My head felt like a goblin king had used it for drum practice. A throbbing, relentless ache pulsed behind my eyes, accompanied by a nausea that threatened to redecorate whatever fancy-ass surface I was currently occupying. I groaned, a sound that came out surprisingly… delicate?
Ugh, what did I even do last night? Another all-nighter coding? Did I fall asleep on my keyboard again?
I tried to sit up, expecting the familiar cheap fabric of my worn-out hoodie and the tangled mess of my headset wires. Instead, my hand brushed against something soft. Impossibly soft. Silk? Who the hell owned silk sheets?
My eyes cracked open, then slammed shut against a blinding assault of… frills. Lace. Pastel colours that would make a unicorn throw up.
"Okay, Kaito," I muttered, or tried to. The voice that emerged was high-pitched, melodious, and definitely not mine. "What fresh hell did you drink yourself into this time?"
Slowly, painfully, I forced my eyes open again. I was in a bed. A ridiculously opulent four-poster bed, draped with enough satin and lace to outfit a Victorian wedding party. Sunlight streamed through arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, judgmental fairies. My room – my tiny, cluttered, ramen-scented room – this was not.
My hand. I stared at it. It was slender, pale, with perfectly manicured nails painted a delicate rose. This was not my calloused, slightly ink-stained gamer hand. This was… a girl's hand. A very fancy girl's hand.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of my consciousness.
I threw back the covers – more silk, of course – and my breath hitched. Long, ridiculously expensive-looking nightgown. And beneath it… oh god. Oh no.
There were definitely curves where no curves should be. Soft, unfamiliar weight on my chest.
This isn't a hangover. This is… this is a Class-A, five-alarm, what-the-actual-FUCK situation.
My gaze darted around the room. Antique vanity, chaise lounge (a chaise lounge!), towering bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes. And a full-length, gilt-edged mirror.
My legs, wobbly and strange, somehow carried me towards it. I felt… shorter. Lighter. And way, way too aware of the swish of fabric around my ankles.
The reflection that stared back wasn't Kaito Aizawa, 21-year-old shut-in, aspiring game developer, and connoisseur of instant noodles.
No. Staring back at me was a girl. A stunningly beautiful girl, if I was being objective, which was hard when your brain was currently performing emergency acrobatics. She had cascading waves of hair the color of spun moonlight, eyes like amethysts, and a delicate, heart-shaped face that screamed "aristocracy" and "expensive skincare routine."
And I knew that face.
Oh, I knew that goddamn face.
Lady Veronica Everhart. The primary antagonist. The villainess. The character specifically designed to be a beautiful, cruel, and ultimately doomed stepping stone for the heroine in my favorite otome game, "Aurelia's Bloom: A Dance of Roses and Thorns." The game I'd poured hundreds of hours into, not just playing, but also deconstructing, trying to figure out its narrative beats for my own projects.
My stomach plummeted.
Veronica Everhart. The one who, in every single route, without fail, met a spectacularly awful end.
Execution by guillotine (Bad End #1).
Exiled to a frozen wasteland, dying alone (Bad End #2).
Poisoned by a rival noble (Bad End #3, my personal "favorite" for sheer drama).
Stabbed by a crazed former follower after her family's downfall (Bad End #4).
The list went on. There wasn't a single "good" outcome for her. She was a walking, talking, beautifully dressed death flag.
And I was her.
"No. Nonononono." My – her – voice trembled. "This is a dream. A really, really messed up stress dream because I pulled too many all-nighters trying to debug that stupid romance AI."
I pinched my arm. Her arm. The delicate skin reddened. Pain shot through. Real pain.
Not a dream.
This was happening.
I, Kaito Aizawa, a dude who considered putting on matching socks a major life achievement, was now Lady Veronica Everhart, the despised villainess of an otome game.
My carefully constructed plans for world domination via indie game development? Screwed. My life? Probably also screwed, and in a much more literal, pointy-object-related way.
"Okay, okay, think." I paced the plush carpet, the unfamiliar sway of the nightgown making me feel like I was about to trip over my own boobs. Which, by the way, were surprisingly distracting. "Otome game. Villainess. Death flags. Priority number one: don't die."
How did Veronica kick the bucket? Mostly by being an absolute, unrepentant harpy to the game's heroine, Aria Linette, and by extension, to all the capture targets who inevitably fell for Aria's sunshine-and-rainbows personality. Veronica was jealous, petty, and cruel. Everything I, as a cynical but generally non-confrontational guy, was not.
