My first test was a garden party.
In hindsight, this was a mistake. Garden parties were full of fragile people—men with egos made of spun sugar, women with opinions about teacups, and social rules so delicate you could shatter them by breathing wrong.
Which meant, of course, they were perfect.
I stepped onto the gravel path wearing the most dramatic dress I could find in Beatrice's wardrobe—deep burgundy with black lace that screamed "I'm here to ruin your afternoon"—and felt it immediately.
Eyes.
Everywhere.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Teacups paused halfway to lips. A lady actually gasped.
They would, of course. I'd gone all out with the makeup—deep red lipstick, dark eyeshadow, the kind of bold, beautiful look definitely not expected of my class in polite society.
Imagine my delight when I'd discovered makeup existed in the 1940s. Beatrice's vanity was a treasure trove.
This world never did stick to one century properly—titles from one era, fashion from another, manners stitched together by whatever the author thought looked pretty.
I lifted my chin and smiled like I owned not just the garden, but the air everyone was breathing.
A young man—barely twenty, hair slicked into submission with enough pomade to waterproof a ship—looked at me approvingly. His gaze snagged on my dress, lingered a bit too long on my neckline, then flinched when he caught my eyes.
"Lady Beatrice," he greeted awkwardly, flushing.
My lips curled up in practiced disdain. "Lord...?"
"Edmund. Edmund White."
"Ah." I looked him up and down slowly. "I was hoping someone here would bring some substance besides hair gel."
He flushed deeper. Though young, his expensive tailoring suggested he wasn't used to being addressed like that by anyone, let alone a woman.
"Bold choice of dressing," he bit back, loud enough for others to hear. "I didn't realize mourning was back in fashion."
Oh.
There it was. The opening.
Original Beatrice would have gone for the throat. Insulted his mother. His bloodline. Possibly questioned his masculinity in graphic detail.
But I had finesse.
I glanced at a silver tray drifting past, laden with petit fours so delicate they probably had emotional support servants.
Without breaking eye contact, I plucked one up, admired it for half a second, then leaned forward and pressed it directly into his perfectly styled hair.
The squish was obscene.
The garden went silent.
For one beautiful, crystalline moment, no one breathed.
Then—
"Oh my God!"
Gasps rippled outward like shockwaves. Someone dropped a teacup—actual porcelain shattering on stone. A lady clutched her pearls like they were life-saving flotation devices.
Lord Edmund froze, eyes crossing slightly as frosting dripped down his temple.
I smiled sweetly. "I'm so sorry. I thought you said you needed more color in your life."
DING!
HATRED POINTS +50
CURRENT TOTAL: 50
Oh. Oh, that felt good.
Worth it. Absolutely worth it.
Edmund sputtered, face turning the color of boiled beets. "You—you can't—!"
"Oh, hush," I said gently, patting his shoulder and getting more frosting on his coat. "You'll upset the roses."
I smiled, moving on before he could form a coherent sentence.
This was going to be easy.
Laughter burst from somewhere behind me—quickly strangled, but I heard it. People wanted to laugh. That was important. Hatred was best harvested when mixed with secret admiration and envy.
I drifted away, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing servant and letting my gaze roam.
Targets everywhere.
A woman with a pug tucked under her arm was scowling at me like I'd personally offended the concept of small dogs.
Perfect.
I glided over, all charm. "Lady...?"
"Darlington," she said stiffly.
"Lady Darlington! How brave of you to bring that creature out in public."
Her eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"
"I mean—" I peered thoughtfully at the pug, which was staring at me with bulging eyes, "—I've heard some pets resemble their owners, but this is uncanny."
The pug snarled.
Lady Darlington went crimson.
DING!
HATRED POINTS +10
CURRENT TOTAL: 60
Delicious.
I moved on, feeling like I was playing the world's most entertaining video game.
At the card table, a group of older gentlemen were mid-game, whispering conspiratorially about something. One of them—Viscount Greymont, according to Beatrice's memories—glanced up at me with a tight smile.
"Lady Beatrice. What a... surprise."
"Careful, gentlemen," I said lightly, gesturing at their cards. "I hear cheating ruins the thrill. Or is that only when you're caught?"
Viscount Greymont's impressive mustache twitched. "I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, do," I said earnestly. "I absolutely insist."
DING!
HATRED POINTS +75
CURRENT TOTAL: 135
I was on a roll.
The System helpfully began organizing my success in a neat little mental ledger:
Lady Darlington: offended on behalf of pug
Viscount Greymont: publicly implied to be a cheat
Lord Edmund White: emotionally destroyed by pastry
I sipped my champagne, feeling victorious.
Villainy, I decided, was an art.
DING!
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: IMPORTANT PLOT POINT AHEAD
ONE OF THE FOUR MALE LEADS IS CURRENTLY AT THIS PARTY
QUEST: GET THE FEMALE LEAD NOTICED AT ALL COSTS
REWARD: BONUS HATRED POINTS
I straightened. This was it. Time to show how truly wicked I could be.
I glanced around, trying to spot any man brooding handsomely by the corner—probably seven feet tall with shoulders as wide as the ocean and a tragic backstory you could see from space.
My gaze glittered around the garden—
Then I felt it.
