The moment Niana realized the truth—Lucien wasn't just a polite butler, he was an assassin assigned to monitor her—her brain short-circuited.
Not dramatically. Not with shouts or screaming.
No, that would be dangerous.
No, her body betrayed her in far worse ways.
Every time she looked at him now, her smile went… wrong.
Too tight. Too forced. Too wide. And every word she said came out stilted, clipped, and a little too polite.
"Mistress… your papers from the trade council," Lucien said, bowing slightly as always.
"Oh! Thank you, Lucien," Niana said, and oh god why did that sound like I'm auditioning for a bad drama?
He tilted his head slightly, just enough to notice she was off—but he didn't comment. He never commented. That made it worse. Was he analyzing me like prey?
Her stomach twisted. Every interaction became a silent game of "Don't slip. Don't die."
The next day, she avoided him like the plague.
At breakfast, she claimed she was busy.
At lunch, she "accidentally" worked late in her office.
In the corridors, she zigzagged around corners to dodge him entirely.
But the manor wasn't small. And Lucien… was everywhere.
She nearly tripped over him in the library. Twice.
Once, she leaned against a bookshelf, hoping he didn't see her, and he silently handed her a stack of letters. She jumped. He raised a brow. She shrieked internally.
I'm going to die, aren't I?
---
A week later, in the quiet of her office, Lucien quietly entered, and placed a cream-and-gold envelope on her desk.
"Invitation," he said simply.
Niana froze. Her heart dropped.
She opened it.
The Grand Awakening Ball.
The invitation was formal, embossed with gold filigree, and dripping with pomp. She read the details slowly.
Her stomach sank.
"…Oh no," she muttered.
Her mind flashed. She remembered now. This ball wasn't for fun. This was the ball where Kael Veridan, the so-called hero, would be formally announced to the court.
And she… had to be there.
"I… I can't go," she said immediately, trying to hide the panic. "I don't… I don't know etiquette! I don't dance! I… I'll embarrass the family!"
Lucien's expression didn't change. Not even a twitch.
"You must attend, Mistress," he said softly, almost mournfully.
"I—what? Why?!"
He folded his hands. "It is your duty as a Duchess and a Keeper of the Divine Word. Your attendance is… required."
Niana groaned, flopping into her chair. "But… I—how can I possibly—one week?! One week, Lucien! One week and you're telling me to suddenly become… I don't know… socially competent?"
He inclined his head. Calm, precise.
"I will personally instruct you, Mistress."
Niana blinked. "…Oh no. You are serious."
He nodded.
She buried her face in her hands. "This is… impossible. I cannot even imagine—"
Lucien's voice was quiet but firm. "Impossible is not a concept for the daughter of the House of Valeris."
Her hands froze. "…Ohhh, that's… terrifying. You're terrifying. You—don't smile, Lucien, please don't smile at me, I can't handle your composure!"
He raised an eyebrow, faintly amused, though he never smiled properly. "Mistress?"
"I mean… if you smile, I'll just… die. Internally."
He didn't reply. He simply turned and left. Calm, collected, deadly as ever.
Niana peeked from her hands at the doorway. "…And that's it. That's my life now. I… I'm going to die at a ball because I don't know how to… anything. And I have one week to learn…"
She stared at the invitation again. Gold filigree mocking her.
"…I guess… time to learn everything," she muttered, glaring at the envelope.
The Grand Awakening Ball was looming.
And Lucien—her assassin-butler—would be her teacher, bodyguard, and personal nightmare-in-residence all at once.
Niana groaned. "…This is going to be a disaster. I… can't believe I'm alive to see it happen."
---
The first morning of training, Niana woke up with a sense of foreboding.
Her hair was wild, her nightgown slightly wrinkled, and the morning sun felt like a spotlight. She had barely eaten breakfast because her stomach kept reminding her that this is not my world, this is not my world, this is not my world.
And then, as if summoned by her panic, Lucien appeared in the doorway.
"Good morning, Mistress," he said, voice smooth as silk, crisp as steel. "I trust you are prepared for your first lesson."
Niana blinked. "…I'm… ready, I think. Maybe. I might die."
"I will ensure you do not," Lucien replied, expression perfectly neutral. "…Unless you insist upon it."
Niana's hands shot up. "No! I insist upon surviving, not dying. Survival first, yes?"
He nodded once. "Very well. Let us begin."
Lesson One – Smiling Like a Weapon
Lucien guided her to a small practice room with a full-length mirror.
