She opened her eyes to the scent of lavender and... decay?
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar—gilded, with ornate carvings and a chandelier swaying gently as if it, too, were in shock.
A shadow loomed at her side.
The maid, pale-faced and trembling, was just about to drape a white sheet over her body.
Selene blinked, her crimson eyes locking with the maid's.
The maid screamed.
"Y-You're alive?!"
The bedsheet slipped from her hands and fluttered to the floor like a ghost giving up.
Selene groaned, lifting a hand to her throbbing temple. "...What kind of welcome is that?"
The maid stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the edge of the carpet as she bolted from the room. "But—but the physician declared you—! We were told to prepare for your funeral!"
"Ah." Selene sat up slowly, the weight of her dark violet hair falling over her shoulder in unfamiliar waves. "That would explain the deathbed vibe."
Everything ached. Her limbs felt stiff, as if they hadn't been used in days. She looked down—an old-fashioned nightgown. Pale hands that weren't hers. A voice slightly higher, more delicate.
And then the realization hit her like a runaway carriage.
This wasn't her body.
This wasn't her world.
She forced herself to stand, legs trembling like a newborn fawn as she made her way toward the ornate mirror by the wall. Her feet dragged slightly across the plush carpet. When she finally reached it, she nearly stumbled again—not from weakness this time, but from sheer disbelief.
The woman staring back at her was stunning, ethereal and terrifying.
Long dark violet hair cascaded down her back in silky waves, shimmering like ink under moonlight. Her skin was pale as porcelain, untouched by sun or flaw. And her eyes—
Crimson, with flecks of gold.
Selene stepped closer. The reflection did the same.
No way.
She knew this face.
She had read this face.
This was Countess Selene Elowen Vireya—the infamous villainess of 'The Thorn Beside His Rose' novel. The cruel noblewoman once engaged to the cold Duke Leontius Arvendale. The one who tormented his lover, the heroine. The one who was exiled in disgrace. The one who—most importantly—died later in the story.
Well. Selene raised a brow. Died. Past tense.
She studied the mirror again, marveling at how delicate and elegant she looked—like someone carved from marble and dark wine. A character who had every advantage... except love.
And now?
Now that character was her.
"Just great," Selene muttered, running her fingers through her impossibly glossy hair. "I get isekai'd into my favorite novel, and I wake up as her. The villainess. The dead one."
From the hallway, hurried footsteps thundered toward the door.
Voices rose—panic, urgency.
The maid had clearly gone to alert the entire mansion.
Selene took a deep breath.
Showtime.
---
The doors burst open with a clatter.
In stormed a cluster of servants—led by a tall, severe-looking woman with iron-gray hair pulled into a bun so tight it could cut glass. Beside her stood a stiff-backed butler with snowy white gloves and a face that looked carved from stone. Behind them, several maids hovered nervously, including the poor girl who had fled screaming just moments ago.
The head maid froze in the doorway, eyes wide.
"Countess Selene…?"
Selene straightened her posture with all the haughty grace she could muster. "Yes. Last I checked."
A collective gasp rippled through the group.
The butler's mouth opened slightly—scandalous, for someone so composed.
"But… we were told…" one maid whispered, clutching her apron.
"That I was dead?" Selene offered helpfully. "Apparently, I got better."
The head maid marched forward, her expression oscillating between suspicion and awe. She bowed stiffly. "Milady… forgive us. We were merely following the physician's instructions. You had no pulse. No breath."
Selene arched a brow. "Well, I suppose I must be very stubborn."
The butler finally stepped forward and gave a low, practiced bow. "Should we summon the Count, milady?"
The room fell eerily quiet.
Selene hesitated. She remembered this part. The cold, merciless fiancé. The man whose expression made nobles tremble and children cry.
Count Ambrosia, her father.
Selene blinked.
Count?
Right. Right.
Before her engagement to Duke Leontius Arvendale—the one she'd read about in Daughter of the Duke—Selene Elowen Vireya was simply a daughter in her father's mansion. A mansion that now felt as frigid as the novel had painted it.
She had read everything that happened to the original Selene: her obsession with the Duke, her eventual fall from grace, and, most importantly, her death. But the novel never mentioned the details of how she died—only that it happened soon after she was disgraced and exiled.
And now, here she was. In this woman's body. The woman who had caused so much suffering to the heroine, who had been loved by no one, who had lost everything.
And who had died.
Selene swallowed hard.
But now that death was gone.
She was here. She was alive.
"Yes," she said, lifting her chin, trying to make it look as dignified as possible. "Summon the Count."
The butler gave a stiff nod and turned on his heel. Two of the younger maids scrambled after him, their shoes tapping lightly against the marble.
The remaining staff lingered awkwardly, their eyes flickering from Selene to one another. Some still looked fearful. Others... uncertain. She wasn't the villainess they remembered. But she was—wasn't she?
Selene crossed her arms, irritation settling in. "Well? Are you all going to stand there gawking at me like a ghost, or will someone bring me a glass of water, and perhaps a mirror that isn't attached to the wall?"
The head maid flinched, then quickly snapped her fingers. "Of course, milady! Please forgive us." She gestured to the maids. "Hurry!"
As they hurried off, the head maid stayed behind, glancing at Selene with a hesitant, almost pitying look.