So, solution: don't be a harpy. Easy, right?
Except I was in the body of a character whose entire personality was "platinum-grade harpy." And this world, despite its frilly exterior, ran on otome game logic. Events were probably fated. Characters had routes.
A polite knock echoed from the door. "My Lady? Are you awake? Breakfast is prepared, and… Prince Lucian is expected to call on you this morning."
The voice was feminine, calm. Probably a maid.
Prince Lucian.
Prince. Fucking. Lucian.
My blood ran cold. Prince Lucian Albrecht. The Crown Prince. Veronica's fiancé by political arrangement. Cold, stoic, probably had a resting bitch face that could curdle milk. And, in most routes, the one who signed Veronica's death warrant or, at the very least, looked on impassively as she was dragged away.
He was my primary death flag. A walking, talking, devastatingly handsome instrument of my potential doom.
"Crap on a cracker!" I hissed under my breath, then winced. Not very ladylike.
"My Lady?" the voice called again, a hint of concern creeping in.
"Uh, y-yes! Coming! Just… admiring the… the dust motes!" Smooth, Kaito. Real smooth.
I scrambled back to the vanity, staring at Veronica's face. My face.
Okay, new plan. Operation: Don't Piss Off Prince Ice Cube. Sub-operation: Act Like a Goddamn Lady.
This was going to be a disaster.
The door creaked open, and a young woman in a neat maid's uniform entered. She had kind eyes and a no-nonsense bun. Beatrice, if my game lore memory served me right. Veronica's long-suffering personal maid, one of the few characters who didn't outright despise her, mostly out of duty.
"Good morning, Lady Veronica," Beatrice said, her expression carefully neutral. She probably expected a barrage of imperious demands.
I tried for a smile. It probably looked like a constipated grimace. "G-good morning, Beatrice."
Beatrice blinked. Just a tiny flicker of surprise in her eyes, but I caught it. Veronica probably never used her name, or if she did, it was to shriek it.
"Shall I help you dress, My Lady?" she asked, already moving towards a massive wardrobe.
"Uh, yeah. Sure. That'd be… peachy." Peachy? Who says peachy anymore? Oh god, I'm already failing.
Getting dressed was an ordeal. Corsets, petticoats, layers upon layers of fabric that seemed designed to restrict breathing and movement. I felt like a sausage being stuffed into a very expensive, very uncomfortable casing.
"Are you feeling alright, My Lady?" Beatrice asked, her brow furrowed as I nearly face-planted trying to navigate a particularly voluminous skirt. "You seem… different."
"Just… a bit under the weather," I grunted, yanking at a piece of lace that was threatening to strangle me. "Woke up on the wrong side of the… ridiculously oversized bed."
Beatrice's lips twitched. Was that… amusement? Maybe there was hope.
"Prince Lucian is known for his punctuality," she reminded me gently. "It would not do to keep him waiting."
"Right. Prince Pointy-Stick-Up-His-Ass. Wouldn't want to ruffle his royal feathers."
Beatrice froze mid-tie on a ribbon. Her eyes widened slightly.
Abort! Abort! Bad Kaito! Think like a lady! A terrified, survival-focused lady!
"I mean," I amended hastily, trying for a charming, if slightly strained, smile. "He is the esteemed Prince. Punctuality is a virtue I… deeply admire."
Beatrice slowly resumed her task, but the look she gave me was a mixture of confusion and something else I couldn't quite place. Concern? Pity?
Finally, I was trussed up like a prize pig for auction, wearing a pale lavender day dress that probably cost more than my entire apartment back home. My moonlight hair was artfully arranged in a cascade of curls. I looked… disturbingly pretty. And utterly out of my depth.
We descended the grand staircase – me clutching the banister for dear life, convinced each step was a deathtrap designed by a sadistic cobbler – and headed towards one of the smaller parlors.
And there he was.
Prince Lucian Albrecht.
He stood by the window, silhouetted against the morning light, looking every bit the archetypal "cold and beautiful" capture target. Tall, impeccably dressed in a military-style jacket that emphasized his broad shoulders, with hair as dark as a raven's wing and eyes the color of a winter sky. His features were sharp, aristocratic, and currently set in an expression of polite boredom that still managed to convey an undercurrent of disdain. He was, objectively, hot. Annoyingly, terrifyingly hot.
