The days bled together.
Shadows grew long, and the garden outside bloomed without me. Summer would end with me still locked away. I marked time by the changing of food trays—breakfast, midday meal, supper—each brought by silent maids with downcast eyes.
The guards at the door had doubled. The windows, my only glimpse of the outside world, were barred.
I spent my days reading politics—the only genre they allowed from the library.
What was wrong with my transmigration story?
It felt as if the book were rewriting itself.
"Lord Cedric is coming in," the guard announced.
Cedric entered like a man stepping into a tomb. The lock clicked shut behind him, and the silence was sharp.
"You look terrible," he said flatly.
I didn't rise from the couch or look his way.
"So do you."
He looked worse than the last time—unshaven, dark circles under his eyes.
It seemed the investigations weren't going well.
"Does Father know?" I asked. "That I'm locked in this castle?"
"No," he replied. "Everyone thinks you ran away. You're a fugitive now."
"Of course I am," I muttered.
"You seem calm for someone who already knows their fate."
"I was going to die anyway. It's just happening earlier than expected."
I sighed. "It seems I never learn. I always trust the wrong people."
His brow furrowed.
"I trusted you," I began, voice low but steady. "But that day you came here, I saw it. The disdain. The hatred. I could feel that vile, disgusting desire—to get rid of me."
He opened his mouth, but I stood abruptly, cutting him off with a cold laugh.
"While locked in here, I thought of all the things I should have done to prevent this. I knew this world better than anyone. But instead... I trusted you."
I stepped closer.
"So when did you decide to use me? Before or after I mentioned the pier?"
His expression flickered—something between anger and shame.
"I tolerated you because Father made me," he snapped. "Every time you went berserk, I cleaned up after you. Every time you humiliated a lady at a salon or a ball for wearing the same hairpin as you—I begged on my knees to protect our family's name."
My mouth parted, but I swallowed the emotion rising.
"You were a stain to me," he continued. "But Mother... she saw you as a pawn for the family's glory. So I played along."
I stared at him—stunned by the brutal simplicity of his words.
"Then you touched her," he said darkly. "The only person who made you tolerable. I hate that you're wearing her face."
"So you made me a culprit for something I didn't do?" I whispered.
"Stop with the games! You orchestrated everything!" he yelled.
Now this was the Cedric from the book—willful, hot-tempered, righteous in the wrong ways.
"Then how did you know about the underground lab?" he demanded. "The vials?"
I froze.
How could I explain that my knowledge came from a book?
"You brought only shame to our family," he said, his voice like a knife. "But now, at least you can be useful. Every story needs a villain—and you fit the role perfectly."
He turned and walked out.
I didn't cry. But my throat tightened with the weight of it. Crying wouldn't save me. I had trusted again—and been crushed again.
I held the knowledge and secrets of this world, but the need to trust, to be cared for, had crippled me.
Never again.
I walked to the mirror above the fireplace and stared at my reflection.
It had been ten days since the vials.
Ten days since they were spiked into my food.
The changes had come fast. Too fast. And before, they had always faded.
But now... they weren't.
My reflection blinked back at me. Dark, curly hair. Ombre eyes. No roots. No glitch. No return to the soft brunette, brown-eyed Iris.
I touched my face.
It was real.
The vials had always been temporary—lasting a day or two at most.
A cold, horrible thought crept in.
What if it's permanent now?
Because the original owner of this face... is dead.
My knees buckled, but I caught myself on the mantle.
Worse still—I had no one. No voice of reason. No one to tell me what to do.
The door swung open.
The head maid entered, her eyes flashing concern before she masked it with a neutral calm.
"Knock next time," I said quietly. "I may be a prisoner, but I still value what little privacy I have left."
"You've been summoned for dinner," she announced, her voice clipped and formal.
Maids streamed in behind her like a trained flock. One opened the wardrobe, another laid out perfume bottles, and a third set curling rods to heat.
"Well," I murmured, voice dipped in sarcasm, "how gracious of His Highness. I shall repay his kindness with obedience."
I curtsied.
This was my opening.
I couldn't reach him—but maybe I could reach the gate.
The maids worked quickly—tightening laces, brushing out my hair, covering the shadows under my eyes. I let them. I needed to get out of that room.
The gown they chose was midnight blue, embroidered with silver at the hem. Far too elegant for a prisoner.
I almost laughed.
I suppose His Highness had a taste for playing dress-up with his prisoners.
As they fussed, I quietly slipped a few pieces of jewelry into my sleeve. Useful currency—if I made it out.
When the final ribbon was tied and my hair pinned up, they opened the door.
A guard gestured forward.
"This way, my lady."