"A-ah, er …" Whatever excuse I'd planned died on my tongue—better silence than another slipup. I have to behave impeccably. If anyone notices I'm acting "off," they'll start asking why Zion Cartridge—the novel's infamous villain—ever married me in the first place.
Across the table Zion gave a chilly snort. "Speak."
I swallowed, shook my head, and slid into a chair as far from him as possible. Even staring at the velvet drapes couldn't block the weight of his gaze; it pressed against my cheekbones like cold iron.
When I finally looked at the feast spread before us, my nerves spiked again. Two people, yet the long dining table groaned beneath platters as if hosting a town fiesta: braised short ribs, golden roast chicken, bowls of steaming soup, towers of delicate pastries. A jeweled banquet for a pair of uneasy strangers.
"Is the food not to your liking, Madam?" Butler Enrod's voice made me jump. I hadn't noticed him step up behind Zion's chair—spine ramrod-straight, worry creasing his brow, while Zion kept watching me with that unreadable, frost-rimmed expression.
I managed a tiny shake of my head; I still didn't know the butler's first name. "No, it's fine."
"Then please eat, Madam," he urged, sounding genuinely anxious.
I dipped my chin and forced a smile, dropping my gaze to the plate. The aromas were heavenly, but one item spelled disaster: a bowl piled high with crisp, glistening chicken drumsticks. Delicious, yes—but I'm violently allergic to poultry. Even one bite could send my throat closing like a clenched fist.
"Madam, you don't seem eager to try the drumsticks," Enrod noted gently.
I exhaled through my nose, pasted on a polite grin, and looked up. Thank goodness the villain himself was momentarily absorbed in carving beef. "Ah—I'm allergic to chicken," I admitted.
The butler's eyes widened; Zion's fork paused midway to his mouth. A tremor of dread flickered through me. I hadn't meant to create drama—I was simply telling the truth.
"What?" I muttered under my breath, bracing for scolding.
"Madam, you should have informed me earlier," Enrod scolded himself more than me. He snapped a command to the maid nearest us, who instantly lifted the bowl of drumsticks.
Curiosity pricked me. "Where will you take those?"
The maids glanced first at the butler, then at Zion, as though requesting permission to respond. I shifted my focus to the two men.
"Will you throw them away?" I asked, incredulous.
Enrod opened his mouth, but Zion answered first—voice cold, decisive. "Yes. They're wasted if you can't eat them."
My opinion of him plummeted. Handsome or not, ordering good food tossed out because I couldn't taste it? Unforgivable. "Why not give them to the staff instead of wasting them?" I couldn't bite back the question.
Gasps rippled around us. The butler's face blanched. Zion's brows drew together, ice-blue eyes sharpening.
"Ah, Madam …" Enrod began, clearly desperate to avert a storm.
I slammed my spoon and fork onto the porcelain plate. "Don't you know wasting food sets a terrible example?" The rebuke shot out harsher than intended.
Zion's reply was a single, frigid syllable: "And?"
My jaw dropped. "And?—Excuse me?" Heat surged up my neck. No wonder readers hated this man; he embodied the ruthless tyrant the novel promised.
"I don't care what point you're trying to make," he continued, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "In case you've forgotten, Miss, we're married in name only."
He rose, clearly intent on leaving. Fury spiked in my chest. "For your information, Mister Cartridge," I said, pushing to my feet, "even a marriage 'in name only' is still legal. I am your wife, which means I do have a right to speak."
He didn't bother turning. The blatant dismissal lit a fuse in my gut. Eyes darting for something harmless yet satisfying to throw, I spotted my fluffy bunny-fur slipper. Light, unlikely to kill him—perfect. With a sharp flick, I hurled it at his retreating back.
The slipper struck just below his nape and plopped to the floor. A tiny smile stole across my face.
Collective gasps filled the hall. The butler stared, speechless. Zion halted mid-step, spine stiff. He pivoted slowly—eyes glinting storm-gray now, predatory.
A shiver crawled down my arms. One wrong move and the notorious villain could erase me from existence.
"Madam!" Enrod's voice wobbled with panic.
I drew a breath. "Zion Cartridge, I hate you!" And, high on adrenaline, I whirled and bolted from the dining room, heart pounding up the grand staircase.
In my bedroom I slammed the door, locked it, then pressed an ear against the wood. Silence. No thundering footsteps, no hushed plotting. Only the faint tick of an ornate clock. My courage evaporated; a heavy ache settled in its place.
How did I end up in this novel's world, wearing the face—and legal identity—of the villain's doomed wife? Same features as mine, sure, but slimmer, fairer, cheeks still baby-soft where mine had thinned out years ago.
"I'm supposed to be dead," I whispered to the empty room, voice breaking. "How is any of this real?"
Memories of my real parents flooded in—Mom rushing from surgery shifts to bring me arroz caldo, Dad surprising me with secondhand books he knew I'd love. They worked endlessly yet always spared time for me. And I never repaid their devotion. I died before I could even say a proper thank-you.
Tears brimmed, slid hot down my cheeks. I miss you, Ma. I miss you, Pa. What am I supposed to do in this world without you?
Grief swelled until the silence felt suffocating. Gone was the bravado that had let me fling a slipper at Zion Cartridge. All that remained was a lost girl stranded in a story, grasping for a path that wouldn't end in the same tragic footnote the anonymous author had written for Zion's wife.
Yet somewhere beneath the sorrow stirred a tiny ember of resolve: if fate handed me a second life—even inside a villain's marriage—I owed it to myself, and to my parents back home, to survive, to rewrite the ending the novel never gave me.
But first, I wiped my tears on the sleeve of my nightshirt. Tomorrow I'd need a better plan than airborne slippers—and a stronger understanding of every player in My Lily. Because if I was trapped inside fiction, I refused to remain a disposable side character.
And Zion Cartridge—cold, imperious, wasteful Zion—would just have to learn that his "wife in name only" had a name, a spine, and absolutely no intention of letting perfectly good chicken—or her own future—go to waste.