"Observe," he said, standing behind her. "A smile is not merely a display of emotion. It is a tool. A shield. A weapon."
Niana tilted her head. "A… weapon? You mean like a sword?"
"Yes. But subtler," he replied. "It can disarm, distract, or manipulate. Watch carefully."
He smiled. A very faint, almost imperceptible curve of his lips. Not warm. Not teasing. But perfect.
Niana's stomach sank. "…I think my heart just stopped. Teach me, master of deadly smiles."
He corrected her posture. "Stand taller. Shoulders back. Relax your jaw slightly. Now, smile."
Niana forced a grin. It looked more like a grimace.
"Do not… grimace," Lucien said dryly. "That is the face of someone about to run screaming from a dinner party. Not the face of a Duchess."
"…It's harder than it looks," Niana muttered, cheeks burning.
"It requires practice. Repeat."
Half an hour later, her smile was still awkward. Slightly twisted. Her eyes betrayed panic.
"Better," Lucien said. "But you must make them believe it is effortless. Smile as if you know exactly what everyone wants, even if you have no clue yourself."
Niana collapsed into a chair. "I feel… dangerous already."
Lucien's eyebrow twitched ever so slightly. "You are dangerous when untrained. That is why I am here."
Lesson Two – Conversing Without Lying… Or Revealing Too Much
After a brief lunch (moon-cream torte, naturally), Lucien led her to a study with chairs facing each other.
"Next lesson: how to speak without revealing more than necessary," he said, sitting across from her.
"Okay… but isn't that… just lying?" Niana asked.
"Not lying," he corrected, "merely… selective truth-telling."
He picked up a quill, gesturing at her. "Scenario: a noble asks about your recent excursion. You went into the garden by the lake. You must answer without admitting you were chasing a suspicious shadow, and without appearing rude."
Niana groaned. "I… okay… maybe… 'I spent the morning enjoying the gardens.'"
Lucien nodded. "Acceptable. Neutral. Safe. Now add… charm."
Niana blinked. "…Charm? Do I… wink? Smile? Bow dramatically?"
"Do none of those things," he said flatly. "…Charm is subtle. Confident. Controlled. Unpredictable, but gentle. You are the Duchess, Mistress, not a circus act."
She tried again. "…I… I spent the morning enjoying the gardens, as is proper?"
"Better. But remember: your words must feel like a gift, not a weapon—yet still defend you if threatened."
Niana rubbed her temples. "This is… exhausting. Why didn't I just die in my old story?"
Lucien said nothing. He simply corrected the tilt of her chin.
Lesson Three – Table Etiquette
After several hours of grimace-smile practice and conversation drills, they moved to the dining hall.
"Sit properly," Lucien instructed. "…And stop tapping the table with your fingers. You are a Duchess, Mistress, not a child with ants in her pants."
Niana muttered, "I wish I were just a child with ants in her pants."
"Do not wish," he replied. "Observe and imitate. Knife in the right hand. Fork in the left. Napkin on lap. Bread to the side. Do not… gnaw it."
"…I mean… who gnaws bread?"
"Some do. You must be better than some."
Hours passed. By the end, she had mastered roughly 70% of table rules without accidentally stabbing herself—or someone else.
Lesson Four – Dancing Practice (Intimate Version)
Finally… dancing.
Lucien led her to the ballroom. Candlelight flickered off the polished floor. The mirrors reflected them perfectly.
"Step lightly," he instructed. "Do not drag your feet. Posture straight. Chin slightly raised. Do not look… panicked."
Niana's inner monologue:
Do not panic. Do not panic. He's not going to kill me if I step on his toes. Wait—he will if I step on his toes.
They moved through basic steps slowly. One… two… turn… pause.
"Closer," he said simply.
"…Closer?" Niana's eyes widened.
"Yes. Proper hold. Gentle. Balanced. Not… frightening."
Her heart pounded. Every brush of his hand against hers felt electric, and she nearly tripped.
"Step carefully," Lucien said, voice low and steady, but his fingers pressed slightly firmer against hers, guiding. "Balance yourself on me. Do not tense."
Niana's mind screamed:
Oh god. He's guiding me. He's so close. He's warm. Why am I panicking?
One slow rotation, his hand on her waist, hers lightly resting on his shoulder. The intimacy made her blush furiously.
"Good," he said softly. "…Mistress, you are improving."
Niana tried to look composed. "…I… uh… thank you?"
He simply inclined his head, guiding her into the next step.
And she realized… maybe surviving this ball wasn't impossible after all.
But… surviving Lucien being this close? That was going to be way harder.