The manor was quiet.
Too quiet.
Lucien had left earlier, bowing politely and saying something about "an errand," his expression unreadable. He didn't mention where he was going—of course he wouldn't—but Niana didn't care.
She'd spent two months pretending to be Niana. She'd baked, walked the gardens, smiled (mostly for Lucien), and learned enough etiquette to not embarrass herself in public. But now? Now she was bored. Curious. And curiosity in her case often led to chaos.
She started walking. Footsteps soft on polished stone, her fingers trailing over the carved walls. The manor had secrets. She could feel it—like the way certain books smelled of hidden knowledge, like how some doors whispered if you pressed against them.
A loose floorboard in the library caught her eye. It shifted ever so slightly when she stepped near it.
"Oh, come on," she muttered. "This is… so obviously a trap, isn't it?"
Of course, she pressed it.
A click. A hiss. The wall swung inward.
And there it was: a narrow, dim passage, dust motes floating in the shaft of moonlight, and the faint, almost metallic smell of… secrecy.
She crouched to enter, pulling her skirts tight, and stepped inside. The passage was low and winding, the air cooler than the manor proper, smelling faintly of old parchment and candle wax.
At the end was a small chamber. In the center, on a pedestal, lay a single book. Heavy. Bound in black leather, faintly embossed with gold symbols she didn't yet recognize.
"Ohhhhhh no," she whispered.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
The pages were familiar.
This… this is my story.
Not just any story. The stupid story I wrote five years ago during finals week because I was bored and sleep-deprived and thought I was the next great novelist.
She flipped through pages, heart racing.
There was the absurdly over-the-top title:
"The Duchess Who Accidentally Saved the World While Pretending to Be a Supporting Character"
Yep. That's me.
Then the characters.
She skimmed. Her eyes widened.
Oh god, the heroine… she's gorgeous. Of course she is, I made her that way.
And then—oh no.
She remembered.
The R18+ scenes.
…Why did I add that? Why did I write them? Oh my god. The heroine and… and the other guys… in the ballroom… in the library… at the festival…
Her face turned red. Her palm hit her forehead so hard she left a mark.
"Why, five-years-ago me?" she groaned. "Why would you do this to me??"
Every ridiculous, melodramatic, cringe-worthy romantic encounter she had ever invented was right here in front of her, immortalized in ink.
And now… she was in the body of this heroine.
And Lucien knows.
Well, he didn't know yet—but if he ever found this passage, she would die of embarrassment before any threat could touch her.
She backed out of the passage quickly, clutching the book to her chest. The wall swung shut behind her, dust settling like a curse.
Sitting on her bed, Niana buried her face in her hands.
"Five-years-ago me," she muttered, voice muffled. "You are a terrible person. And this… this is my life now?"
Somewhere in the manor, she imagined Lucien returning. Silent. Observant. Judging.
Oh god, I hope he doesn't find this.
She peeked at the book again, curiosity winning over shame. Flipping through, she realized she was holding a map to the whole story—the family's secrets, the threats, the male leads, and… the absurd romance.
Niana exhaled shakily.
"Well," she muttered. "I guess I have to survive this… and live up to my own stupid writing."
The diary in her other hand reminded her that the real tragedy—the ambush, the family's death—was still waiting. But for now… at least she knew the story. And she could maybe, just maybe, bend it to her advantage.
…Except the book gave her one final pause. A note scribbled in her own handwriting:
"She survives… only if she knows the truth."
Niana blinked. "…Oh. Shit."
---
Niana sat on the edge of her bed, the black-bound book resting on her lap like it weighed a thousand sins.
So.
This was the world she was in.
Not a dream. Not a coincidence. Not some half-baked illusion brought on by stress and caffeine.
This was the story she wrote five years ago—back when she thought tragedy was romantic, villains were hot, and consequences were optional.
She closed her eyes and began to organize it, the way she always did before writing an outline.
The world is called Elyndor.
A continent sustained by balance—between kingdoms, between power, between something humans were never meant to touch. And at the center of that balance was the Divine Word. A language older than gods, written not in sound but in meaning. The kind of truth that could rewrite fate itself.
Only one family could read it.
The House of Valeris.
Of course I made myself important.
The Valeris weren't rulers. They weren't conquerors. They were Keepers—messengers between the Divine Word and the world. They recorded prophecies. They sealed calamities. They never used the Word for themselves.
Which was why they were hunted.
She swallowed.
The story's heroine—the real one—hadn't appeared yet. Because everything that was happening now was before the story even began. The prequel she never bothered to flesh out. The "tragic backstory" everyone glossed over.
And the male leads…
She grimaced.
First: Kael Veridan.
The so-called hero. Crown Prince of the Central Kingdom. Polite, controlled, righteous to a fault. The man destined to "save the world." The only one who knew the truth about the Divine Word—and about the butler.
Kael was the one who ordered it.
Second: Aurelian Thorne.
A wandering knight with a smile too easy and eyes too sharp. Loyal to no crown, devoted only to the heroine. The one who chose love over fate. The one readers cried over when he died in the bad ending.
Third—later—
She didn't even want to think about the third yet.
Niana exhaled slowly and looked down at the page she had been avoiding.
Lucien.
Not a male lead.
Not a love interest.
An antagonist.
Her fingers tightened.
She remembered now. Clear as day. She'd written him as a quiet butler assigned to the heroine's care after the Valeris massacre. Polite. Loyal. Impeccable.
An assassin.
Tasked with watching her.
Testing her.
And if she ever deviated too far from the path—
Killing her.
"…You absolute idiot," Niana whispered to her past self.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Lucien.
The same Lucien who bowed every morning.
The same Lucien who brought her dessert at the exact temperature she liked.
The same Lucien who made moon-cream torte so perfectly caramelized that she once joked it could end wars.
The best dessert in the world, she had said.
And he had only bowed, eyes lowered, as if that praise meant nothing.
Her stomach twisted.
She stared at the book again.
Is that why he leaves at night?
Not for errands.
Not for the manor.
To report.
To Kael.
To tell the hero of the world whether she was still a threat.
Her hand trembled.
"I didn't mess up yet," she whispered. "I haven't changed anything. I'm just… living."
But that was the problem, wasn't it?
In the original story, she didn't live.
This Niana smiled.
This Niana laughed at stupid things.
This Niana asked for dessert.
This Niana was wrong.
She leaned back against the bed, staring at the ceiling, her heart pounding too fast.
"How am I supposed to look at you now?" she murmured.
Lucien's face rose unbidden in her mind—calm, composed, frustratingly gentle.
If he was watching her…
If he was waiting…
Then every kindness meant something else.
Every bow.
Every step behind her.
Every night he disappeared into the dark.
Niana closed the book slowly.
"…I really shouldn't have made you so good at baking," she muttered weakly.
Outside her door, the manor remained quiet.
But for the first time since she arrived in this world, Niana understood one terrifying truth:
She wasn't just trying to survive the story.
She was living under the knife of someone who hadn't decided yet whether she deserved to live.