Anyway… the tavern.
I saw it in Elizabeth's memories, flashes, moments like half-dreams trapped in fog. She didn't cause a scene. No broken plates. No slapped waitresses. No arrogant yelling about being a Shelberg.
She just… sat in the corner.
Ordered a simple stew.
Ate in silence.
Paid.
Left.
That was it.
And that felt wrong.
(That doesn't sound like the Elizabeth I just absorbed memories from.)
In her past, she made nobles cry at parties and called commoners "decorations." The kind of person who wouldn't touch tavern stew unless it was poured over gold.
(So why did she go there?)
I rubbed my temple, trying to focus as I walked through the long velvet corridor back to my room. The high ceilings and oil paintings of dead ancestors didn't help. It felt like I was walking through someone else's memory already—and in a way, I was.
The deeper I dug, the more I realized:
There were gaps in her memories.
Not just the occasional fuzziness. But black spots. Dead zones. Places where something should be but wasn't.
Like someone had erased parts of her.
Or she had erased them herself.
(Wait… why would she do that?)
I paused near a tall window overlooking the garden. In the glass, I could see my reflection—long golden hair, piercing green eyes, and that ridiculous beauty mark under the lip. Elizabeth's face.
My new face.
I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heartbeat.
(Was it possible that… she wasn't just evil? That maybe—just maybe—there was something else?)
A knock on the wall beside me startled me.
Maria. Still keeping her distance, still watching me like I might explode.
"My Lady," she said cautiously, "shall I prepare tea in your room?"
I blinked, nodding slowly.
"Yeah… yes. That would be nice."
She gave a slight curtsy and hurried ahead. I watched her disappear, then whispered to myself:
"Father didn't accuse me about the tavern because I was guilty. He was testing me."
To see if I'd scream.
Throw a tantrum.
Blame someone.
But I didn't.
And I passed.
(That means… he knows something's changed.)
The Duke wasn't stupid. Paranoid, yes. Harsh, absolutely. But not stupid. He must've seen something different in my eyes.
As I entered my room and shut the door behind me. A gust of perfume and velvet hit my face. The bedroom of a princess and the prison of a villain.
I slumped onto the giant four-poster bed and stared at the ceiling.
"What were you hiding, Elizabeth?"
"Anyway, Breathe, So-Young. Wait… Calendar. I need the calendar."
I shot upright in bed, hands clamped to the sides of my head, staring at the ceiling like it might flash me a date. Spoiler: it didn't. Just embroidery and expensive fabric.
(Think. Think. Volume 1 starts when Elizabeth is 17. Volume 3—she's 18. That's when she dies. Beheaded. Right in front of Arthur. God, what a brutal scene.)
But something was off. The room around me didn't match the first chapter. In the book, the story starts with a glamorous royal ball, the Crown Prince's engagement party. That's when Arthur sneaks in, kills three corrupt lords, and earns the name Zero.
(Yeah… that scene. The prologue. My favorite part. He was so cool. So badass. Red wine hair swinging, blue eyes glowing, sword in hand. Like an avenging angel.)
...Except now I was inside it.
And Arthur's blade was real.
And I was not watching from my screen, sipping cola.
I was one of the names on his future kill list.
Wait. Hold on. How did I know I was in the prologue?
Then it hit me like a truck full of steel bricks.
The date.
I dug into Elizabeth's foggy memories. Not the violent ones this time, but the mundane ones. A journal entry. A maid whispering a note. A letter dated Thawmoor 18.
(Thawmoor 18. That's today.)
"Holy crap." I whispered.
I threw off the heavy blanket and jumped out of bed, nearly face-planting because of the ridiculously long dress.
(Thawmoor has 28 days. Which means…)
The ball, Arthur's big debut, the massacre, the moment he earned his name Zero happened on the 28th.
I scrambled to the desk, grabbed a quill, and scribbled into the corner of a piece of parchment:
🗓️ Ten days until the Blood Ballroom.