Eyes on me. Heavy. Assessing.
I turned slowly and locked onto a tall, imposing man standing at the edge of the flower beds, partially shadowed by a rose trellis.
Okay. I took a breath. The author had questionable logic, but I had to admit—she knew what women found attractive.
Tall. Military bearing. Well-built and impeccably dressed in what looked like a captain's uniform. Dark hair. Sharp jawline. And he was watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
He'd been watching me before I noticed him.
Probably cataloging every mean thing I'd done.
If he was one of the male leads, this was perfect. I'd cement how wicked I was before he met Maryann and inevitably fell for her gentle, suffering nature.
And speaking of her—
Oh. There she was.
Maryann stood near the refreshment table wearing a pale blue dress that screamed fragile protagonist. Guests surrounded her, cooing. Even the porcelain teacups seemed to lean in her direction.
The sun—again of course it did—found her through the trees and highlighted her pink hair like she was in a Renaissance painting.
And she was holding a cat.
A fluffy white cat cradled gently in her arms.
(God, I missed my cat so much.)
As I watched, she carefully passed the cat to an elderly woman, who patted Maryann's hair and smiled warmly.
Quiet applause rippled through the nearby guests.
"Such a sweet girl. That's His Grace's second daughter, isn't it?"
"And such a lovely disposition! Is she an angel?"
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain.
Okay. Time for the big show.
I glanced back at the military man. Still watching me with those intense dark eyes.
Right. Watch carefully, sir. I'm about to bully your future lover so badly she'll need emotional support for decades.
I walked toward Maryann, my heels clicking purposefully on the stone path.
"Maryann, darling."
Every head turned.
She looked up, eyes bright and innocent. "Yes, Beatrice?"
God, even her voice was irritating. Soft. Musical. Designed to make people want to protect her.
I smiled. Not a kind smile. The kind of smile you gave right before stepping on a bug.
"I was just wondering," I said pleasantly, loud enough to carry, "if you've finally decided what it is you do all day."
The garden stilled.
Conversations died. Forks paused. I swear even the birds stopped singing.
Maryann blinked, confused. "I—excuse me?"
"I mean—" I tilted my head thoughtfully, "—you don't manage the estate. You don't oversee the staff. You don't handle correspondence or attend council meetings. So I assume you must be doing something useful with all that free time."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the assembled guests.
Maryann flushed. "I—I help where I can—"
"Oh?" I leaned forward, genuinely interested. "Where would that be exactly? Moral support? Decorative breathing?"
Someone choked on their tea.
DING!
HATRED POINTS +320
CURRENT TOTAL: 455
Oh. Immediate massive payout. I loved this.
Maryann's smile wavered. "I read. I learn. Father says—"
"Father says many things," I interrupted smoothly. "Most of them incorrect."
I glanced back toward the military man, checking if he was watching.
He was. His expression had darkened considerably.
Good.
Wasn't that mean enough? Should I push further?
I looked back at Maryann, ready to deliver another cutting comment—
And froze.
Her eyes were filled with tears.
Actual, genuine tears welling up and threatening to spill.
"I'm—I'm sorry, Beatrice," she whispered, voice breaking. "Please. I'll do better. I promise I'll—"
Wait. What?
DING! DING! DING!
HATRED POINTS +12
HATRED POINTS +75
HATRED POINTS +67
HATRED POINTS +43
The points rolled in rapidly from all directions.
Maryann's tears spilled over, trailing down her cheeks.
I didn't even touch you! I wanted to scream. I just made a comment!
I raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused.
Then—as if summoned by damsel-in-distress pheromones—a shadow fell over us.
A man appeared at Maryann's side, his face furrowed in concern, his expression pained like he'd been physically wounded by witnessing her tears.
DING!
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
FIRST MALE LEAD INTRODUCED:
NAME: JAMES HARTFORD
AGE: 29
TITLE: MARQUESS OF RAVENHILL
ARCHETYPE: THE PROTECTIVE HERO
THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE
COMPATIBILITY WITH HEROINE: 94%
Wait.
James Hartford? This was the male lead?
Then who was—
I looked back toward the rose trellis.
The military man was gone.
Vanished like smoke.
But I was sure he would be one of the leads. Everything about him screamed main character energy.
DING!
ONLY ONE MALE LEAD IS PRESENT AT TODAY'S EVENT: JAMES HARTFORD
THE MAN YOU NOTICED WAS CAPTAIN THEODORE ASHFORD
CLASSIFICATION: WILD VARIABLE
ROLE: UNPREDICTABLE
Theodore Ashford. The name was familiar—not a male lead, but someone in the novel. I just couldn't remember his role.
Curse those 2,500 chapters. Half of them were filler anyway.
DING!
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'VE SUCCESSFULLY EVOKED PITY FROM MALE LEAD FOR FEMALE LEAD
QUEST COMPLETE
BONUS: +500 HATRED POINTS
CURRENT TOTAL: 1,152
YOU MAY REST NOW
Like hell I can.
James was staring at me with open disgust, one arm wrapped protectively around Maryann's shaking shoulders. He pointed at me, his voice echoing in the suddenly silent garden.
"Beatrice! Haven't you taken this far enough? This poor girl is crying!"
Oh hell no.