Astelle deliberately decided to have a normal morning.
Not Astelle Arclaire's normal, the kind that involved a servant flinching at the sound of a door closing, but normal in the way her old life had been normal: a routine, a breath, a moment where the world wasn't an elaborate trap made of silk and politics.
She walked into the breakfast room as if she belonged there.
Which, unfortunately, she did.
Sunlight spilled through tall windows onto a table set with porcelain so thin it looked like it could be cut. Silverware gleamed. A vase of pale flowers sat in the center, fresh, arranged with the kind of care that implied someone's entire job was to make beauty look effortless.
Cassian was already seated.
Of course he was.
He sat with his back straight, one glove removed, a cup of tea steaming near his hand, a stack of papers placed to his right as if breakfast was a brief intermission between wars. He looked up when she entered, not surprised, not welcoming, simply registering her presence, as if it were a report being delivered.
Astelle slid into the opposite chair with practiced composure.
The chair was too large. The cushion is too soft. Everything in this estate was designed to cradle power.
A maid appeared as if summoned by the sound of her breathing. "Milady, would you prefer—"
"Tea," Astelle said quickly. She paused, then added, because she was trying to be normal. "Please."
The maid froze for half a heartbeat, as if she'd never heard those two words in that order.
Then she bowed so fast it was almost a flinch. "Yes, milady."
Astelle watched her retreat and felt a prick of guilt she didn't know how to put down.
Cassian took a sip of tea. His eyes stayed on Astelle the whole time.
"You said please," he observed.
Astelle stared. "Is that illegal here?"
"It is unprecedented," Cassian replied, tone mild.
"I'm trying something new."
Cassian's gaze drifted, briefly, toward the doorway where the maid had gone. "The staff will assume you are planning something."
Astelle's eyebrows rose. "Because I asked for tea politely?"
"Because kindness from Astelle Arclaire is suspicious," Cassian said.
Astelle opened her mouth, then closed it. Annoyingly, he wasn't wrong.
A maid returned and poured tea with hands that moved too carefully. Another placed a plate in front of Astelle, fresh bread, honey, sliced fruit glistening with syrup, a pastry dusted in sugar so fine it looked like snowfall.
Astelle stared at it.
In her old life, breakfast had been whatever she could eat one-handed while scrolling on her phone. Coffee. A protein bar. An apple if she was feeling ambitious. Even when she'd had money, she'd eaten like someone who didn't have time to taste.
Here, the food looked like it belonged in a painting.
She took a bite of the pastry.
It was warm.
It melted.
For a moment, just one, she forgot that she was in danger. Her shoulders eased. Her chest loosened. A color flickered in her vision like a soft wash of paint.
Cassian's gaze sharpened.
Astelle blinked and, in the reflection of the polished teapot, caught her own eyes.
Not gray.
Not red.
A muted, clear green, like sea glass held up to light.
She went still.
The maid pouring tea noticed too. Her hand faltered, just slightly, before she steadied it.
Another maid's eyes widened.
They didn't ask.
They didn't dare.
But their glances slid between Astelle's face and her eyes like careful birds.
Cassian said nothing.
He simply watched, as though this new color was another piece of evidence.
Astelle took another bite to keep her hands from fidgeting.
The color sea-glass green swirled in her mind as she grappled with her emotions.
It wasn't merely fear and anger that coursed through her, there was something else.
It felt akin to contentment, but that word felt too grand for what she experienced. Instead, it was a deeper sensation, more subtle yet profound.
It was relief, the kind that washed over you like cool water when you finally took a breath, free from the suffocating weight of being hunted.
Cassian's voice cut gently through the quiet.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Astelle's eyes flicked up. "Am I not allowed to enjoy food in this house?"
"You are allowed," Cassian said, then took another sip of tea. "I am simply observing."
"Stop observing."
"I will not."
Astelle glared. The green trembled at the edges.
Cassian's mouth curved faintly, as if pleased he'd managed to shake her out of calm.
The maid serving Astelle's plate retreated a step, eyes lowered again, as if bracing for a thrown dish.
Astelle noticed and froze.
Right. Reputation.
She forced her grip on the fork to loosen.
The sea-glass green steadied again.
Cassian's gaze dipped to her eyes for a heartbeat.
Then he returned to his papers as if nothing had happened.
Astelle ate in stubborn silence for several minutes, savoring the absurdity of luxury, fresh fruit that tasted like summer, bread that tore apart with steam, and honey that clung sweetly to her tongue.
It was indulgent.
It was dangerous.
It was—
She swallowed and realized she was smiling.
Just slightly.
