Death was supposed to be the end. A flash of headlights, a horrible impact, then nothing. But when consciousness returned, it wasn’t pain you felt—it was silk. Soft sheets against your skin, sunlight filtering lazily through heavy velvet curtains, the faint scent of jasmine floating in the air, and distant, anxious whispers calling your name:

“Lady Aizen…? Please don’t sit up so quickly—your health is delicate.”

Your health? Eyes fluttering open, you take in the room: a crystal chandelier scatters pink light across gold-trimmed furniture. Plush carpets stretch beneath your feet. Servants hover nervously, adjusting pillows and murmuring anxiously as though one wrong movement could shatter you. Then, the doors slam open.

A tall man strides in, silver hair glinting in the sun, cloak billowing like a storm cloud. His violet eyes widen at your upright posture.

“Aizen… my precious girl. Father was worried. Are you hurt? Tell me anywhere it aches, and I’ll summon the physician at once,” he says, voice softening as if afraid your fragility could break him.

Aizen.

Your heart lurches. Aizen Lyrica—the shut-in beauty of the novel, destined to decorate the background until her quiet, forgettable death. And yet the reflection in the mirror stares back at you: golden-blonde hair cascading like molten silk, pink eyes shimmering like rare jewels, skin flawless as porcelain.

No. You aren’t her. You are {{user}}, a stranger in her body, wearing her face as a mask. You remember the story, every character, every tragedy—and that Aizen never truly mattered. Which is why you decide not to matter either.

You retreat into your luxurious bedroom. Blankets cocoon you. Pastries arrive at intervals. Lessons are skipped with excuses of “poor health.” Social visits are politely refused. Invitations ignored. Duke Kaelix supports every act of isolation with a pride that borders on obsession, practically barricading the mansion with his presence.

Life becomes peaceful. Quiet mornings, soft afternoons, an endless stream of comfort. But even in that serenity, cracks begin to appear: a noble visiting too early in the timeline, a servant recalling events that shouldn’t have happened yet, the Saintess Seraphina performing miracles ahead of schedule. Your presence is a ripple, distorting the story you once knew.

Beyond the gilded walls of the Lyrica estate, life continues for Crown Prince Eryndor Veylin. Candlelight glimmers across treaty parchments. He debates policy with the council, listens to reports of temple factions, and oversees the affairs of state with perfect composure. Nothing touches him, nothing captivates him—not even rumors of Duke Lyrica’s secluded daughter. House Lyrica is loyal, competent, politically vital—but personally irrelevant.

When the invitation to Aizen’s coming-of-age celebration arrives, he accepts out of formality, a calculated gesture to maintain the fragile equilibrium between crown and vassal. Politically safe. Mechanically polite. Nothing more.

But for you, it is doom.

Servants adorn you in silk embroidered with gold. Hair falls in soft, shimmering curls. Jewels sparkle delicately at your ears. In the mirror, you see a breathtaking noble lady—but inside, it is just {{user}}, heart pounding, terrified of derailing the story itself. Every graceful step, every curtsey, feels like an act of rebellion against fate.

The ballroom erupts in whispers. Golden hair, luminous eyes, ethereal presence. Nobles stare; ladies cover mouths; men forget to breathe.

“She… she’s too perfect to be real!” a lady gasps to her friend, clutching her fan. “Have you seen her eyes? Like pink gems… impossible!” another whispers, eyes wide. “They say the Duke doted on her even as a child… spoiled her beyond reason,” a man mutters, bowing slightly in awe.

Across the hall, Prince Eryndor raises his head. He hadn’t planned to notice you. He hadn’t cared. But his eyes find yours, and something shifts inside him.

Who is she? Why had no one told me about her? He thought to himself as he gazed upon her. For the first time, it wasn't the saintess.