He turned as we entered. Those icy blue eyes swept over me, lingering for a fraction of a second. I felt like a bug under a microscope.
"Lady Veronica," he greeted, his voice as cool and smooth as polished marble. No warmth. Zero. Nada.
"Your Highness," I managed, attempting a curtsy. It was a wobbly, awkward disaster that nearly sent me sprawling. I could feel Beatrice wince behind me.
Nailed it. First impression: clumsy oaf.
Lucian's eyebrow arched, a minuscule movement that somehow conveyed immense disapproval. "Are you unwell, Lady Veronica? You appear… discomposed."
Discomposed? Buddy, I'm about three seconds from a full-blown existential meltdown in a frilly dress. You have no idea.
"Just a… a bit flustered, Your Highness," I stammered, cheeks burning. Oh great, blushing. How very villainess-like. Not. This was supposed to be the part where Veronica sneered and made some cutting remark about his tardiness, even if he was early.
Instead, I just stood there, radiating awkwardness.
He stared at me for a long moment, his gaze unnervingly perceptive. "Indeed."
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. I could hear my own heart thumping like a drum solo. Say something, Kaito! Anything! But make it noble-lady-ish!
"The… the weather is… certainly… happening today, isn't it?" I blurted out.
Smooth. So very smooth.
Lucian's other eyebrow joined the first one in its upward trajectory. "An astute observation, Lady Veronica."
There was a beat. Then, his lips quirked. Just a tiny, almost imperceptible upturn at one corner. It wasn't a smile. Not really. More like… a flicker of something that wasn't utter disdain. Amusement? Confusion?
Whatever it was, my face decided to betray me further, heating up like a faulty GPU. I probably looked like a tomato in a lavender dress.
The prince's gaze flickered to my flushed cheeks, and that tiny quirk on his lips deepened for a nanosecond before vanishing, replaced by his usual cool mask.
This was the "unintentional blush scene," wasn't it? Except it wasn't Veronica being flustered by his charm; it was me, Kaito, being flustered by the sheer terror and awkwardness of it all, combined with the undeniable fact that the dude was a walking, talking piece of eye candy, even if he was my potential executioner. The game's script was clearly still trying to assert itself, even with a different actor in the lead role.
Before I could commit any further acts of social seppuku, another figure appeared in the doorway.
A girl, bathed in the soft glow of the hallway light, looking like she'd stepped straight out of a Renaissance painting. She had gentle brown eyes, warm honey-blonde hair, and a sweet, innocent smile that could probably charm the birds from the trees. She wore a simple but elegant dress, and her demeanor radiated a kind of pure, unadulterated goodness.
Aria Linette. The heroine. The one destined to capture all the hearts, including Prince Ice Cube's. The reason Veronica usually went full supervillain.
"Oh, excuse me, Prince Lucian, Lady Veronica," Aria said, her voice like wind chimes. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
Lucian's expression softened almost imperceptibly as he looked at her. "Miss Linette. Not at all. Please, join us."
Aria smiled brightly at him, then turned that thousand-watt beam on me. "Lady Veronica, it's a pleasure to see you again."
Internally, I was screaming. She's too perfect! It's a trap! Her niceness is a weapon!
Outwardly, I managed a weak, "You too, Aria."
Her eyes, so full of innocent light, seemed to study me for a moment. Was that… a flicker of confusion in them too? Or was I just projecting my own internal chaos onto everyone?
This was it. The game was truly afoot. The main players were assembled.
And I, Kaito Aizawa, the guy who once lived on pizza and energy drinks, was now Lady Veronica Everhart, trapped in a deadly game of romance and political maneuvering.
My only goal? Survive.
Avoid the bad ends. Dodge the death flags. And maybe, just maybe, figure out how to walk in these ridiculous shoes without breaking my neck.
As Aria began to chat animatedly with Lucian, a strange sensation prickled at the edge of my vision. It was like… a faint, shimmering overlay, almost like a UI element from a game. For a split second, next to Lucian's head, I could have sworn I saw a tiny, translucent icon: a stylized broken heart, tinged with icy blue, labeled [Engagement Integrity: 65% - STATUS: Strained].
I blinked, and it was gone.
What in the seven circles of frilly hell was that?
My "masculinity crisis" was rapidly taking a backseat to a "sanity crisis." This was going to be so much harder than I thought.