"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton, you've found a way to bring shame to my name once again!"
Duke Alaric's hand shot out, finger pointed like a sword. Spittle flew in an arc.
I leaned back. Dodged it cleanly.
"Father, your projection—"
"Don't you dare lecture me on elocution right now, young lady!"
The garden guests had evacuated fifteen minutes ago. Now it was just me, consequences, and an angry Duke. A tale as old as time.
I stared at the ground. Focused hard. Didn't blink.
When I looked up, my eyes were appropriately glassy.
"But Father—" My voice broke perfectly. "—Maryann started this. I was only defending our family's reputation—"
Duke Alaric's finger lowered. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
I kept my face very still.
Hehe.
DING!
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: YOU LOOK UNHINGED. ADJUST IMMEDIATELY.
I softened my expression into something more trembling-daughter, less serial-killer.
"Well." Duke Alaric deflated like a punctured balloon. "Next time, perhaps—don't—I mean, you could—"
"Ah!"
Maryann's scream cut through the air like a dinner bell.
My hands clenched around my skirts. I turned slowly—so slowly—toward the sitting area.
Maryann sat with one delicate hand pressed to her chest, the very picture of distress.
Don't roll your eyes. Don't roll your eyes. Don't—
My eyes rolled. Hard. I think I saw my own brain.
James Hartford hovered over Maryann like a particularly brooding umbrella, one hand patting her pink hair while he shot me looks that could curdle milk.
Hey, System. Quick question. Isn't James supposed to be MY fiancé?
DING!
CORRECT. ENGAGEMENT ESTABLISHED AT AGE EIGHTEEN. VERY MUCH IN LOVE.
UNTIL MARYANN ARRIVED TWO MONTHS AGO.
JAMES'S ATTENTION SPAN: REDIRECTED.
Ah. I blinked. Oh.
The pieces clicked together. This wasn't in the novel—not explicitly—but I could see it now. Some random girl gets plucked from obscurity, becomes your instant sister, earns universal sympathy, and steals your fiancé while everyone calls her brave.
No wonder the original Beatrice went nuclear.
I studied Maryann with new eyes.
The timing of her tears. That smug little smile when I'd fainted. The way she always, always knew exactly how to position herself as the victim.
Was this happening because I'd entered the story? Or had Maryann been playing everyone from the start, and I'd just been too busy rage-reading at 2 AM to notice?
"Beatrice!"
I snapped back to attention. "Yes, Father? My dear, handsome, exceptionally patient father?"
Duke Alaric's ears turned pink. He tried to look stern. Failed. "You can't charm your way out of this one. Apologize to your sister. Now. Or I'm adding this to your permanent record."
System. Will that dock points?
AFFIRMATIVE. BEATRICE WOULD RATHER CHEW GLASS THAN APOLOGIZE TO MARYANN.
HOWEVER, BEATRICE ADORES HER FATHER. CANNOT DIRECTLY REFUSE HIM.
SUGGESTED STRATEGY: TACTICAL STALLING.
You're actually useful for once.
I started walking toward Maryann. Each step took approximately seven years.
Honestly? I didn't want to apologize. I'd heard worse from clients in my past life—screaming, entitled, wrong-on-every-level clients. My comment to Maryann was a gentle tap. Not my fault her tear ducts were set to maximum sensitivity.
James watched my approach like I was a criminal heading to the gallows.
So supportive. Really feeling the love here, darling.
"Your Grace—" A servant appeared in the doorway. Divine intervention in human form. "—dinner is served."
Oh, thank God.
"Dinner!" I pivoted immediately, practically skipping toward the dining room.
"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton!"
"My lady!" Rose's voice rose to a scandalized pitch. "One does not skip indoors! Or outdoors! Actually, don't skip anywhere—it's not befitting your station!"
"Apologies, Father!" I called over my shoulder. "But there are pressing matters! Like food! Which is hot! And getting cold! Priorities!"
Fifteen minutes later, we sat at the long dining table. Roasted duck, glazed vegetables, the works.
I rubbed my hands together.
Say what you want about getting isekai'd into a villainess role—the food was exceptional. No instant ramen. No sad desk lunches. Just quality cuisine prepared by people who actually knew what they were doing.
Pro tip for anyone getting isekai'd: always choose rich. Always.
Maryann, being the perfect female lead, immediately started helping everyone despite the maids literally trying to do their jobs.
