Lucy woke up feeling a sharp pain on her head like something had been forced into her skull—too much, too fast.
Lucy inhaled sharply, her body jerking upright before she could stop it.
"...Tch—"
Her hand pressed against her temple. Her breathing staggered for a moment—then slowly steadied.
She tried to remember what had happened and what caused the pain.
She was on a meeting. Gang leaders. Territory dispute. And Hugo...
Wait, what?
Lucy gasped and touched her forehead, trying to check for a wound. She remembered being shot by Hugo in the head.
A clean shot. Close range. No hesitation.
But she felt nothing now. Not a bandage. Not a scar. Not even tenderness under her fingers.
"What the fuck is happening?" she murmured as she tried to figure out everything that had happened.
She should be dead by now.
A bullet to the head was not something a person can survive.
But why was she awake?
Was that only a dream?
Her brows furrowed as she slowly roamed her eyes around the room.
Where was she?
Gold-lined ceilings stretched overhead, detailed with delicate patterns that suggested wealth beyond necessity.
Heavy curtains framed towering windows, their fabric thick and luxurious.
Furniture was polished to perfection — too polished. It reflected light in a way that made the room feel more like a display than a living space.
No weapons were visible.
No exits within immediate reach.
No signs of struggle.
Her fingers tightened against the sheets beneath her.
Silk.
Soft. Expensive. Unfamiliar.
Her pulse rose sharply — then she forced it to slow down.
Shit. She should not panic.
She needed information.
Lucy exhaled slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Good.
Her breathing stabilized.
She swung her legs off the bed, ignoring the slight dizziness that followed the movement.
Her feet touched cold marble flooring.
Solid.
Real.
Not dreamlike.
She stood carefully, testing her balance.
Lucy took one step.
Paused.
Another step.
The room remained silent.
Too silent.
No traffic outside.
No distant engines.
No city noise.
Only stillness.
"...Where the hell am I?" she muttered under her breath.
She began scanning the room. The door stood tall and narrow, carved from dark oak with intricate patterns. It was decorative, elegant, but thick enough to suggest it would not give easily if forced.
To its right, enormous windows stretched almost from floor to ceiling. They were framed by heavy velvet drapes embroidered with gold thread — the kind of detail seen in noble estates that valued grandeur over practicality.
Beyond the glass, faint outlines of stone balconies and distant spires hinted at a vast estate — refined, layered, and excessively expansive, as though elegance had been prioritized over efficiency.
The distance between furnishings was intentional. Wide stretches of polished marble floor remained exposed — not for movement, but for presentation.
Every object appeared carefully placed.
Curved chairs with ornate legs.
A writing desk near the far wall.
A decorative screen positioned slightly off-center.
The room did not feel like a living space.
It felt like a stage.
Then she saw it.
A mirror.
Lucy walked toward it slowly.
Step by step.
She stopped in front of it.
And froze.
Her reflection stared back at her.
Red hair.
Long.
Flowing.
Too perfect.
Skin pale — untouched, smooth, flawless.
Features refined in a way that felt almost artificial.
Lucy stared without blinking.
"Who... are you?"
She lifted her hand.
The reflection followed.
The skin looked smooth under her fingers.
No scars.
No marks.
No signs of past injuries.
No evidence of the life she remembered.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
How was this even possible?
Another pulse of pain struck her head — sharper this time.
She flinched slightly.
Images flashed through her mind.
A ballroom filled with nobles.
Whispers behind fans.
Judging gazes.
A handsome unfamiliar man standing close to her, wiping his lips, expression indifferent — almost distant.
The memory felt vivid.
Real.
The pain faded as quickly as it came.
Silence returned.
Lucy lowered her hand slowly.
She processed the fragments carefully.
This woman she's in right now kissed someone.
And the other person looked unwilling.
Damn it.
Can it get any worse?
She studied the reflection again — longer this time.
She needed answers.
Immediately.
This situation felt unreal — but the physical sensations were too solid to dismiss.
It reminded her of something Mira once talked about.
Stories about reincarnation.
Dying and waking in another world.
Villainesses.
Fantasy empires.
Unrealistic settings.
Wait.
What if that was the case?
Could she seriously consider that possibility?
A soft knock broke the silence.
Lucy did not react immediately.
"Lady... may I come in?" a woman's voice asked politely from outside.
Lucy's eyes flickered.
"...Yes," she answered cautiously. "...Come in."
The door opened quietly.
A woman stepped inside — older, composed, dressed in refined yet practical clothing.
A maid.
How did she know?
The clothes were elegant but old-fashioned — structured, layered, clearly from a different era.
"My Lady... you're awake."
