Quick to change the subject, Anastaria forced a sheepish smile and asked, "Uh… about breakfast. Is there any way I could just… have it in my room today?"
The maid glanced at the forming welt on her forehead and nodded sympathetically.
"I'll inform the Master and Mistress. You probably don't want to present yourself in that state."
She gave a respectful bow. "I'll bring your breakfast here, Miss."
With that, the maid turned and quietly exited.
As soon as the door shut, Anastaria flopped back onto the bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Arms and legs sprawled in all directions, she stared up at the ceiling in silent despair.
Everything was happening too fast.
She was trying her best to stay in character, but if things kept spiraling like this, someone was bound to find something was off.
But did she even want to be like the original Anastaria?
That girl had been awful—cruel, bitter, and needlessly vicious to everyone around her. And where had that gotten her?
Oh. Right.
Anastaria bolted upright with a gasp.
"Oh hell. That's right—she dies!"
Her stomach dropped.
The original Anastaria got executed. Beheaded, in fact. Publicly. By the Crown Prince himself.
Why? Because she went completely off the rails trying to destroy her own sister.
The prince? He'd originally been her fiancé. She was considered the firstborn daughter of House Noir—even though she and Elaira were twins, Anastaria was technically born first.
But then the prince met Elaira. Sweet, beautiful, beloved Elaira.
And everything changed.
Anastaria, driven by jealousy and pride, tried to sabotage her sister. Publicly humiliate her. Ruin her standing. And when that didn't work… she tried to kill her.
And the prince? He chose Elaira.
Over the woman he was supposed to marry.
Over the one who loved him to madness.
He chose Elaira.
And Anastaria was executed.
"Damn. Damn. Damn!" Anastaria groaned, dragging a hand down her face.
How had she forgotten that tiny, slightly important detail?
Romance novel or not, she'd just been reincarnated into the losing team.
Why did the heavens hate her so?
Was her last life not miserable enough? She barely survived on instant noodles and worked in a glorified broom closet—and now she had to worry about avoiding decapitation by a royal psychopath?
Her eye twitched.
How many other crucial plot points had her friend casually spoiled that she had promptly forgotten? She was probably doomed and didn't even know it yet.
Still, she refused to spiral. If she started panicking now, she'd never stop.
Step by step, she told herself. That was the only way forward.
She was no longer Rin.
Her name was Anastaria Noir now. Dark twin. Doomed villainess. Future dead girl—unless she rewrote her fate herself.
Not long after, the maid returned—this time balancing a silver tray of breakfast in one hand, and with a tall figure trailing behind her.
"There's your breakfast, Miss," the maid said with a bright smile. Then she leaned in and whispered, "Don't worry—I grabbed the physician quietly so the family wouldn't be alarmed."
Anastaria blinked up at her…
… and then looked past her…
… and nearly had a nosebleed.
Standing just behind the maid was the most absurdly handsome man she had ever seen.
Tall. Ethereal. Practically glowing. He had long white hair tied loosely behind him, a face carved like it was sculpted by heavenly artists on their day off, and white irises that made him look otherworldly—like some kind of divine ice spirit.
She stared.
Who was this hunk!
Did the gods feel bad about cursing her with a tragic ending? She started to feel like dying wasn't so bad now…
None of these thoughts showed on her face, of course.
The physician stepped forward with a calm grace that could've soothed a thunderstorm. Everything about him radiated quiet confidence—the kind that made people instinctively trust him without question.
"May I?" he asked, his voice smooth and elegant as he gestured toward her forehead.
Anastaria gave a small nod, trying not to look flustered. "You may," she replied, sitting a little straighter.
But what she didn't notice was the faint flicker in his eye before his expression returned to its professional calm.
Oh, you may alright, she thought, internally clutching her heart. You may touch this humble forehead as much as you like, good sir. It is an honor to be graced by your divine fingers. Please, heal me… spiritually.
Outwardly, she remained composed.
Inwardly?
She was already planning the wedding.
Hehe.