(Evelina's POV — Hartgrave Mansion Entrance)
The car rolled to a stop before the Hartgrave estate—an architectural masterpiece built out of old money, generational pride, and a disturbing amount of malice.
White stone. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Security cameras trained like sniper scopes.
It looked exactly the way I remembered from the game: beautiful enough to envy, cold enough to fear.
Lucien opened his door and stepped out beside me, his voice soft but stiff. "Evelina… Father and Mother were worried. At least speak with them."
Worried? Right.
I didn't dignify that with a response. I simply walked.
The front doors swung open with a soft hydraulic hiss, and the air inside hit me like velvet dipped in liquid nitrogen.
Too bright. Too quiet. Too clean.
The Hartgraves sat in the living room—Reginald, Lucien, Arden, and Isabella—lined up like a portrait that learned how to breathe. When they saw me, Reginald rose first, hands trembling just enough to notice.
"Evelina… dear…" He reached forward, took my hands, and then leaned in—eyes narrowing as he scanned me up and down.
Slowly. Carefully. Thoroughly. Like a high-end office printer checking for watermark forgery.
I stared back, expression blank. What...what is he doing?
Finally, he exhaled in relief. "Do you still feel the burning ache in your heart?"
Burning ache?… right. That's what the script called my near-death experience.
I hesitated. His worry was strangely uncomfortable. Wrong-shaped. Misplaced. "No, Father. I don't feel anything burning. I'm fine."
He exhaled with relief, shoulders dropping. I glanced across the room.
Arden avoided my gaze, jaw clenched. Mother's eyes skimmed me up and down—cold, unblinking. No fake concern. No softness. Just cold expressions.
And then—
"Sister…"
Sera stepped forward, hands trembling as if I had done something to her.
"I'm sorry I couldn't visit you," she whispered earnestly. "But if you need anything… anything at all… please inform me. I'll ask someone to serve you."
…Serve me.
She spoke like she was the host—and I was the guest in my own house.
I stared but said nothing. Any wrong word here could trigger a death flag.
"Take a seat, dear," Reginald instructed gently.
I sat. A maid placed a glass of juice in front of me. Arden cleared his throat, face stiff with businesslike concern. "We attempted to locate the person who poisoned you—"
My stomach dropped.
So they weren't gathered because they missed me. They weren't here because they were afraid. They were investigating me; thinking I poisoned myself.
I cut Arden off, my voice slicing through the room.
"I AM NOT THE ONE WHO POISONED MYSELF."
Silence snapped like a bone. Arden's eyes went wide. "What—?"
I continued, tone iced razor.
"Why would I kill myself? Dying in the middle of someone else's social event would only make me look like an idiot."
Reginald frowned. "Evelina—wait, we never—"
"And if I ever chose to die," I went on calmly, "I'd do it quietly. Elegantly. Without making a circus of myself."
A shaky breath rippled through the room. No one contradicted me.
I stood.
"You don't have to say anything. Your eyes already did." I looked at each of them. Mother's perfect lips tightened. Arden's jaw flexed. Lucien lowered his gaze.
"You all already decided I did it. So there's no point speaking further." I turned toward the staircase. "And it's a waste of my time to defend myself to people who only listen when it's too late."
My footsteps echoed across the marble.
PING.
A blue shimmer flashed at the corner of my vision.
[System: Hard-Mode Reward Unlocked.] [New Feature: Affection Insight] [Reason: Emotional Impact Achieved.]
I froze.
Affection…? Seriously? Now the game wanted to help me read emotions like a glorified dating app?
Another window followed:
[Would you like to enable Affection Insight?] [YES] [NO]
But...Did this game ever have this option? I played as the heroine, and she never unlocked anything like this. Maybe every character has hidden features tied to personal pain points.
Well. The world hates Evelina. Maybe affection rates were the only thing in this cursed script that could keep me alive.
I pressed [YES].
TRING!
Light rippled across my vision.
[System: Congratulations. Affection Insight Enabled. Use this feature wisely.]
Then the window faded.
"…Huh?" I blinked. "Where do I see—"
I turned around—and my breath hitched.
Soft, translucent numbers hovered above everyone's heads. Like silent little secrets finally given subtitles.
Reginald Hartgrave — Affection: 30%(...Decent. Guilty dad points.)
Lucien Hartgrave — Affection: 3%(Okay. So he only loves me slightly more than cold furniture.)
Arden Hartgrave — Affection: -1%(A negative number. Impressive. Didn't know resentment came with a minus sign.)
