Elara Voss plummeted through the storm-lashed night, her ex-husband's hands shoving her hard over the penthouse balcony. Rain stung her eyes, wind howling like a banshee as the city lights blurred into a deadly kaleidoscope below. That bastard! After all the fake smiles and empty beds, this is how it ends? Her scream ripped from her throat, raw and furious. "You fucking monster—"
She waited for the crash.
It never came.
Instead, a sharp pain stabbed her feet—heels too tight, like someone had stuffed her into torture devices. Heavy silk dragged at her legs. Low murmurs filled the air, hundreds of voices whispering in awe. Elara's eyes snapped open.
She stood in the middle of a long stone aisle inside a massive gothic cathedral. Crimson light poured through tall stained-glass windows, painting everything in blood-red hues. Rows of nobles in extravagant robes stared at her, some with eyes that glowed faintly in the shadows. A thick red carpet led straight to an altar draped in black velvet and flickering candles.
What the fuck is this?
Her heart slammed against her ribs. One second she was dying, the next she was… here? Dressed like a gothic princess in a corset that squeezed her boobs half to death and a gown heavy enough to sink a ship.
A glowing blue panel popped up in front of her eyes, like a video game HUD:
[Welcome, Player!
You have transmigrated into the otome game "Demon's Eternal Bride."
Current Character: Elara Voss – The Villainess.
Route: Bad End (Execution by the Demonic Prince).
Objective: Survive… or Game Over forever.]
Elara blinked. Then blinked again. "No fucking way," she muttered. She pinched her arm—hard. Ow. Shit. Still here. The pinch hurt, the corset hurt, the stupid veil tickling her nose hurt. This wasn't a dream.
Okay, calm down. I'm inside a game. A game I actually played. Memories rushed back—late nights binge-gaming to escape her awful marriage"Demon's Eternal Bride," cursing the villainess for being such a psycho, laughing at how she always died horribly. And now she was that psycho.
Her legs kept moving forward down the aisle, like the body knew what to do even if her brain was screaming abort mission. Nobles bowed slightly as she passed. She caught snippets of whispers: "The human duchess…" "Forced alliance…" "Poor girl won't last a month…"
Human duchess? Right—villainess Elara Voss, capable of powerful illusion magic, noble blood, but still human in a world where demons ruled the shadows.
Elara's stomach lurched." Oh, hell no am I really doing this. I was just yeeted off a balcony by that cheating prick of an ex, and now I'm in some pixelated nightmare?"She nearly tripped on the hem of her dress, cursing under her breath. "Shit, fuck, damn—this can't be real. Pinch me, universe, you sadistic bitch." The words slipped out louder than intended, and a nearby noblewoman gasped, clutching her pearls like Elara had just summoned Satan himself.
Unladylike? Screw that—where's the reset button? Her heart hammered as she scanned the crowd. Powers? The system mentioned something about nobles having them—wait, did that lady's eyes just glow? Elara flexed her fingers experimentally, feeling a faint tingle, like static electricity on steroids. Illusion magic? Empathy bursts? Whatever it was, it hummed under her skin, unfamiliar and wild. Great, now I'm a knockoff wizard in a corset that's squeezing my tits like a vice. 21st century me would laugh... if I wasn't about to puke.
The altar loomed closer, and Elara lifted her gaze, veil whispering against her cheeks. Her blood turned to ice.
The man standing there—tall, broad-shouldered, with midnight-black hair swept back and eyes like molten crimson rubies—was him. Her ex-husband. Same chiseled jaw that had once made her weak, same predatory smirk curling his lips like he owned the fucking world. Subtle horns shadowed under his crown, barely visible, but enough to scream demon. Prince Draven.
Hate exploded in her chest, a wildfire scorching everything else. That face. That goddamn face—the one that shoved me to my death! Flashbacks hit like punches: Their arranged marriage in the real world, a corporate merger disguised as vows. Public galas with forced smiles, private nights as strangers in a king-sized bed. Intimacy? Rare and robotic, just to pop out an heir for his empire. Until that final fight—him accusing her of betrayal, eyes cold as steel, hands slamming her over the edge. "You fucking killed me!" she hissed under her breath, the words bubbling up like venom. The system pinged again:
[Affection Meter: -10%. Warning: Hostility Detected. Keep it up, and trigger an early Game Over!]