(Ten days before Arthur slaughters the third corrupt pig and becomes the empire's most wanted man. Ten days before I get tangled in the mess and possibly lose my head.)
And I, unfortunately, am still part of the problem.
I started pacing.
But then something tugged at me.
A memory. Faint, fuzzy.
Not violence. Not drama. Just… sadness.
A courtroom. Arthur's mother, Moira Penrose. Beautiful. Quiet. Dignified.
Then her trial.
Her chains.
Her execution.
And—
(Wait… Elizabeth didn't betray her. It wasn't her.)
I froze.
Clutched my chest. My breath caught.
(It was the Crown Prince.)
Elizabeth's fiancé. The golden boy. Pretty as a painting. Heart like a viper.
He framed Arthur's mother for treason… and Elizabeth took the fall.
Suddenly, I remembered.
Elizabeth, kneeling. Silent. Watching as Moira was dragged away.
The prince behind her, whispering:
"Bear this for me, and you will be my Empress."
And then Arthur. Watching. His face expressionless.
But his hatred burned through the crowd.
"You idiot," I groaned. "You absolute idiot, Elizabeth."
(You took the blame for that lying snake of a prince, and now Arthur thinks you helped kill his mom.)
And honestly? I didn't blame him.
In the book, Arthur believes Elizabeth Port Shelberg is responsible for his mother's death.
But now I knew the truth.
She wasn't.
(But he doesn't know that.)
Which means I have 10 days before the plot kicks in before Arthur dons the name Zero, before heads roll, and before I, at some point, end up in front of a guillotine for crimes I didn't commit.
(Ten days. I have ten days to change the story.)
Oh, and just to make things worse?
I still have to act like Elizabeth; the cold, flawless, terrifying noblewoman everyone fears.
(Han So-Young, welcome to hard mode.)
As I was spiraling into mental despair, there came a knock at the door.
"My Lady…"
It was Maria, my maid.
"Come in," I said.
She peeked through the door like a frightened kitten approaching a lion's den. Her fingers clutched her apron in a nervous knot, her steps nearly silent. And her eyes—
Yep. She still thinks I'm the old Elizabeth.
Which, to be fair, I technically am. And also… absolutely not.
"My Lady," she said softly, almost like she was afraid her voice might offend me. "Um… it's time for your tea gathering with the noble ladies."
I blinked.
"Tea time?"
Maria nodded, eyes downcast. "With Lady Ophelia Wenshire, Lady Clarisse Halbram, and… Lady Serina von Drach."
(Oh no. No no no. That's the mean girls trio of the empire.)
In the novel, those three were Elizabeth's best friends. Or rather her co-conspirators in chaos. They didn't sip tea. They sipped blood, gossip, and social ruin. They ruined debutantes for fun, humiliated duchesses just for blinking wrong, and once got a girl sent to a convent because she wore the same color dress as Clarisse at the opera.
(And now I have to sit with them. Pretend I'm still their queen bee. While also trying not to add to my villainess resume.)
I gave Maria my best imitation of calm confidence which probably looked like someone holding in a sneeze.
"Fine," I said, standing up. "Let's go."
But inside?
(I'm dying. I'm absolutely going to die. This is social combat and I'm walking in without a sword.)
As Maria helped fasten the last clasp of my gloves and straighten my absurdly poofy sleeves, she whispered, "Do you wish me to stay close, my Lady?"
I glanced at her.
(Poor girl's afraid I'll throw a sugar spoon at someone.)
"…Yes. Please. Be nearby."
She blinked.
"Pardon?"
"I said, stand by. In case I… need anything."
She nodded slowly, eyes wide. Clearly confused by my sudden politeness, but too scared to question it.
….
The tea room was disgustingly pretty. Pastel blues. Gold trim. Enough porcelain to terrify me into standing perfectly still. The chandelier sparkled like it wanted to shatter over someone dramatically.