But then—
My eyes landed on Isabella.
Isabella Hartgrave — Affection: 40%
…
I blinked once.
Twice.
Was the system drunk?
This woman slapped Evelina, called her a monster, and regretted giving birth to her. Meanwhile, her affection was higher than anyone else's?
"Nope." I whispered under my breath. "That's suspicious. That's tax fraud suspicious."
Either the system was glitching… or affection didn't equal kindness.
And then I saw Sera:
Sera Loraine—Affection: -10% (Envy Detected)
My brows lifted.
Envy?Of me?
The entire main cast adored her. The fandom worshipped her. The world literally spun on her pink cotton-candy axis.
Why would she—?
I tore my eyes away before anyone noticed the way my brain was internally combusting. Affection rates were useful, sure. But they were also dangerous. If any of those numbers dropped too low…
A threat list.Right in front of me.
Great. Now I can watch my assassination chances update in real time.
I turned toward the stairs.
"Well," I muttered, "as long as no meter hits negative fifty, I'll consider it a win."
Without another word, I walked to my room, spine straight, steps steady. Behind me, I swear the manor seemed to breathe.
Watching.
Waiting.
And those invisible numbers pulsed softly in the dark like landmines no one else could see.
***
(Evelina's Room—Later)
"Phew…" I collapsed onto the bed, limbs splayed, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers. My legs dangled off the edge, toes hovering above plush carpet.
Affection Insight.
A cursed blessing.
Now I could see who wanted me dead… or worse. Negative affection was basically a glowing stab-me-later warning.
"So," I muttered, swinging my legs back up, "step one of villainess survival: never turn your back on someone who's at minus anything."
I pushed myself upright, padded toward the study table, and pulled out a pen and paper. The chair's wheels squeaked under me as I sat.
"Alright," I exhaled, tapping the pen against my cheek, "time to organize the chaos."
If I was going to live in this script, I needed data. Structure. Logic. And potentially caffeine—though knowing this house, it would be served with cyanide sprinkles.
I began scribbling names:
Reginald—30% (Guilt)Lucien—3% (Conflicted)Arden — -1% (Resentment)Isabella—40% (...why?)Sera — -10% (Envy)
I circled the negative ones twice. Bold. Underlined. Extra underlined, because my survival instinct demanded dramatic emphasis.
"Threat assessment," I mumbled. "If affection is low, threat is high. Isabella's at forty, but threat was forty-eight, so she wins first place in 'Most Likely To Ruin My Life.'"
My pen twirled between my fingers, muscle memory from late-night cram sessions in my old life.
"To understand this world," I murmured, writing the words slowly, "I need to understand the girl I replaced."
Evelina Hartgrave.
The villainess.
Not born evil. Molded. Starved. Pushed. The kind the world likes to kick because it's bored.
"In the game," I said, leaning back in my chair, "everyone loved Sera."
I tapped her name on my paper.
"She's the heroine. Automatically charismatic. Naturally loved. Doesn't have to try. Everything falls into her lap like it was waiting there."
I snorted.
Must be nice.
Meanwhile, villainess routes were basically "try not to die speedruns." Evelina had to struggle, fight, beg, bleed—and still end up executed or exiled or stabbed by her own brother for 'family honor.'
I chewed the inside of my cheek, eyes drifting across the paper.
"Heroine tactic," I scribbled. "Passive charm. Hidden luck stat. Protected by plot armor and moral bias."
Then I wrote under Evelina's column: "Villainess tactic: Strategy. Intelligence. Psychological warfare. Social shields."
That felt right. Ugly. But true.
I leaned my elbow on the desk, pen twirling between my fingers. "So… to survive in this world," I murmured, eyes tracing the ink, "I need to gain their favor."
I tapped names lightly. Each tap felt like knocking on a locked door.
If I died once already, then every single one of them had the capacity to kill me again.
My pen hovered.
"I need the characters of this world on my side," I whispered, voice quiet but sharp. "Not because I want them…" The pen dropped, pointing directly at the column labeled Threats. "…but because I can't afford them as enemies."
But which ones?
Each name was a loaded gun. Some pointed away. Some pointed quietly at my back. One or two might turn if I whispered the right words.
I stared at the page long enough for the ink to dry into certainty.
"…Who?"
It wasn't just a question. It was my first real choice. The room swallowed the silence whole, like even the walls were listening. Somewhere in the depths of the mansion, a clock chimed softly.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Survival wasn't about being liked. It was about choosing the right monsters to stand with.