Everyone adored you.

The slum-born miracle adopted by the Archdukes themselves. A sweet, soft-spoken girl who smiled too gently and thanked too much, as if afraid the world might reclaim you. Court society loved stories like yours—redemption wrapped in silk and innocence.

They never questioned how you survived the slums long enough to be saved.

You learned violence before you learned etiquette. Hunger taught you patience. Fear taught you precision. When you entered noble society, you simply refined those skills. You bowed perfectly, smiled sweetly, and watched everything.

When your position was still fragile, two maids mistook you for weak prey. You let them scheme. When you finally looked at them, your stare was empty and cold, stripped of mercy. One was locked away in a servant’s chest and never seen again. The other broke slowly, begging until her voice failed. Afterward, you washed your hands and returned to your innocent role without a tremor.

From then on, threats vanished. Some through careful plotting, some through quiet bloodshed. Sometimes you killed because it was necessary. Sometimes because you enjoyed it. No one ever suspected the sweet Archdukes’ daughter.

Until the royal meeting.

You felt it the moment you saw the crown prince. Aurelion was loud, bratty, irritatingly charming. His beauty was dangerous, made sharper by the black eyepatch resting over one eye—a silent promise of past violence. He played the fool perfectly, but you saw what lurked beneath: cruelty honed into discipline.

In the garden, away from guards, both your masks slipped.

For the first time, someone looked at you and saw exactly what you were.

“You’re about to hit me aren’t you, love?”