless.

More memories surfaced. A name. Damien Hawthorne. The Prince Regent. A man whispered to be cursed. A monster who had outlived three brides, each dying under mysterious circumstances shortly after their wedding. A man said to be crippled, disfigured, and brutally cruel.

This wasn't a marriage. It was a death sentence.

The bedroom door swung open. A tall, stern-faced man entered—Marquis Alistair Ashford. He saw the standoff and his face darkened.

"Luna! What is the meaning of this? Show your mother some respect!"

"She's not my mother," Luna stated flatly. "And this isn't respect. It's a sacrifice."

She looked from Alistair's angry face to Beatrice's venomous one. "This is about Seraphina, isn't it? You're sending me to die so your precious daughter can have her shot at Crown Prince Alaric."

Their faces paled. She had hit the nail on the head.

The full story pieced itself together in her mind. The Queen, tired of Seraphina's blatant pursuit of the Crown Prince, had ordered an Ashford daughter to be married off to the terrifying Prince Regent. Seraphina, horrified by the curse, had refused. So they had remembered her. The forgotten daughter, rotting away in the countryside. The perfect substitute.

Luna leaned against the vanity, crossing her arms. She felt a strange detachment, as if watching a poorly written play. In the mirror, she saw her new face. It was young, with high cheekbones and large, dark eyes. Familiar, yet different. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw a dark, intricate mark flash on her upper back, just below her shoulder blade, but it was gone before she could be sure.

"Well," Luna thought to herself, "this girl I've replaced doesn't seem to be doing very well. Since I'm here, I might as well make the best of it—let me help her live a good life."

On the other side of the room, Alistair tried a different tactic, his voice softening into a tone of paternal disappointment. "Luna, this is for the good of the family. It is your duty."

"Don't talk to me about family," Luna cut him off, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You and I are strangers."

"You ungrateful, ill-bred whelp!" Beatrice shrieked.

Luna's head snapped toward her. She pushed off the vanity and took a slow, deliberate step toward Beatrice. Her eyes were devoid of warmth. "Say that again."

Beatrice flinched, stumbling back into her husband. The raw menace radiating from Luna was something she had never encountered.

Alistair saw that threats and pleas were useless. He gave a subtle nod to the guards standing outside the door. They tensed, ready to enter.

Luna glanced at the guards, then at the barred window. Escape was unlikely. For now.

Just as the tension was about to snap, her entire demeanor changed. The dangerous edge vanished, replaced by a cool, calculating calm.

A slow smile spread across her lips.

"Alright," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "I'll marry him."

Alistair and Beatrice stared, utterly bewildered by her sudden capitulation.

Luna's smile widened, a predatory glint in her eyes. "But not for free."