Not the sharp, superior curve that Astelle Arclaire would have worn like a blade.
Something softer.
The green in her eyes brightened.
Across the room, beyond the archway, she heard a whisper, too quiet for her to catch fully, but enough to register as staff voices.
She couldn't hear words.
But she could hear the tone.
Amazed.
Uncertain.
Almost… relieved.
Cassian set down his cup.
"So," he said, a little too casually, "in this past life of yours, were you poor?"
Astelle choked on her tea.
It was not a delicate cough. It was a very undignified, very human sputter.
Cassian didn't move to help her. He waited with calm patience like a man watching a predictable experiment.
Astelle wiped her mouth with a napkin, cheeks burning. "Excuse me?"
"You stare at the table as if it might vanish," Cassian said. "You eat as if the food will be confiscated. You react to luxury like it is unfamiliar."
Astelle's eyes flared red at the edges immediately.
"I was not poor," she snapped.
Cassian's eyebrows lifted by a fraction. "Were you not?"
"No."
He leaned back slightly. "Then you were… comfortable?"
"I was well off," Astelle said, offended enough that the red in her irises deepened. "Very well off. I had money. I had resources. I had—"
Cassian's gaze swept over her, calm and assessing. "And yet you behave like someone who has never had servants."
Astelle's jaw tightened. "Because I didn't."
Cassian's mouth twitched.
"So," he said, voice too smooth, "you were wealthy but served yourself."
"Yes."
"And you consider that well off."
Astelle's eyes reddened more, vivid now. "In my world, people don't— We don't just— That's not the point."
Cassian watched the color deepen as if it amused him.
"You are offended," he noted.
"I am not—" Astelle caught herself, because that lie wasn't surviving the evidence currently burning in her eyes. "I am offended."
Cassian nodded once, pleased. "Good."
"That is not good!"
"Anger suits you," Cassian said. "It is the Astelle the court recognizes."
Astelle's glare sharpened so hard it could have cut. "Stop saying that."
Cassian's faint smile returned. "No."
Astelle's hand twitched toward the nearest object on the table, a spoon, a pastry fork, a piece of bread—
She froze.
Across the room, a maid's shoulders rose in quiet panic. Another subtly shifted as if preparing to catch something.
Astelle's throat tightened.
She slowly, very deliberately, set both hands flat on the table.
The red in her eyes flickered.
Not extinguished.
But controlled.
Cassian's gaze slid past her, toward the servants, then back.
He didn't say a word.
But the corner of his mouth lifted as if he'd just witnessed a successful demonstration.
Astelle narrowed her eyes. "Are you enjoying this?"
"I enjoy data," Cassian replied.
"I am not data."
Cassian's eyes held hers. "You are in my house."
There it was again.
Not anger.
Not warmth.
Just a statement of reality like a lock clicking shut.
Astelle exhaled sharply through her nose. "I hate you."
Cassian lifted his cup again. "No, you don't."
Astelle's eyes flared bright red.
Cassian drank as if it were a pleasant morning.
Later, when the meal ended, Astelle decided she would not be defeated by a breakfast table.
If she were trapped in a duchess's life, then she would at least experience the benefits.
She allowed the maids to lead her through the manor as if she were not secretly an imposter wearing a villainess's face. They moved with careful efficiency, speaking softly, never meeting her eyes for long.
But they weren't trembling the way Edith had trembled yesterday.
They were cautious.
Hopeful, in the way people become hopeful when the weather changes.
Astelle felt that hope and didn't know what to do with it.
They brought her to a bathing room that looked like a private temple.
Steam curled from a marble tub large enough to drown an entire sense of reality. The air smelled of lavender and citrus. A maid tested the water with the back of her hand and nodded.
"Milady prefers it warm," she murmured to another maid.
Astelle blinked. Astelle preferred…
No. The body remembered.
They knew.
Astelle let them unpin her hair, white strands sliding down like silk. They removed jewelry with reverent care. They didn't bruise her with rough hands. They didn't flinch.
When she stepped into the bath, heat wrapped around her like forgiveness she didn't deserve.
She sank slowly, letting water rise to her shoulders.
For the first time since waking, she let her mind go quiet.
No strategy.
No looming execution.
No pages turning beneath her feet.
Just warmth.
Her eyes, reflected in the softly rippling water, shifted again.
Not red.
Not gray.
That same sea-glass green returned, clearer now.
A maid noticed while rinsing soap from her shoulders. Her fingers paused.
Then, it continued very gently.
The maid's lips parted as if she wanted to speak.
She didn't.
But when Astelle's gaze drifted away, the maids exchanged quick glances, small, careful signals.
