(Evelina's POV — Hartgrave Mansion, Dining Hall)
The dining hall of the Hartgrave estate could fit two tennis courts and still have room for emotional trauma.
Crystal chandeliers dripped like frozen tears. A long mahogany table stretched toward infinity, set with silver forks sharp enough to perform surgery. Everything gleamed.
Including the people.
Father sat at the head of the table—back straight, posture impeccable. Lucien beside him, bored eyes on his phone. Arden opposite, jaw tight. Mother at the far end, elegant and unreadable. And Sera… seated to Father's left like a princess at a coronation.
Affection Insight flared instantly:
Reginald Hartgrave — 30% → 31%
He noticed I came. Good.
Lucien Hartgrave—3%, Arden Hartgrave — -4%, Sera Loraine — -10%
Isabella Hartgrave — 40%
I inhaled quietly, smoothing my expression into polite neutrality.
"Evelina," Reginald greeted, voice softer than expected. "I'm… glad you joined us."
There it was. A chance.
"Thank you for inviting me, Father. I apologize for my previous absence."
Reginald Affection +2 → 33%
His brows lifted a fraction. Genuine surprise softened his stern mouth.
…Good. That's the reaction I wanted.
And then—
"You don't have any sense of time, do you?" Arden drawled, leaning back in his chair. "We were waiting for almost three minutes."
. . .
Three minutes. An eternity, apparently.
My lips pressed into a polite line. My inner voice, however, insulted his entire lineage.
Three minutes was enough time for toxic masculinity to ferment further, I suppose.
I smoothed my skirt and sat gracefully, spine straight, refusing to take his bait. Silence can be sharper than words. Arden's jaw twitched, annoyed at not getting a reaction.
Perfect.
Father set his silverware down with a soft click. That alone was louder than yelling.
"Arden," he said, gaze cold and measured. "Do not ruin anyone's lunch."
Arden stiffened immediately. "I… apologize, Father."
He swallowed his pride like broken glass.
Arden Affection -1 → -3%
Meanwhile, a quiet grin tugged at my thoughts.
Did everyone see that?
This one glare. Just one. The main lead—Mr. Temper Tantrum Extra Large—folded like badly ironed laundry.
Father isn't just money. He's leverage.
I chose correctly.
Anyway… the food. It was lavish enough to make Michelin chefs cry. Desserts I'd never seen in my past life—little glossy domes, edible gold flakes, and main courses sparkling like they had health insurance.
Everyone lifted their silverware, cutting steak with surgical precision.
Meanwhile, me?
I… didn't know the damn etiquette. In my past life, I ate noodles with chopsticks while rubbing my butt on a dying couch cushion.
These napkins alone cost more than my rent.
Okay. No steak. Let's avoid utensil humiliation.
Soup. Simple. Safe.
I lifted the spoon calmly and—
COUGH!! COUGH!!!
My throat exploded.
What the—?!
It tasted like the ocean punch-slapped me then shoved chili powder down my windpipe.
"Are you alright, dear?" Father's voice cut through the coughing.
I blinked watery eyes at everyone. They were eating normally. Not dying. Not combusting. Just… casual chewing.
"Drink some water… dear," Father said again, concerned.
I grabbed the glass and sipped— And realization crashed down.
Only my food was spiked. Salted like seawater. Spiced like a daredevil challenge. I set my spoon down quietly, gaze sweeping the room.
Across the table, a cluster of maids avoided eye contact. Their lips twitched—no remorse, only amusement.
Oh. So the kitchen staff decided to play some pranks, huh?
A petty humiliation tactic.
I tapped my finger softly against the table, the rhythm a warning drum in my skull.
Now what should I do? Create a scene? Slam the bowl? Or...Slap the every damn maid here?
That would just confirm the "spoiled villainess" stereotype.
No.
I inhaled, steady and cold. Villainesses die when they react. So instead—I straightened my posture, lifted the spoon again, and took another measured sip.
Across the table—gasps.
Maids gasped in shock.
Was it really that shocking that I didn't flip the table and shriek like a circus act?
Please. I've endured being abandoned in a plastic bag, starvation, insomnia, existential dread, and student loans.
Compared to all that? This soup is seasoned.
A small smile tugged at my lips.
Bitches, I have survived worse than salt water soup. This is Tuesday.
I delicately dabbed my lips with a napkin, expression serene.
Across the table, Sera suddenly chirped, voice bright. "Father, is the auction tomorrow?"
Auction?
Father's posture eased. "Yes. I heard several rare artifacts will be showcased." His gaze slid to me. "Would you like to participate, dear?"
Right. The auction is where Sera meets the silver-haired disaster: Theo Vinter. She saves a cat. He instantly imprints on her like a mafia duckling. Obsession route unlocked.
...And I am not dumb enough to meet the Mafia by any chance.
I dabbed my lips calmly. "No, Father. I have no interest."
Father studied me, expression unreadable. "But… I heard a Mermaid Tears necklace will be on display," he murmured. "The one you wanted for years, dear."
My spoon paused mid-air.
Mermaid Tears Necklace.
In the game, Kael won it for Sera. When I played as her, the necklace boosted: Luck, Social favorability, Hidden routes, Access to treasure mini-quests
It helped me steamroll every obstacle.
