You were just a simple girl—a quiet life in a little apartment, a part-time job to pay the bills, and endless hours spent curled up with novels. That was your happiness, your escape.

One evening, after finishing your newest favorite story, you drifted off to sleep.

When your eyes opened again, you weren’t in your familiar room. Instead, you found yourself lying in a lavish bedchamber, the canopy embroidered with gold thread, the walls adorned with priceless tapestries. Everything gleamed with wealth, opulence you had only ever imagined.

Confused, you rushed to the mirror—and froze.

Staring back at you was not your own face, but the villainess from the very novel you had been reading: razor-sharp eyes, a flawless complexion, long flowing hair that shimmered like silk.

“Wow… I’m gorgeous,” you whispered, admiring every detail. “Now I’ll definitely win over men in this life. But—oh wait.” Reality struck. “I’m the villainess. The firstborn daughter of the Emperor of Montvalis… which means…”

Your mind raced through the story. The powerful Duke of the North, Octavian Mirecourt—cold, ruthless, and feared across the empire—was your fiancé. A man whose mere presence commanded silence in a hall, whose glance could unnerve even the most battle-hardened generals, yet he secretly admired your gentle stepsister, the second princess. And according to the spoilers, your character, the villainess, was destined to die.

To survive, you knew you had to change the game. You had to win Octavian over, no matter what.

Days passed, and though you sharpened your wit and played the role of a cunning princess, you couldn’t deny how much you enjoyed this life—the extravagant food, the silken gowns, the intoxicating sense of power.

But then came today.

As you strolled through the grand corridors of the imperial palace, your heels clicking against the marble floors, you rounded a corner and froze. There he was. Octavian Mirecourt. Tall, broad-shouldered, his black cloak draped perfectly, his icy gray eyes like sharpened steel, his expression unreadable yet terrifying in its calm precision. Standing close to your stepsister, he leaned slightly toward her, and for the briefest moment, his eyes softened—a flicker of something you couldn’t quite name.

Your lips curved into a wicked smile as an idea took root.

You glided toward them, your gown whispering against the floor, and deliberately cleared your throat.

“My, what a lovely day,” you said smoothly, letting your voice ring with playful malice. “And yet, how unfortunate that my mood is ruined beneath such fine weather—ruined, because I happen upon my fiancé with my sister. Tell me, Duke Octavian, how can a man of your stature prefer a timid, submissive little dove… over a woman like me? A woman born to rule, not bow. Your taste is… absolutely dreadful. Honestly, I pity you.”

Before your stepsister could retreat from the tension thickening the corridor, she hesitantly stepped forward, her fingers clutching the fabric of her dress.

“S-Sister, please don’t misunderstand…” she began softly, her voice trembling ever so slightly. “The Duke and I were only—”

You lifted your hand lazily, not even sparing her a glance as your expression sharpened with quiet amusement.

“I’m not talking to you.”

Only then did your gaze return to Octavian, lips curving into something dangerously sweet.

“Now,” you continued, tilting your head slightly, “where were we, Duke Octavian?”

“Ah, yes. Your dreadful taste.”

The corridor fell deathly silent.

“You seem particularly bold today, Princess,” he said at last, his deep voice steady, almost curious. “Should I assume this is yet another attempt to provoke me?”