By the third day, it became clear that Elara Viremont had lived a life very different from mine.
I learned this in small, uncomfortable ways.
For example, no one knocked twice.
Servants entered my rooms the moment I called, sometimes even before.
They bowed deeply, eyes lowered, hands folded like they were afraid to do something wrong. When I thanked one of them out of habit, she froze as if I'd slapped her.
"My lady…?" she said, confused.
"Right," I muttered. "Never mind."
That was mistake number one: being polite.
Mistake number two came when I tried to dress myself.
I'd barely managed to pull a sleeve over my arm before three maids rushed forward, gently but firmly taking over.
Apparently, Lady Elara did not dress herself. She stood still while others handled ribbons, clasps, and jewelry that probably cost more than my old rent.
I felt ridiculous just standing there.
As they worked, I listened.
Most of what they said was harmless weather talk, schedules, gossip whispered too quietly for me to fully hear.
But every so often, I caught my own name spoken carefully, like it might bite.
"She hasn't shouted once," one maid whispered, thinking I couldn't hear.
"Do you think she's ill?" another replied.
I pretended not to notice, staring at my reflection instead.
The girl in the mirror looked calm.
Confident.
Someone used to being obeyed.
I wasn't her. Not really.
But I was stuck with her face, her body, and her life, so I needed to learn how she lived it.
After breakfast, I finally left my room.
The Viremont estate was enormous.
Calling it a "house" felt wrong—it was more like a private palace.
Long hallways stretched in every direction, lined with paintings of stern-looking ancestors.
Tall windows let in so much light it almost hurt my eyes.
People stepped aside as I passed.
Some bowed. Some stiffened.
Some watched me with open dislike.
That last one surprised me the most.
I caught a noblewoman whispering behind her fan, her eyes sharp as knives.
A young lord looked away the moment I noticed him staring.
Elara Viremont was not loved.
That, at least, matched the book.
I headed toward the gardens, hoping for space to think.
The air outside was cool and smelled like fresh grass and roses.
A fountain sparkled in the center, its soft sound calming my nerves.
I sat on a stone bench and let out a slow breath.
"Okay," I said to myself. "Let's get organized."
First: family.
Elara was the duke's only daughter. Her mother had died young—something tragic and romanticized in the book, though it barely mattered to the plot. Her father was powerful, distant, and rarely home.
I hadn't seen him yet.
That worried me more than I liked to admit.
Second: reputation.
She was known for her temper. For cruelty. For never forgiving a slight. That explained the servants' fear and the nobles' looks.
Fixable, maybe—but not quickly.
Third: obligations.
This one hit me hard.
Apparently, my schedule was full.
Afternoon tea with noble daughters. A fitting for a new gown. Letters to answer. Events to attend. I was expected to smile, judge, and remember names I'd never heard before.
And looming over everything was the academy.
I winced.
The Royal Academy was where the story really began. Where the saintess appeared. Where the prince noticed her. Where Elara started making mistakes she couldn't undo.
Classes would begin in less than a month.
I leaned back on the bench, staring up at the sky.
"So I'm rich," I murmured. "Feared. And doomed."
Great.
A soft voice interrupted my thoughts.
"My lady?"
I turned and saw an older woman standing a few steps away. She wore a simple but neat dress and held herself with quiet authority.
"I am Marianne," she said. "Your personal attendant."
That explained why she didn't look terrified.
"Yes," I said carefully. "What is it?"
She studied my face for a moment. Not rudely. Thoughtfully.
"You have been… different lately," she said.
My heart skipped.
"I was ill," I said quickly. "For a few days."
Marianne nodded slowly. "So I heard."
She didn't sound convinced, but she didn't press. Instead, she gestured toward the path.
"Your father has returned," she said. "He wishes to see you."
There it was.
The duke.
My stomach twisted as I followed her back inside. We walked through halls that felt colder the closer we got to his study. Guards stood outside the door, straight-backed and silent.
Marianne knocked once.
"Enter," a deep voice called.
The study smelled like ink and old books. A tall man stood by the window, his back to me. Broad shoulders. Dark hair streaked with gray.
"Elara," he said without turning. "You're late."
"I was in the gardens," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
He turned then, and I finally saw him properly.
Duke Viremont looked at me like a general inspecting a soldier. Sharp eyes. No warmth. No softness.
"You survived your illness," he said. "Good."
That was it.
No hug. No concern.
I swallowed. "Yes, Father."
He nodded and turned back to the window, as if the matter were settled.
"You will attend the academy this year," he continued. "I expect no scandals. The Viremont name will not be dragged through gossip."
I almost laughed at that.
"I understand," I said.
His gaze flicked back to me, lingering longer this time.
"You have changed," he said.
There it was again.
"Maybe I was never who you thought I was," I replied, choosing my words carefully.
Something unreadable crossed his face. Then he looked away.
"You can leave,"
I left the study with my legs shaking.
That night, alone in my room, I finally let myself sit on the floor and breathe.
This life was heavy.
Power.
Expectations.
Fear.
A future already written for me.
I pressed my forehead against my knees.
"I'll learn," I whispered to the quiet room. "Step by step."
I would learn her habits. Her mistakes. Her enemies.
And when the story tried to push me toward the ending it wanted—
I would be ready.