In Anna's memory, death resembled drowning in an ocean of viscous ink. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, no cinematic reel of life flashing before her eyes. There was only the moment of impact—horrifying and abrupt—the sound of shattering bones, and then an eternal, heavy stillness. Her final thought was a severed wish: "If only I had lived a story worth telling."
Then, as if the universe decided to mock her—or perhaps reward her—consciousness returned, creeping back into her limbs. It was not a painful awakening, but soft, warm, and saturated with a scent of luxury her lungs had never known before. The fragrance of rare peonies, blended with the aroma of aged sandalwood and polished beeswax.
She opened her eyes slowly, expecting the white ceiling of a hospital or the damp walls of her apartment. But what met her gaze made the breath catch in her chest. The ceiling soared to a towering height, adorned with an oil fresco depicting the "Birth of Venus," surrounded by cornices of plaster plated in real gold, glimmering faintly under the gray dawn light filtering through giant windows.
She moved her hand, feeling the texture of cold silk. She looked at her fingers; they were long, slender, and white as snow, the nails manicured with extreme care. The roughness of labor had vanished, along with the small scars that had once covered Anna's hands.
She rose from a bed as vast as an isolated island and walked on bare feet across a Persian carpet that swallowed her steps in silence. She stood before the tall mirror framed in silver.
She did not scream. The shock was too deep to be translated into sound.
The girl in the mirror was the embodiment of toxic beauty. Crimson red hair cascaded like a waterfall of rippling blood down to her waist; pale, translucent skin that barely concealed the blue veins beneath; and sharp, slanted green eyes that shone with a glint that was simultaneously malicious and captivating.
"Lilian de Everberg..."
She whispered the name, feeling its bitter taste in her throat. "The Villainess." The woman hated by the readers, hated by the author, and hated by the world. The woman who died a heinous death in the final chapter.
She ran a hand over her face and touched her full lips. "I have become her. I have become the disaster that walks on two legs."
But in the reflection's eyes, she saw something new. The shaky, insecure look of the old Lilian had vanished, replaced by Anna's gaze—the gaze of a woman who had battled life and understood its cruelty. She smiled coldly, a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Fine, you clichéd world of novels. Let's see who writes the ending this time."
Faint knocks on the door interrupted her contemplation. The maid entered, a slender girl trembling like a wet sparrow, her eyes fixed on the floor.
"My Lady... The Duke and your brothers are awaiting you for breakfast. Shall... shall I prepare the pink dress?"
Lilian remembered that dress. A pile of ruffles that made her look like a cheap gift in the original novel.
"Burn it," Lilian said in a calm, melodious voice, causing the maid to snap her head up in shock. "I want the black velvet dress. The one with the high collar. And bring out my mother's jewelry box; I want only the pearl necklace."
"But... black? That is the color of mourning, My Lady!"
Lilian turned slowly, giving the maid a look that made the words die in the girl's throat. "Exactly. We are going to bury the past today."
When she entered the dining hall, silence was the absolute master. The room was majestic, walls clad in dark mahogany, with a long table seating three men who represented the pillars of power in the Duchy.
Duke Leonard, the "Iron Duke," sat at the head of the table without lifting his eyes from his plate. To his right was Cayden, the eldest son, a mass of muscle and military arrogance. To his left sat Cillian, the mastermind, reading a book while sipping his coffee with detachment.
The sound of Lilian's high heels clicked against the marble floor with a confident rhythm. She pulled out a chair and sat.
"Good morning," she said clearly.
Cayden scoffed immediately, waving his knife. "Look who decided to grace us. Black? Did your pampered cat die? Or are you preparing for the funeral of your dignity after the Crown Prince rejects you tonight?"
Cillian closed his book with boredom. "Stop these theatrics, Lilian. Father received your debt bill this morning. You are a burden, and an expensive one at that."
Lilian didn't flinch. She reached out, took a piece of bread, and buttered it with provoking slowness.
"The debts have been paid using my old jewelry that I no longer need," she said quietly, then lifted her eyes to face the Duke, who had stopped eating. "As for the Crown Prince... do not worry. I have discovered that my taste has evolved. I no longer find attraction in men who need women to applaud every time they take a breath."
The Duke raised a thick eyebrow, looking at her closely for the first time. He didn't see the usual hysterical girl. He saw a woman sitting upright, eating coolly, and speaking with a sharp, measured tongue.
"Big words," the Duke rumbled in his deep voice. "We shall see if your actions match your tongue at tonight's ball. Do not attempt to embarrass me in front of the Duke of the North. Alistair Cloud does not tolerate fools."
Lilian smiled a mysterious smile. "The Duke of the North... I shall be careful."
