That night, I couldn't sleep.
The moonlight spilled across the canopy bed like spilled milk, and the soft ticking of the clock was the only sound in the room. Every time I closed my eyes, I replayed the garden scene—the prince's amused smile, Elizabeth's flawless mask slipping, the way he'd looked at me like I wasn't supposed to exist.
I'd changed something. I could feel it. The story was off its rails now.
But I didn't know how far that ripple would reach.
I sat up, rubbing my temples. "Okay," I whispered to myself. "In the book, Elizabeth's walk with the prince led to the engagement announcement three chapters later. If I interrupted that… what happens now?"
No answer came. Just silence, heavy and thoughtful.
I stood and stepped toward the balcony. The gardens below shimmered under the moonlight, endless rows of white and red roses. For a second, I caught sight of the white peacock wandering near the archway—the same one Elizabeth was supposed to use for her big "meet-cute" moment.
Except this time, it was alone. Waiting.
The thought made my chest tighten. It was like the story didn't know what to do next.
I turned away and tried to sleep. I didn't manage much.
By morning, I looked like I'd fought a battle in my dreams. But I didn't have time to fall apart—the royal breakfast was today. Another key moment from My Sweet Revenge. In the original version, Elizabeth impressed the court while Isabella tripped, spilled her tea, and became the quiet joke of the entire noble circle.
Not happening this time.
When I entered the dining hall, heads turned. I'd chosen a pale blue gown—simple, elegant, and impossible to overlook. I curtsied, steady and composed.
"Your Highness," I said.
The prince's gaze found mine instantly. "Lady Isabella," he said, his tone light but edged with something private. "Would you sit with me?"
Elizabeth, sitting two seats away, froze mid-motion.
I smiled. "I'd be honored."
The room hummed with whispers as I took the seat beside him.
The prince leaned slightly toward me. "You seem tired," he said softly. "I hope our garden walk didn't trouble you."
I almost laughed. "Not at all. Just a long night thinking."
"About what?"
I met his gaze. "About choices."
He tilted his head, amused. "You speak as though you've made one."
"Maybe I have," I said.
His expression flickered—something between curiosity and fascination. Elizabeth noticed, of course. She always noticed.
"Sister," she said sweetly, voice carrying through the quiet. "You've become so… talkative lately. I can hardly keep up."
I smiled without looking at her. "It's easier when someone's actually listening."
The table went still.
The prince bit back a smile, clearing his throat. "I find conversation refreshing, personally. Especially when it's honest."
Elizabeth's hand tightened around her fork, but her smile didn't falter. "Honesty is overrated. Grace and poise—those are what endure."
"Perhaps," he said mildly, "but sometimes honesty is the most graceful thing of all."
Elizabeth's gaze flicked between us, her charm cracking just slightly.
And then, as if the world itself wanted to punctuate the moment, the chandelier above the table flickered. Once. Twice.
Then shattered.
Gasps filled the hall as crystal shards scattered like diamonds across the floor. Servants rushed in, nobles stood, chaos rippled.
The prince moved instantly, his arm coming up in front of me protectively. "Are you hurt?"
I shook my head, startled. "No—no, I'm fine."
He looked at me for a long moment, eyes scanning for any sign of injury. Then he exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders. "Good."
Elizabeth was pale, staring at the fallen shards. "That… that wasn't supposed to happen," she whispered, almost to herself.
Her words struck me, though I couldn't explain why.
Because for the first time since I'd arrived, she didn't look like the perfect villainess from a book. She looked… uncertain.
And in that tiny fracture of her composure, I saw it—proof that the story was no longer following her rules.
Whatever happened next, it wouldn't be the version she had written.
It would be mine.