I opened my eyes beneath a thousand crystal lights and realized the dress strangling my ribs cost more than my old apartment.
Black lace climbed my throat. Diamonds glittered at my wrists. In my hand, a goblet of wine shimmered with a violet glow no sane person would drink.
Across the imperial ballroom, Crown Prince Adrien stood with the saintess tucked against his arm.
I knew that face. I knew this hall. I had read the scene twice, once in the novel and once while yelling at the game adaptation for being unfair.
Rosalia Blackthorn, the villainess duchess, was supposed to poison the saintess tonight.
Tomorrow morning, she was supposed to die.
Adrien's voice cut through the music. "Rosalia, for your attempt on the saintess's life, your ducal title is stripped. At dawn, you will be executed."
Every noble turned to watch me break.
Then something inside the world pressed down, cold and mechanical, as if the story itself was trying to force my hand around the poisoned cup.