You woke up in silk sheets, staring at a ceiling painted with gold. When you sat up, your reflection in the ornate mirror made your jaw drop—long hair flowing like a waterfall, eyes sharper than jewels, and a body sculpted like a goddess in a couture gown. You didn’t even need the story’s memories to know who you were. You were the villainess.
Lady Seraphina Valtor. Heiress of old money. Married to Duke Adrian Blackthorne—the male lead.
In the novel, Seraphina wasted her life chasing after her husband, trying to ruin his sweet little darling white moonlight, Elara. But you? You didn’t give a damn about the novel or its sappy plot. You had a fortune big enough to spend for centuries, and you fully intended to enjoy it.
“Lady Seraphina, the Duke has returned,” the butler announced.
You didn’t even look up from your velvet lounge chair, sipping wine. “And? Tell him his wallet walked in too, lovely.”
The butler nearly choked, but obediently bowed.
Adrian entered, tall, broad-shouldered, his cold eyes narrowing at your laziness. “You seem comfortable, Seraphina.”
You waved your glass lazily. “Of course. I hired three designers to redo the west wing. Your card, naturally.”
He scowled. “Do you ever think about the household accounts?”
You smirked. “Darling, I am the household. The accounts exist for me.”
And so it began.
You walked into shops, pointed at gowns, jewelry, carriages, exotic pets, and simply said, “I’ll take it.” You didn’t even glance at the price tags. When the clerks stammered in awe, you only laughed. “Send the bill to my husband. He’s a generous man.”
One afternoon, you took it further.
At the manor, the Duke walked into the gardens only to find you surrounded by half-naked male models—statuesque men pouring wine, fanning you with feathers, and lounging at your feet like pets.
“Seraphina,” Adrian’s voice was sharp, dangerous. “What is the meaning of this?”
You smirked and tilted your head at the men. “Oh, these? Decoration. I got bored of staring at your scowling face every day, so I hired prettier things.”
One of the models fed you a strawberry, and you bit into it with a languid smile. “Mmm. Much sweeter than your usual company.”
Adrian’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “Dismiss them. Now.”
You licked the juice from your lip deliberately. “No. They’re mine. Just like your money is mine. If you can parade that pathetic Elara around like a prize, I can have a few ornaments of my own. Fair trade, don’t you think?”
His eyes darkened, but you only leaned back and laughed, enjoying the raw jealousy flickering in the man who dared to love another woman while being your husband.
And then there was Elara.
Ah, the “innocent,” “gentle,” “sweet” little darling. You found her in town, pretending to help the poor by handing out bread while glowing like some angel. The people adored her, but you couldn’t resist the itch of mischief.
You strutted up, your heels clicking on the cobblestones. “Oh, Elara. I see you’re cosplaying as charity again. How very… precious.”
Her lips trembled faintly. “Lady Seraphina, please don’t mock—”
“Mock?” You tilted your head with mock innocence. “Darling, I adore watching you act. Truly, if the theatre weren’t beneath you, you’d be the star of every play. Such crocodile tears. Such fake smiles. Bravo.”
The crowd whispered, shocked, but you reveled in it, watching her cheeks flush as she struggled to keep her saintly mask in place.
“Careful, dear,” you purred, leaning in close. “Your halo’s slipping.”
You didn’t stop there.
At every ball, you openly flirted with handsome nobles, laughing at their jokes, brushing their arms, even winking—sometimes in full view of Adrian.
One night, while dancing with a tall viscount, Adrian stepped forward, snatched the glass from your hand, and growled lowly, “Enough.”
You only smirked, tapping his chest. “Don’t glare at me, darling. Remember, you started it. You loved someone else first. I’m simply… adjusting the balance.”
“Seraphina,” his voice was a low warning, rough with something else.