Lucy turned slightly to face her.
"Mm."
My Lady?
That confirmed it.
This body belonged to someone of high status.
She needed to confirm her position carefully.
The maid stepped closer, maintaining proper distance.
"I hope you slept well. I deliberately waited before entering so you could rest longer... especially after what happened last night."
"Last night?"
The maid nodded gently.
"Yes. You attended the ball hosted by Count Whitmore."
Ball.
The memory flickered again.
Gold lights.
Music.
Whispers.
The kiss.
"Oh... the ball," Lucy responded evenly.
"Yes, my Lady."
Lucy hesitated briefly.
"Thank you for reminding me. And... do you know anything else that happened last night?"
The maid tilted her head slightly.
"What do you mean, my Lady?"
Lucy felt mildly irritated by how unnatural this felt.
"Like... did I kiss someone last night?"
The maid's expression shifted — not to shock, but to mild relief.
"Oh, don't worry, my Lady. We are accustomed to such matters. There is no need for you to feel embarrassed."
Lucy froze.
Accustomed?
Was this behavior common?
Did this woman just... go around kissing people casually?
This is unacceptable.
Her head throbbed faintly again, though not from pain — but from frustration.
"N-No," Lucy corrected firmly. "I mean... tell me the name of the man I kissed."
The maid bowed slightly.
"I apologize for the misunderstanding. It was Duke Dimitrov, my Lady."
The name settled in the air.
Duke Dimitrov.
Lucy repeated it silently in her mind.
Duke.
So the man she had kissed was not just any noble — but someone with significant political standing.
Interesting.
Her brain immediately began analyzing possibilities: scandal, leverage, alliances, rivalry. If this body had the habit of kissing dukes in public events, that meant either extreme confidence... or extreme recklessness.
Lucy preferred to assume the first.
She shifted her gaze back to the maid.
"...And my name?" she asked calmly.
The question was simple.
But internally, she was prepared for anything.
The maid looked slightly surprised, though she maintained her composure.
"My Lady?"
Lucy kept her expression neutral.
"What is my full name?"
A brief pause.
Then the maid answered respectfully.
"You are Lady Canna Ravenscroft, the youngest daughter of the House of Ravenscroft.."
Canna.
Ravenscroft.
The name echoed in her mind.
Something clicked.
Ravenscroft.
That sounded familiar.
Very familiar.
Lucy's eyes narrowed slightly.
That name...
It surfaced from memory — not this world's memory, but something else.
Mira.
Her friend.
Late-night conversations.
Books spread across a table.
Excited rambling about romance plots and tragic villains.
Canna Ravenscroft.
Yes.
That was the name of the villain Mira is talking about the night before she was killed.
Lucy's breathing slowed.
No.
That couldn't be right.
She forced herself to think logically.
Mira had described the novel having a red-haired villainess from a noble house — arrogant, beautiful, politically entangled, and doomed to die after a series of scandals involving a powerful duke.
Lucy remembered laughing at the absurdity of it.
A foolish villainess.
Kissing men at balls.
Manipulating nobles.
Eventually executed for treason.
The details were blurry — but the name was unmistakable.
Canna Ravenscroft.
Red hair.
High-ranking noble family.
Ball incidents.
Duke connection.
Lucy slowly looked at the mirror again.
Red hair.
Long.
Flowing.
Her reflection stared back.
Her lips parted slightly.
"...No way."
Her voice was barely audible.
The maid seemed concerned.
"My Lady?"
Lucy did not respond immediately.
Her thoughts were racing chaotically.
If this was truly the novel Mira described...
Then she was inside it.
Not as the heroine.
Not as a background character.
But as the villainess destined to die.
The one executed publicly for crimes she did not fully understand.
Lucy's expression remained composed.
But inside —
Oh.
So this is how it is.
She exhaled slowly.
Of course.
She survived a bullet only to wake up inside a fictional execution route.
How charming.
A faint, almost disbelieving smile appeared on her lips.
The maid mistook it for confusion.
"Shall I call for the physician, My Lady?"
"No," Lucy replied immediately.
Too fast.
She adjusted her tone.
"I'm fine."
The maid nodded cautiously.
Lucy glanced at her reflection again.
Lucienne Valemont.
Villainess.
Red-haired noblewoman.
Public scandal specialist.
Future execution candidate.
She crossed her arms.
Well.
If this was the story Mira described...
Then she already knew the general trajectory.
Ball scandals.
Political tensions.
Romantic entanglements.
Duke Dimitrov's involvement.
And eventually...
Execution.
Lucy tilted her head slightly.
Interesting.
So the universe decided to drop her into a pre-written death sentence?