Pain.
It wasn't the searing, dramatic kind from the stories. No. It was slow and cloying—like cold hands dragging her underwater while she begged for air she could no longer breathe.
Aveline Sinclair felt herself dying long before death actually came.
They'd lied to her. Every single one of them.
The man who said he loved her.
The sister who cried crocodile tears as she drove the knife in.
And the people who watched her fall from grace with smiles on their lips and blood on their hands.
When it finally ended, when her last breath was stolen by betrayal, she expected silence. Nothingness.
But fate was crueler than that.
She awoke in silk.
Her eyes fluttered open to velvet drapes and golden chandeliers. The scent of roses and incense clung to the air, too thick, too sweet. Her chest heaved—alive.
No.
This wasn't possible.
She shot upright in bed, disoriented, her limbs too light, her skin too smooth. Her fingers brushed the glass of a nearby mirror.
The reflection staring back wasn't hers.
Gone were her tired brown eyes, the soft angles of her familiar face.
In their place: icy violet eyes rimmed in kohl, lips too red, and cheekbones too sharp.
Seraphina Devereaux.
A name she knew all too well.
The villainess of a tragic tale. A woman infamous for her cruelty, her cunning, and her inevitable death at the hands of the tyrant king she was engaged to—King Lucian Duskbane.
Aveline remembered this story.
She'd read it. Lived it.
Died for it.
Now she was in it.
As the woman fated to die at the end of the king's blade.
Her hands trembled as she rose from the bed. The ornate room felt like a cage—gold-lined, suffocating. Gowns spilled from carved wardrobes. Jewels gleamed on polished shelves.
She was royalty.
She was the villain.
And she was engaged to a monster.
A knock shattered the silence.
Before she could answer, the heavy doors creaked open. A man stepped inside, tall, dressed in black, with a presence that darkened the room like an eclipse.
Lucian.
Her pulse spiked. She'd seen drawings of him—heard the whispers. But nothing prepared her for the real thing.
He wasn't just beautiful. He was terrifying.
Sharp, angular features. Eyes like midnight storms. And a mouth that looked carved for sin, not softness.
He studied her with quiet intensity.
Not like he was seeing her for the first time.
No.
Like he was seeing something he'd lost and had finally clawed back from the grave.
"Seraphina," he said, voice like velvet on steel, "You look pale."
She tried to speak, but her throat was dry. "I—I'm fine."
He moved closer, each step deliberate.
Her instincts screamed. Run. Hide. Escape.
But her body didn't listen.
Lucian stopped just before her, cupping her chin gently between his fingers. His touch was cold and possessive.
"I thought I told you," he whispered, "not to leave our bed."
Her breath caught.
This was worse than the book.
In the story, Seraphina plotted his downfall. She schemed, manipulated, tried to flee.
But she always failed.
Because Lucian didn't just kill her.
He loved her.
And in this world, love meant ruin.