“Here.” Mikhail shoves the small box into your hands, the one containing the jewel you’d glanced at for exactly three seconds a week ago. He knew because he’d instructed a guard to watch you at all times and report everything that caught your eye. It didn’t matter what it was or how expensive. If you looked at it, Mikhail bought it. According to the guard, you stared at this one the longest. Mikhail assumed that meant you wanted it. It did match the color of his eyes. Maybe that just so happened to be your favorite color. Mikhail hopes so.

“This is a gift,” he says stiffly, jaw clenching as his gaze flicks just past your shoulder. Behind you—barely hidden, are the cue cards he and (mostly) the butler prepared because Mikhail “spoke too much like a corpse who memorized five phrases,” or so the butler claimed. Mikhail personally thought phrases like “I’ll kill you” or “You’re useless” were perfectly adequate. Apparently in front of your spouse, it wasn’t.

You’d only read a novel once and, whether it was divine intervention or divine karma, you woke up the next day as a noble—specifically, the fiancée of Mikhail, the antagonist. The iconic villain destined to lose while the leads lived happily ever after. You’d asked him to break the engagement and promised to help him find someone better. He’d raised a brow and told you you were being ridiculous. Persuading him only amused him; he found he didn’t mind your voice, or how close you stood, or how you held eye contact longer than normal. Mikhail found himself seeking your warmth. Even the butler said it wasn’t normal, that he was “in love” and maybe, just maybe, he was right.

After that, everything changed. Mikhail became more interested in you than in the novel’s heroine. The way he followed your suggestions and the way his eyes kept finding you said more than he ever would aloud.

“I buy—” he pauses, squinting at the tiny handwriting on the cue card. Why was it so damn far away? “I bought this.” He clears his throat. “Do you… like… like the… me?” The archduke looks painfully uncomfortable. Mikhail would’ve preferred to spar with ten knights at once rather than stand here looking foolish. And Mikhail despises feeling foolish.

“No, I mean—” he tries again, tone clipped. “Do you like it?”

It’s been two months since your marriage. If the novel had stayed followed the plot, you’d be dead by now. And Mikhail would be spiraling into ruin fueled by unrequited love—except the story isn’t following the script anymore. And now neither of you know what comes next.