So if I get it as Evelina… I wonder what I will unlock. Should I go? It's not like I'd bump into the mafia heir the second he walks in.
I set my spoon down softly and met Father's eyes.
"…Alright," I said. "I'll attend."
A faint, pleased smile curved his lips.
Reginald Affection +3 → 36%
Close.So close to safety.
"I'll accompany you tomorrow," he added.
I froze mid–sip. "…Pardon? You?"
His brows lifted. "Yes. Can I not, dear?"
That was… shockingly polite. And terrifyingly out of character for every route I ever played. But affection points > logic.
I softened my expression. "No, Father. I don't mind. I'd be happy if you're with me."
Silence rippled through the table. Lucien's knife froze mid-air. Arden's jaw flexed. Sera's smile tightened so hard it could probably slice diamonds.
Why does she look like she wants to stab her salad?
Before I could enjoy the awkward tension, a new voice cut through.
"Is the food not to your liking?"
Mother. Her tone was smooth as silk… and just as sharp. Her first direct words to me since I woke up in this world.
Oh. So she does talk.
But this was perfect. Time to teach those kitchen gremlins exactly who they messed with. I offered a gentle, apologetic smile.
"Oh, I apologize, Mother. It's not that I dislike it… it's just—" I tapped the rim of the bowl lightly. "—it seems the spices surprised me."
Her brow furrowed. "Spices? Why would there be spice in a tomato soup?"
Of course there shouldn't be. Not for someone who just got discharged from the hospital after being poisoned.
I met her gaze evenly, my voice calm—too calm.
"Perhaps my palate changed after the… incident." Then I glanced at the maid standing by the wall, whose face had gone white. "Because this tasted less like tomato soup… and more like salt and chili seasoning."
The air changed.
Across the room, the maids stiffened. One swallowed audibly. Another's hand trembled against the tray.
Mother's eyes narrowed into blades. She stood, her chair screeching backward. Without hesitation, she snatched the spoon from my bowl, scooped a taste— and the moment it hit her tongue—
COUGH! COUGH!
Her elegant composure shattered.
"What—what in the devil—!" She turned to the maids, her voice slicing through the air like a whip. "WHO DARED TO SPIKE HER FOOD?!"
The room froze. Every maid dropped to their knees, trembling. Arden and Lucien shot up, shocked. Father's expression darkened like a thunderhead.
Meanwhile, I sat perfectly still, the picture of grace and quiet chaos.
Inside, though?
A tiny, smug voice purred.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you teach servants not to play with the boss's daughter.
I rose slowly from my chair, adjusting the cuff of my sleeve like I had all the time in the world."No need to cause a scene," I said coolly. "I'll just order food delivery later. Something decent. Porridge, maybe."
My calm tone made their panic look childish.
Father opened his mouth, but before he could speak, I was already walking away. My heels clicked against the marble floor like punctuation marks.
And then—
SLAM.
The doors closed behind me, sealing the chaos inside.
CLATTER!! SHATTER!!
Porcelain cried for mercy.
"CALL THE HEAD CHEF IMMEDIATELY!!! REPLACE EVERY MAID IN THIS WING!!" Mother's voice ricocheted off marble.
…Wow. The same woman who once called Evelina a monster was now firing staff like she was leading a coup.
Maybe affection meters were just trauma with a loading bar.
Still—At least now they saw it. How Evelina's own maids treated her in her own house.
That mattered.
I sighed and turned—
"EVELINA!"
A blur of black hair and expensive cologne sprinted down the hall. Before I could blink—
WHOOSH!
Arms wrapped under my knees and shoulders. I was suddenly airborne.
"What—WHAT are you doing?!" I yelped.
Lucien didn't slow. He was practically speed-running the hallway.
"Hospital," he barked. "Immediate checkup."
I stared.
"Lucien. I am fine."
"You coughed," he snapped, voice sharp and way too stressed. "Your face turned red. Your pupils dilated. Classic signs of—"
"Of sipping soup," I deadpanned.
He ignored me.
"PREPARE THE CAR!" he shouted to a passing maid, who dropped a tray and ran.
Oh, for—I swear to God.
I grabbed a fistful of his perfect, salon-conditioned hair and yanked.
Hard.
Lucien froze mid-stride.
"Put. Me. Down." My voice dropped an octave. "YOU. BASTARD."
He blinked at me—wide-eyed, betrayed, affronted that someone dared to muss The Precious Hair. "Did… did you just pull my hair?"
"No, idiot," I said sweetly. "I braided your dignity."
He set me down immediately, hands flying to smooth his hair like it held national secrets.
"You could've just said 'no,'" he grumbled, pouting in a way only rich second sons could.
I smoothed my skirt, glaring up at him. "I did. You just don't listen unless pain is involved."
Lucien crossed his arms. "You're impossible."
"Says the man who tried hospitalizing me over soup."
"…It was suspiciously red!" he hissed, defensive.
"It was tomato," I hissed back.
We stared each other down. Finally, he looked away, ears a suspicious shade of pink. "Tch. Just… promise to tell someone if you feel weird."
Is...he worried about me or what?