The Royal Gardens were a symphony of curated perfection, a world away from the muddy, crowded streets Elara knew. Bees hummed around blossoms so vibrant they looked painted, and the air itself smelled sweet, carrying the scent of roses and the faint, clean aroma of rain-washed stone. Nobles in silks and velvets drifted like exotic birds, their laughter as light and meaningless as bubbles. Every polished button and rustling skirt was a testament to a life of effortless privilege.
Seraphine stood among them, a statue in a sea of motion. The emerald gown, though stunning, was a weight on her shoulders, its fine fabric feeling like a costume she had no right to wear. Every step in the delicate heels was a conscious effort not to stumble back into the clumsy gait of a girl who owned only worn-out sneakers. She could feel the eyes on her—whispers hiding behind fluttering fans. They were the vultures of high society, and they were waiting for the Seraphine de Volaire show to begin.
Breathe, she told herself, the command a stark contrast to the fluttering panic in her chest. Just breathe and don't cause a scene. That's all you have to do.
Her new memories, the ones belonging to the original Seraphine, supplied names and titles for the faces that glanced her way. The sneering Duchess who envied her family's wealth. The simpering Count whose son she had publicly rejected. A gallery of future enemies, all watching.
And then, she saw them. The main characters.
Prince Lysander. He was taller and more severe than the book had described, his golden hair a crown in itself, his posture rigid with duty. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, scanned the crowd with a detached authority that made her want to shrink away.
And beside him, clinging to his arm with an air of charming uncertainty, was Clara.
She was exactly as written: soft brown hair escaping its simple pins, warm, doe-like eyes wide with wonder, and a dress of pale blue linen that, while clean and neat, marked her as an undeniable outsider. Seeing her sent a jolt through Seraphine. It wasn't just recognition; it was a bitter, acidic wave of resentment that felt both foreign and intimately familiar.
There's the girl who gets the easy happy ending, a voice that sounded like her own, tired voice whispered inside. The one who is "genuine" and "kind" and has a powerful man to protect her from all the things I had to face alone.
A memory, sharp and unbidden, flashed: her own hands, raw and chapped from scrubbing floors at the office building. The gnawing hunger in her stomach as she counted coins for bread. The hopelessness in her father's eyes.
The original Seraphine's script screamed in her head, a phantom impulse twitching in her muscles. "Walk over there. 'Accidentally' spill your wine on that pathetic dress. Remind her of her place. It's what you do. It's who you are." The urge was a physical pull, a ghost trying to puppet her body.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a gilded cage. This was it. The first test. Not of her ability to act like a noble, but of her will to survive as herself.
Clara, looking lost, took a hesitant step backward, directly into the path of a servant carrying a tray of pristine crystal goblets filled with sparkling wine. It was the perfect opportunity. A nudge, a misstep, and the "clumsy commoner" would be drenched in shame and expensive liquor, a spectacle for the entire court.
But Elara saw the genuine panic on Clara's face. She saw the servant's terrified expression, the fear of a scolding or worse for a simple mistake. She saw the trap of the narrative closing around her, and she saw the parallel to a thousand small humiliations she herself had endured.
No. The word was a silent roar in her mind. I am not her. Not anymore.
As Clara stumbled, Seraphine moved. But not to shove. Her hand shot out, not to strike, but to steady. Her slender, perfectly cared-for fingers gently grasped Clara's elbow, preventing the collision with a firmness born of a life of actual labor.
The world seemed to freeze. The chatter died. Every eye was fixed on the unbelievable scene: Lady Seraphine de Volaire, the tormentor of commoners, touching one to help.
The tray of glasses wobbled but was saved. The servant scurried away with a terrified bow. Clara looked up, her face a mask of stunned fear, bracing for the cruel remark that always followed any interaction with the Lady.
Seraphine looked down into those wide, fearful eyes and saw not a rival, but another girl trying to survive in a world that wasn't made for her. The words that came out of her mouth were quiet, meant only for Clara, in a tone the original villainess would never have used.
"The gravel paths can be tricky," she said, her voice remarkably steady, a stark contrast to the storm inside her. "Are you alright?"
The fear in Clara's eyes melted into pure, unadulterated confusion. She blinked, as if trying to clear a mirage. "I… yes. Thank you, My Lady." The gratitude was hesitant, laced with suspicion.
A shadow fell over them. Prince Lysander stood there, his presence as palpable as a sudden drop in temperature. His expression was unreadable, a mask of princely neutrality, but his eyes—his eyes were like chips of ice, scanning Seraphine's face for the trick, the trap, the malice he knew must be there.
"Lady Seraphine," he said, his voice cool and measured, cutting through the garden's silence. "An… uncharacteristically helpful gesture."
It wasn't a compliment. It was an accusation. She could hear it in the slight pause, the careful choice of words. He was telling her he was watching.
Seraphine released Clara's arm, the point of contact feeling like it had burned her. She offered the Prince the same slight, polite nod she'd given a thousand unpleasant customers and supervisors—a gesture of hollow respect that was really a shield. "Common decency, Your Highness," she replied, her tone even. "It is a virtue, I am told, for all classes."
She didn't wait for a dismissal. Holding her head high with an effort that made her neck ache, she turned and walked away, her legs trembling so violently beneath the fine silk of her gown she was amazed they held her. She could feel his gaze, and the stares of every other noble, burning into her back like brands.
She had done it. She had ripped up the first page of the script. She had avoided the first disaster.
But as she reached the relative solitude of a rose-covered archway, leaning against the cool stone to steady herself, she realized the terrifying truth. The whispers that started up again were twice as loud as before. The glances were now openly stares, filled not with expectation, but with sharp, calculating curiosity.
Changing her fate hadn't made her safe. It had only made her unpredictable. And in the snake pit of the court, where the only constant was the ruthless game of power, unpredictable was the most dangerous thing to be.
She had swapped a pre-written doom for an uncertain one, and she had never felt more alone.