"Let me pour that for you, Father—"
"Ah, thank you, my dear daughter." Duke Alaric's face softened.
James looked like he might swoon. Handsomely. Broodingly. But definitely swooning.
"Thank you for having me, Your Grace," James said.
Duke Alaric waved this off. "Nonsense, Marquess. You're practically family already. You should visit more often—Beatrice has been asking about you."
Have I, though?
James didn't even glance my way. His eyes slid to Maryann instead.
She smiled at him. Sweetly. Demurely.
Could you two BE more obvious?
"The wedding is in seven months," Duke Alaric continued, cutting into his duck. "You were betrothed young, but I let you choose your own date—generous of me, really. Back in my day, we married the moment we came of age—"
"Yes, Father." I smiled fondly, pulling from Beatrice's memories. "You've mentioned it. Several times. Many times. Frequently, one might say."
Duke Alaric chuckled. "That's my girl!"
I took a bite of duck. Chewed. Swallowed. "Father, who was that absolutely stunning military man at today's party?"
"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton!"
Oh, here we go.
"You should find NO man handsome except your fiancé! And don't speak with your mouth full—I raised you better than that!"
James scoffed.
Out loud.
I set down my fork carefully. "Something to add, Marquess?"
His eyes widened. "Nothing."
"Sounded like something."
"It was nothing."
"Because it sounded—"
"You're pretending you don't know him," James said flatly. "You had a crush on Captain Ashford when you were eight years old. Don't play coy."
I stared at him. My fork was still in my hand. It would be so easy—
DING!
SYSTEM WARNING: VIOLENCE IS OUT OF CHARACTER.
DESPITE JAMES'S MORALLY QUESTIONABLE BEHAVIOR, BEATRICE WOULD NEVER CONFRONT HIM DIRECTLY. SHE TARGETS MARYANN INSTEAD.
BEATRICE IS IN DENIAL ABOUT JAMES'S FEELINGS.
I set the fork down. Carefully. Very carefully.
Duke Alaric cleared his throat. "Captain Theodore Ashford. Fine man. War hero. Been back for a while now, but only recently started attending social events. I imagine Beatrice simply forgot—it's been years."
I nodded absently. So Theodore was important. Good to know attractive men existed outside the love interest category. Refreshing.
"Speaking of the Ashfords—" Duke Alaric wiped his mouth with a napkin. "—they're hosting a garden party next week. I can't attend. Business in the capital. Beatrice, you'll go in my stead."
"Of course, Father."
DING!
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: PLOT PROGRESSION DETECTED
CRITICAL QUEST UNLOCKED
OBJECTIVE: ENSURE MARYANN ATTENDS THE ASHFORD PARTY
REWARD: 1,000 HATRED POINTS
I straightened immediately. "Father, may I bring Maryann?"
The dining room went silent.
Forks stopped mid-air. James froze. Even the servants paused.
Everyone stared at me like I'd just announced my plans to become a nun.
Duke Alaric's face transformed. Pure relief. Joy. Hope for his daughters' relationship. "Of course! Yes! What a wonderful idea, Beatrice! This is excellent! Growth! Development!"
"I'll escort you both," James said immediately, his whole demeanor brightening.
I'm not planning her murder. Everyone relax.
We ate in silence for approximately ninety seconds before—
"Sister." Maryann's voice was soft. Sweet. Calculated. "You really should spend more time with James before next month's garden party."
I looked up slowly.
Maryann rarely initiated conversation with me. She was scared of Beatrice. This was off-script.
"Why that party specifically?" I asked.
Maryann blinked. Recovered smoothly. "Oh, these large events are so important for engaged couples. Public appearances. Perception. You understand."
But her eyes flickered with something else.
Knowledge.
Next month's garden party.
I searched my memories—
Oh.
Oh no.
That was where the original Beatrice's engagement imploded in the novel. Public humiliation. James ending things in front of everyone. Social destruction.
How would Maryann know to mention that specific event?
I studied her face. Really looked.
Her timing was too perfect. Her reactions too calculated. And now she was referencing plot points that hadn't happened yet.
"Sisterl," I said quietly. The conversation around us faded. "I'd like to speak with you after dinner. Privately."
The table went still.
Maryann's smile faltered—just for a heartbeat.
Then it was back. Perfect. Innocent. "Of course, Sister. Whatever you need."
But I'd seen it.
That flash in her eyes.
And I knew, with cold certainty:
I wasn't the only person at this table who'd knew this story.