The Royal Ball was akin to a battlefield wrapped in silk. Giant chandeliers, loud music, and the scent of perfumes masking the stench of hypocrisy.
Lilian was the star of the night, but in a different way. She stood in her black dress that hugged her body like the shadows of night, her skin radiating whiteness, her fiery hair swept up in a regal style.
Crown Prince Eric, with his golden hair and heart-melting smile, passed by her twice, waiting for her to run after him as she usually did.
But she didn't.
She was busy discussing the spice trade with the Southern Ambassador. When their eyes met by chance, she nodded to him coldly as if he were a passing servant, then returned to her conversation.
The shock on Eric's face was delicious, but "Lilian" didn't have the energy to enjoy it for long.
Her body, unaccustomed to the tension, began to demand rest. The wine she had drunk to ease her anxiety was starting to mess with her head.
"My head is spinning..." she whispered, setting down the empty glass.
She withdrew from the crowded hall. The royal corridors were identical, a maze of marble and gilded doors. Her vision was blurred, and her legs were swaying.
"The East Wing... the door with silver engravings..." she mumbled with a hazy memory.
She saw a massive door, adorned with silver, bearing a crest her drunken eyes couldn't quite distinguish. She assumed it was her family's crest. She pushed the door and entered.
The silence in the room was heavy. Darkness wrapped the space, and a strong scent pierced her numbed senses. It wasn't the smell of flowers. It was an overpowering masculine scent: black musk, ice, and the smell of a pine forest after rain.
This scent should have warned her. The refreshing chill in the room should have told her she wasn't in her suite.
But exhaustion was stronger.
She felt her way through the dark, peeling off her heavy dress with annoyance, letting it fall to the floor like a pile of shadows. In her thin silk undergarments, she crawled under the warm covers of the massive bed.
The bed was strangely warm. Warm and alive.
In her drunkenness, she thought she was dreaming. When her cold body touched another body—solid and scorching hot—she didn't flee. Instead, she moved closer, seeking the warmth.
In that moment, the shadow beside her moved. A strong arm, heavy as steel, wrapped around her and pulled her in.
What happened next was a blend of dream and reality. There were no words. There were panting breaths, rough touches that ignited a fire in her body, and an instinctual desire she could not resist. Lilian surrendered to the unknown man in the darkness of the room, assuming he was a phantom of her wild imagination.
It was a night where fortresses fell, and the veils of innocence were torn away—not with violence, but with a primitive, dark passion.
Lilian woke to the sound of chirping birds that felt like hammers pounding inside her head. She opened her eyes with difficulty, feeling a dull ache throughout her body, and a strange mix of shame and satisfaction wrestling within her.
She moved, and collided with a human wall.
Her heart stopped.
She lifted the blanket slowly, looking at her naked body covered in marks, then at the white sheets stained with drops of crimson blood. The sign of lost virginity.
She raised her gaze in terror to the man sleeping beside her.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a ghost.
It was Alistair Cloud. The Duke of the North. The Monster of the Borders, whose very name made generals tremble.
His sharp features were relaxed in sleep, his jet-black hair scattered over his forehead, and the thin scar cutting through his left eyebrow added to his savage handsomeness.
"Oh my god..." the voice came out of her throat hoarse and panicked. "What have I done?!"
She tried to withdraw. She tried to escape before he opened his eyes and killed her.
But a strong hand, faster than lightning, seized her wrist.
Alistair's eyes opened.
They weren't sleepy eyes. They were gray, clear, and cold as a frozen lake. There wasn't a shred of surprise in them. He was awake. He knew she was there. And perhaps... he had been awake watching her for a while.
Lilian froze in place, naked and exposed before his gaze, which scrutinized her from her messy hair to her neck covered in marks.
She waited for the anger. She waited for the accusation. She waited for him to throw her out of the room.
But Alistair did none of that.
Slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy, dangerous smile filled with meaning. He pulled her captive hand to his face and pressed a light, cold kiss onto her palm, his eyes never leaving hers.
He spoke in a voice that resembled the rumble of distant thunder:
"Good morning, my little wife."
Lilian froze. "Wife... what?"
Alistair sat up, the sheet slipping down to reveal a broad chest covered in scars. He spoke with a coldness that mismatched the intimacy of the situation:
"You entered my den of your own free will. You shared my bed. And you stole from me a night my body will not forget..."
He reached out, brushing his rough thumb over her slightly swollen lower lip, and continued with a terrifying tone of possession:
"Do not think I am a man who lets what he owns simply walk away. You didn't lose your honor, Lilian, you sold it to me... and I accepted the deal."
In that moment, Lilian realized that her fear of dying in the novel was trivial compared to what she faced now. The Duke wasn't angry. It was worse than that; he was interested.
And he had just decided that she was his new plaything.