"Milady…" Her voice softened, as if testing her. "You seem… different."
Selene tilted her head. "Dead women usually do."
The older woman seemed to hesitate, wringing her hands. "I only meant… You're quieter. Calmer."
Selene's brow arched. "Are you implying dying somehow fixed my personality?"
The head maid's face flushed. "No, of course not, milady. I simply—"
"Relax," Selene said with a lazy wave of her hand. "Let's just say I woke up with a new perspective."
And a new soul.
Before the head maid could reply, the sound of measured footsteps echoed down the hall—slow, deliberate, as if the very weight of each step mattered.
Count Ambrosia had arrived.
The air shifted.
Selene straightened instinctively as the doors opened, revealing Count Ambrosia Vireya.
He was exactly as the novel described—tall, lean, a man of icy dignity wrapped in layers of tailored black. His silver-streaked hair was combed immaculately, and his expression carved from stone. He carried the aura of a man who had never raised his voice, because he never needed to.
But for a moment—just a fleeting breath—something cracked.
His sharp gaze landed on her.
He froze.
Selene watched his gloved hands twitch, ever so slightly. A flicker of disbelief crossed his face. Then something deeper. Older. Raw.
"…Selene?"
His voice was quiet. Rough. As if the word had caught in his throat.
Selene's fingers curled at her sides. "Yes, Father."
He didn't move for a moment. Didn't speak. The silence felt oppressive, pressing down between them like a second weight in the room.
And then—
He crossed the space to her in long strides. Not with anger. Not with discipline. But with something urgent, repressed. And when he stopped in front of her, his hand—his famously cold, distant hand—reached up and hesitated inches from her cheek.
"Is it really you?" he asked, so low only she could hear it.
Selene blinked. In all her readings of the novel, Count Ambrosia had never shown affection. Not to Selene. Not to anyone. She had expected disinterest, maybe scorn.
Not this.
"I'm here," she said carefully, unsure how to respond. "Somehow."
His hand dropped. Not out of rejection—but restraint. And then he took a step back, schooling his face again, though the mask was thinner now.
"When I was informed…" he began, then stopped. His jaw clenched, his gaze darting to the side as if ashamed of something. " They said… You had thrown yourself from the cliffs."
That wasn't in the novel.
Selene's breath caught. So that's what they thought. I don't think Selene was the type to kill herself even though she was overly obsessed with him. She had rather kill the heroine than die ... meaning she was killed.
Count Ambrosia looked at her, and for once, his voice cracked ever so slightly. "For ten years, I lived believing my daughter had died alone… disgraced… hated."
Something hot and bitter surged in her throat. The weight of his words, his sorrow, was unexpected—and sharp.
"I never mourned properly," he said. "I didn't know how. I thought… I thought it was too late to say anything that would matter."
He stepped closer again, and this time he didn't stop himself.
He reached forward and placed one hand gently on her head.
"I'm glad you're alive," he said simply. "Even if it makes no sense. Even if it's a miracle. I won't question it."
Selene stood frozen.
This man. This cold, distant father. The one who had shaped the villainess with absence, not cruelty… was crying?
No. Not quite. But his eyes were wet. Just barely. And for a man like him, that was enough to shake the earth.
He cleared his throat, stepped back, and adjusted his gloves. The distance returned, but it didn't erase what had just happened.
"I will notify the household. You are to be treated with the respect due to the Lady of this house." His voice was firm again. "And I will deal with any who suggest otherwise."
He turned toward the door, but before leaving, he paused.
"Lady Mirabelle," he said without looking at her.
The head maid flinched at the sound of her name. "Yes, my lord?"
"From this day onward," Count Ambrosia said, his voice cold and precise, "you will ensure Lady Selene's needs are met before she voices them. No hesitation. No delay."
Selene blinked. Even in her brief life here, she had never heard him speak her name with such weight. And now he was… protecting her?
Mirabelle bowed deeply, her hands trembling. "Of course, my lord. I… I understand."
"Do you?" His tone was so sharp it sliced through the air. "She has returned after ten years, and you stood there gawking at her like a sideshow specter. If I find one more servant treating my daughter with suspicion or disrespect, I will not be lenient."
Mirabelle paled. "Yes, my lord. I—I'll speak to the staff immediately."
Count Ambrosia gave a faint nod. "Good."
Then he glanced at Selene once more, and this time, there was a glimmer of something human beneath the iron surface.
"You've come back. That means something," he said, almost to himself. "And I will not let them forget it."
And with that, he left.
---
The room felt heavier in his absence.
Lady Mirabelle stood awkwardly for a moment, her eyes on the floor. Then, gathering herself, she gave Selene a curtsy—not too deep, not too shallow.
"We will prepare your rooms at once, milady. Fresh linens. A warm bath. And…" She hesitated, then added, more quietly, "A mirror that isn't bolted to the wall."
Selene gave a tired smile. "Now that is the kind of luxury I died without."
The maid's lips twitched, just faintly.
As she bustled off to rally the others, Selene was left alone, her mind buzzing.
So that's how the original Selene died.
She didn't jump.
She was pushed.
And if that was true…
Then someone had wanted her dead.
Selene's eyes narrowed.
That meant the game had changed.
She wasn't just a villainess trying to survive her story.
She was a ghost with unfinished business.
And someone out there didn't know the dead could come back.