The wine was poisoned.
Of course it was.
I stared at the crystalline glass in my hand, watching the deep violet liquid ripple with innocent malice under the chandelier's golden light. Around me, nobles laughed, flirted, and schemed in silk and steel, blissfully unaware—or perhaps entirely aware—that I was moments from either political triumph or public humiliation.
And the worst part?
I already knew how this story ended.
Because I'd read it. All five cringe-filled volumes of The Rose of Valor. And right now, I was playing the role of its infamous villainess: Lady Seraphina Vale, the frigid, sharp-tongued noble who bullied the heroine, seduced the prince, and was ultimately executed in the town square for treason.
Except…
I wasn't her.
Not really.
I was a 32-year-old corporate strategist named Ivy Greene who died in a car crash after working seventy-two hours straight. And for reasons that surely involved divine incompetence or cosmic satire, I woke up in Seraphina's body, mid-scandal, during the novel's most humiliating scene: her engagement toast.
"Lady Seraphina," said Prince Kael, raising his glass beside me with the warmth of a frozen guillotine, "to a long and prosperous union."
His eyes held no affection. No mercy. Only the knowledge that in this exact moment, Seraphina had supposedly slipped poison into the heroine's drink—trying to eliminate her before the royal court.
Of course, in the original story, it backfired. The heroine survived. Seraphina was exposed. Her house fell, and the real villain got away clean.
Not. This. Time.
I smiled sweetly, my voice cool and unbothered. "Actually, Your Highness, I believe the lady deserves a toast of her own. Shall we switch glasses?"
The crowd fell silent. A nobleman choked on his fig tart.
Kael's eyes narrowed. "You dare insinuate—?"
I stepped forward, lifting my glass and placing it firmly in front of the wide-eyed heroine, Lady Elira. "If I'm to be wed to the future king, let it be known I fear nothing. Least of all, a toast."
Gasps rippled through the ballroom. Elira blinked. She was too naïve to refuse. Too sweet to imagine malice. She accepted the switch, hesitant.
Kael looked between us—then slowly drank from the new glass. Elira followed.
And nothing happened.
Except maybe I felt my heart thudding so hard I worried it might launch itself out of this cursed corset.
"I must admit," I said, glancing at the crowd, "I never expected tonight's wine to be so… exciting."
A few forced chuckles followed. The silence broke. Conversation resumed. And in that exact moment, I knew three things:
1. Someone had just tried to frame me.
2. The palace had far more enemies than I remembered.
3. I had just diverged the plot.
And I wasn't about to stop.
Let the nobles scheme. Let the prince scowl. Let the readers of fate hold their breath.
Lady Seraphina Vale is dead.
Ivy Greene is playing now.
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