Chapter 2 — The Villainess Who Didn't Know How to Smile
The morning sun poured through the curtains in golden threads, falling over the silken carpet and the pale figure seated at the vanity.
My lady, Seraphina Aureline — the kingdom's most infamous villainess — sat with her back straight, every motion measured, every breath restrained as if the world were watching even when it wasn't.
I stood behind her with the brush, guiding it carefully through her crimson hair. It shimmered like spilled wine in the light, smooth and soft under my fingers. Yet there was a weight in that beauty — the kind that came from perfection built out of fear.
"Clara," she said suddenly, her tone calm but distant, "you stare too much."
I smiled faintly. "Forgive me, My Lady. I find beauty easier to guard when I understand it."
Her eyes flicked to mine through the mirror, faintly amused. "Is that what you're doing? Understanding me?"
"Trying to," I admitted. "You wear elegance like armor. I was wondering if it's heavy."
Her lips curved in a ghost of a smile. "You ask dangerous questions for a maid."
"I'm good at surviving dangerous things," I said softly. "It's in the job description."
For a moment, her reflection went still. The silence between us wasn't cold; it felt like standing near a locked door that might open if I just whispered the right words.
---
The rest of the morning passed in quiet rhythm. Silver teapots clinked against porcelain cups; wax seals cracked open on letters; her signature flowed across page after page with practiced grace.
But I saw her hand tremble when she opened the envelope stamped with the royal crest.
The letter's edges gleamed with gold ink — the mark of the Crown Prince.
Her face didn't change. Not much. Just the faint tightening around her eyes, the smallest dip in her shoulders.
"It's from him, isn't it?" I asked gently.
Seraphina's lashes fluttered once before she gave me a sideways glance. "You're far too observant."
"I could pretend not to be," I offered. "But then who would make sure you drink your tea before it turns cold?"
That earned me a quiet exhale — not quite a laugh, but close enough. "You're impossible, Clara."
"Efficiently impossible," I said with a grin. "I try my best."
Her gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat longer than necessary before returning to the letter. "I see."
---
When she finished reading, she folded the page slowly, almost carefully, as though her fingers feared breaking something fragile.
"Clara," she said at last, "tell me something. If you knew your loyalty would ruin you, would you still give it?"
The question caught me off guard. I set down the tea tray, choosing my words with care. "I think loyalty only ruins you if it's given to the wrong person."
Her crimson eyes met mine in the mirror. "And you think I'm the right person?"
"I think," I said, feeling the weight of it in my chest, "you're the only one here worth being loyal to."
For a long time she said nothing. Her reflection looked like a painting — beautiful, still, and full of things unsaid.
Then, so quietly I almost missed it, she murmured, "You speak as if you know me."
"I'm learning," I whispered.
Something in her gaze softened — not much, but enough to make my breath catch.
---
The day stretched into a gentle calm. By evening, the halls of the Aureline manor were lit by hundreds of small candles that painted the corridors in gold.
I found her later in the garden, sitting on a marble bench beneath the white rose trellis. Fireflies glowed softly around her like drifting stars. She didn't turn when she heard me, but her voice floated through the cool air.
"You came."
"You sound surprised," I said, stepping closer.
"I thought maids slept at night."
"I thought ladies did too," I teased.
A faint chuckle escaped her — low and quiet, like the first ripple on still water. "Touché."
I stopped beside her, folding my hands neatly in front of me. "You shouldn't be alone out here."
"And yet," she murmured, eyes fixed on the roses, "if you left, I would be."
The words hung between us, delicate and dangerous.
For a moment, I forgot to breathe. The night breeze stirred her hair, brushing against my arm, and I could feel her warmth even from a step away. The air smelled faintly of roses and rain-soaked stone.
"You always know what to say," she said quietly.
"Not always," I replied. "Sometimes I only say what I need to hear myself."
Her gaze turned toward me — sharp, searching, impossibly tender. "And what do you need to hear tonight?"
I hesitated, then said softly, "That I made the right choice coming here."
"You could have served anyone," she said. "Why me?"
"Because everyone else already decided who you are," I said. "I'd rather find out for myself."
Her lips parted as if to respond, but the words never came. Instead, she smiled — small, uncertain, but real. It transformed her face in a way that made my chest ache.
---
We sat there in silence for a long time. The moon rose higher, painting her pale skin in silver light. I caught myself watching her more than the stars.
She noticed, of course. "You're staring again."
"I know," I said. "It's a terrible habit."
"Perhaps I should forbid it," she said, tilting her head. "For propriety's sake."
"And yet," I murmured, "you don't seem very eager to stop me."
That earned me a look that was half challenge, half amusement. "You're bold for a servant."
"Boldness is efficient, My Lady," I said lightly. "Especially when protecting someone worth the trouble."
The fireflies shimmered between us. For a second, she looked away, her expression unreadable.
Then she whispered, almost to herself, "No one's ever said that to me before."
"Then I'm glad to be first," I replied.
Her hand brushed against mine — accidentally, maybe, but the touch sent a quiet tremor up my arm.
Neither of us pulled away.
The night deepened around us, the world shrinking until it was only the two of us beneath the roses — the villainess who didn't know how to smile, and the maid who couldn't stop wanting to keep her safe.
And for the first time since waking in this world, I stopped feeling lost.