And there they were. The three sharks.
Lady Ophelia, draped in violet silk and bored with everything.
Lady Clarisse, all fake giggles and real cruelty.
And Serina von Drach, tall, quiet, and the scariest of them all because she only ever smiled when someone else cried.
"Elizabeth," Ophelia purred. "You're late."
(This is it. Boss fight music is playing. Don't trip. Don't panic. Channel the villainess. You watched every season of Penthouse, So-Young. You were born for this.)
I moved like I was walking a red carpet, spine straight, expression indifferent, and sat down with all the poise I could muster.
"My apologies, darlings," I said, flashing a polished smile. "I was having a crisis. Of fashion."
A pause.
Clarisse blinked.
Then, like the flick of a switch, they laughed.
"Oh, still the same Elizabeth!" Clarisse clapped her hands. "Only you could make lateness sound fashionable."
(Okay. Good. I'm in. They still think I'm evil fabulous.)
Ophelia leaned forward, her violet sleeves brushing the table. "We were just talking about that poor little Marienne girl from House Thorne. Did you see her new hair color?"
"Ghastly," Serina murmured, sipping delicately. "Like a wilted radish."
Ophelia's lips curled. "We should do something about her. Elizabeth, remember that letter you sent? Pretending to be her secret suitor?"
They giggled. Loudly.
My spine stiffened.
Oh god. This is it. Moral crisis incoming. If I laugh, I'm a monster. If I scold them, I'm toast.
I lifted my teacup and sipped like a caffeine-deprived gremlin trying to fake grace.
"Ah, yes," I said slowly. "But perhaps this season… we should set a new trend."
Clarisse tilted her head. "A new trend?"
I smiled sharp but sweet. "Kindness…. It's so… scandalous."
A tense silence fell.
Behind me, Maria dropped a spoon.
The three girls stared at me like I had just suggested we all become nuns.
Then—
Serina burst out laughing.
"Oh, Elizabeth," she said through a grin. "You jest! You really had us for a moment."
I smiled tightly.
I wasn't joking. But sure. Let's all pretend I was.
If I could survive this tea party without calling for someone's exile or spilling hot tea on Serina's lap, I'd call it a victory.
….
Meanwhile The candlelight danced on golden walls, casting shadows that moved like snakes.
Pillows were strewn across the silk-covered bed, and laughter—breathy, flirtatious—echoed in the room thick with perfume and wine.
One woman lay draped across the Crown Prince's chest, her lipstick smudged, fingers tracing the edge of his collarbone. The other nestled close at his side, giggling as she toyed with the royal crest pinned to his robe.
"You don't hold back, Your Highness," one of them purred, her voice low with delight.
"So rough… so commanding."
The Crown Prince's lips curved into a lazy smile. He leaned back, letting his head rest against the velvet headboard.
"You think that was fierce?" he said, voice smooth and arrogant. "You haven't seen anything yet."
A hand slid beneath the sheets. A moan followed. One of the women arched against him, her breath hitching with anticipation.
"What would your fiancée say, hmm?" the second woman whispered, biting her lip.
"Lady Elizabeth… would she scream or cry if she knew how her prince spent the night?"
He laughed. A cold, dismissive sound.
"Elizabeth?" he echoed, eyes glinting with amusement. "That girl's as blind as she is obedient. She swallowed every lie I fed her, even when I framed that bastard's mother. She took the blame. Like a good little fool."
He leaned closer, his voice like poison in silk.
"And she thinks I'll marry her. Let her wear my crown." He scoffed. "She'll be useful—until she's not."
The women laughed, curling against him like cats. He raised his glass, sipping the blood-red wine as if it were the only thing in the world he respected.
"To the Future King of this Country," he murmured, raising his goblet.
Wine spilled onto the sheets.
No one cared.
Crown Prince Adellion Wexley for he is the only worth to be the king of this empire.
To be continue