"Is she awake?" the Count asked for what felt like the millionth time that day. I couldn't face anyone. I was grieving—not just the life I'd lost, but the fact that I had transmigrated into a fictional world of my own creation.
The door burst open, and he and his entourage marched in. The blanket I had pulled over my head was yanked away, leaving me exposed. I sat up slowly and stared at my new family.
"Did you hit your head or what?" he barked. I flinched. Count Tristan Tahenna was a violent man—materialistic to the core. He had sold off his only daughter to the highest bidder after his son drove the household into debt.
"Argon tells me you're skipping your lessons," he said, throwing a robe at me.
I glared at the red-haired man standing behind him—lean and, I'll admit, quite handsome. Too bad my story was cruel to both him and his sister. He would die trying to leech off her.
Argon Tahenna, the Count's second son, was neither clever nor thrifty. The debts he racked up were paid off by his sister. He kept begging her for more until a worn-down Iris had him murdered.
"I'm unwell," I said simply.
Argon chuckled, but the Count silenced him with a sharp look.
"Is it the migraines?" he asked, his voice suddenly tender. He adored his daughter.
"Father, she's faking it," Argon muttered.
The Count ignored him. "The physician will see you. Rest today," he said before sweeping out with Argon in tow.
The physician examined me, murmured about my condition, and left after prescribing strange herbs. This was only my second day here. I had awakened in agony, with no explanation from anyone—just worried looks and hushed voices.
Later, the door burst open again. This time the Count was smiling. He bent down and hugged me while Argon stood at the doorway, shooting daggers with his eyes.
"My beautiful daughter, they accepted the proposal," he said, beaming. "You'll leave for Antigua next week."
Was Iris's death already underway? I had just arrived. Could I run? No—I didn't even know the layout of the estate, let alone the town.
"How about a month's time?" I begged.
He patted my hair, pausing. "Do this for our family."
"I have a weak disposition," I tried again.
"I'll send the best, most skilled servants with you," he insisted.
"Aren't I jealous, dear sister," Argon sneered from the doorway.
---
Fast forward: I was the prince's consort. That's what the letter to the deacon said. Apparently, I also had amnesia—according to records the Count submitted to the church.
Now I understood a piece of the puzzle. Grace's hatred made sense. It must be humiliating to share a home with your fiancé's chosen consort. Still, wasn't it too early for him to choose one? They weren't even married.
But then another realization dawned: like me, Grace wasn't truly welcome in the imperial family. Her father's position as Pope gave her leverage—but no genuine acceptance.
Yet the thing that disturbed me most was me. I was not Iris. I had stolen her identity. William knew. Maybe even the Crown Prince knew. Then… whose body was this?
Everyone acknowledged me as Iris. So she must look exactly like her. A doppelgänger.
Iris didn't have a twin. The plot of my story had shifted, but not that much. So… where was the real Iris? How many people knew I wasn't her?
As my maids trailed behind me, I walked through the marble corridors. I was seeking someone.
A prince.
He had locked himself in his office, abandoning both his bride-to-be and his consort.
I stood before the prince's office, the oak doors a wall between us. The guards
Acknowledged me with a stiff glance.
"He is not seeing anyone," one announced flatly.
" Even his consort?" I asked folding my hands Infront of my dress' skirt.
They exchanged a glance.
"He has given no exceptions,"
I smile," Not even Sir William," I know I got them. "I have a message from him,"
The large oak doors swing open and I walk in ready to strike a deal.