Affection? With that devil? I'd rather eat glass. But her body betrayed her, legs carrying her to him like a puppet on strings. The priest—or whatever this robed creep was—droned on in some archaic tongue, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Draven's gaze locked on hers, piercing, unreadable. His aura hit her like a wave—bewitching, dark, pulling at her despite the rage. No. Fuck no. He's not getting in my head again.
"Do you, Lady Elara Voss, take His Royal Highness Prince Draven as your lawful husband, in alliance, duty, and blood?"
Silence stretched. Elara opened her mouth to scream Hell no!—to refuse, to run, to burn the whole script down.
But her lips moved on their own.
"I… do."
The words slipped out smooth and clear, like someone else had hijacked her voice.
Her eyes went wide. What the fuck?! She tried to take it back, tried to shout No, take it back!, but her mouth stayed shut, lips curved in a perfect serene smile. Inside, she was screaming. System, you traitorous piece of shit!
The system pinged cheerfully:
[Forced Event Complete: Wedding Vows Accepted.
New Quest: Survive the Wedding Night.
Tip: The body remembers its role… even if you don't.]
Draven's crimson eyes locked on hers. For a split second, something flickered in them—curiosity? Amusement? He slid a heavy ruby ring onto her finger. It burned cold against her skin, like it was alive.
The officiant continued. Draven's turn. His voice was low, smooth, dangerous—like velvet wrapped around a blade. "I take you as wife… for alliance, not affection."
The crowd erupted in applause. Flower petals (black roses?) rained from the ceiling. Elara stood frozen, mind racing.
There's no escape, is there? The game won't let me break the script.
Fine. If she couldn't run, she'd fight.
New plan formed, sharp and vicious: I'll kill him first. Then I'll live—really live. Wealth, freedom, a whole harem of beautiful men who treat me like a queen. This time, I write my own ending.
A dark smile tugged at her lips—unseen under the veil.
The carriage ride to the palace was silent torture. Draven sat across from her, legs stretched out, watching her like a predator studying prey. The city outside was all towering spires, glowing runes, and shadows that moved on their own. No cars, no neon lights—just torches and magic.
Elara shifted, the corset digging in. "Fucking hell," she muttered. "Who invented these death traps? I can't breathe."
Draven's brow arched slightly—the first real reaction. "Such language from a duchess."
"Yeah, well, where I come from, women say whatever the fuck they want." She glared at him. "Deal with it."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smirk.
The palace was a fortress of black stone and crimson banners. Guards with subtle fangs or tails bowed as they passed. Elara's new illusion magic tingled under her skin, ready to spark.
Their bridal chamber was massive—four-poster bed big enough for a orgy, silk sheets, roaring fireplace with blue flames. The door clicked shut behind them. Alone.
Draven removed his cloak, revealing a fitted black tunic that hugged every damn muscle. He turned to her, voice calm and cold. "Consummation is expected."
Elara backed up a step. "Over my dead body."
He stepped closer, towering, heat radiating from him. In one smooth move, he pinned her gently but firmly against the bedpost. His hand lifted, fingers brushing her throat—slow, deliberate. Sexual tension crackled like lightning.
"Tell me, wife," he murmured, face inches from hers, crimson eyes glowing faintly. "What is this 'love' humans speak of? If I split open your skull…" His thumb traced her jaw. "…would I find it there? Or if I tore open your heart…" His palm slid lower, resting over her racing heartbeat, sending fire through her veins. "…would it bleed love for me?"
Elara's breath hitched—hate and unwanted desire twisting together. Bastard. Same tricks as before.
Before she could snap back, the chamber doors burst open.
A young woman in flowing white robes rushed in, golden hair glowing with holy light, tears streaming down her perfect face. The heroine—Liora.
"Your Highness!" she cried. "She's dangerous! She'll ruin you—I saw it in a vision!"
Draven didn't move, his hand still on Elara's chest. His expression stayed ice-cold.
The system flashed red:
[Death Flag #2 Triggered!
Heroine Intervention – Treason Accusation Incoming.
Survive… or Game Over starts now.]
Elara's eyes narrowed. Bring it, bitch.
Whatever came next, she wasn't going down without a fight.