Astelle couldn't hear them through the steam and the water.
But the bath chamber carried sound in soft echoes, and somewhere beyond the screen, faint whispers passed like feathers.
"Her eyes…"
"They're not red."
"She hasn't thrown anything."
"She didn't strike anyone."
"Milady hasn't been… ruthless."
"Hush."
"She thanked me earlier."
"That's impossible."
"Maybe—maybe she's ill."
"Don't say that."
"She's… calm."
"Don't let her hear you."
Astelle leaned back, unaware, letting her shoulders loosen.
In the warm water, even her paranoia dulled.
Maybe I can do this.
Maybe I can live.
She closed her eyes and let the maids wash her hair, their hands gentler than she expected, their movements careful but no longer trembling.
It was the most luxurious thing she'd ever experienced.
And the most unsettling.
Because it was also proof of what she'd taken.
This life was not hers.
But she was living in it anyway.
When she emerged, wrapped in robes that smelled of clean linen and expensive herbs, she was given tea and delicate sweets. A tray of small cakes, fruit glazed like jewels, pastries filled with cream.
Astelle took a bite and nearly melted into the chair.
She had to admit it.
Being a duchess was absurdly comfortable.
She could see why the original Astelle never wanted to give it up.
Luxury dulled edges.
It softened pride into entitlement. Turned isolation into privacy. Turned control into comfort.
If this had been hers from birth, rooms this vast, meals this rich, people who obeyed before she finished speaking.
Would she have surrendered it easily?
Astelle rested her fingers lightly on the chair's arm.
In the novel, Astelle Arclaire had not been given much explanation.
She had been cruel.
Petty.
Vindictive.
Possessive.
But never explored.
The narrative had not lingered on her childhood. It had not asked why. It had simply needed her sharp enough to make Seraphina shine.
And that had been enough.
Astelle's gaze drifted to the window.
But that's not enough when you're the one wearing her skin.
What kind of girl grew into the villainess described in those pages?
Perhaps her parents had been distant.
The Duke and Duchess Arclaire, always negotiating, always traveling, always valuing the estate over affection. The book had mentioned political pressure. High expectations.
Praise may have been conditional.
Or rare.
She tried to recall whether the novel had ever described her mother.
It hadn't.
That omission felt heavier now.
There had been mention of a sibling.
An elder brother.
The heir.
One passing sentence: "The Arclaire heir maintained composure unlike his volatile sister."
Volatile.
The book's favorite word for her.
Astelle leaned back slowly.
What if he had been perfect?
Composed.
Admired.
Prepared.
And she had been… surplus.
Too emotional.
Too visible.
Too inconvenient.
Would that make someone sharp?
Would that make someone grasp for power in the only ways available?
She imagined a young Astelle in oversized gowns, standing beside a brother groomed for succession. Smiling because she was told to. Watching because she was not chosen.
It would be easy, Astelle realized, to build a tragic scaffolding beneath the villainess.
Too easy.
Her fingers tightened slightly.
Am I doing this to make her easier to live with?
That thought hit harder than she expected.
Maybe the original Astelle had simply been cruel.
Maybe she had enjoyed control.
Maybe she had hurt people because she could.
Not every sharp person was secretly wounded.
Not every villain had a justification that made the story neat.
Astelle exhaled slowly.
Was she rewriting the past in her head to feel better about wearing this face?
To feel less guilty for benefiting from this life?
She looked down at her hands.
These hands had supposedly thrown goblets.
Slapped servants.
Spoken cutting words for sport.
The maids today had whispered.
She hadn't heard the words clearly, but she had felt the shift.
She hadn't thrown anything.
She hadn't struck anyone.
She had thanked someone.
The standard had been that low.
Astelle's chest tightened.
Perhaps the original Astelle had been pressured.
Perhaps she had been lonely.
Perhaps she had been cruel without excuse.
All of those could be true at once.
Astelle closed her eyes briefly.
"I don't know you," she murmured under her breath.
And that uncertainty unsettled her more than a clean tragedy would have.
If the original Astelle had lived her entire life under scrutiny, expected to embody sharpness, to justify her existence through dominance.
Would she have softened if someone had simply treated her differently? Or was that naive?
Astelle shook her head once.
"I'm not your defense attorney," she muttered.
She wasn't here to absolve the past.
She was here because the present was unstable.
Still—
Her gaze softened slightly, the faint sea-glass green returning at the edges.
Wherever you are… I hope you're not still fighting.
Maybe she was back in my old body on Earth. Confused, she woke up in a small apartment and stared at a phone, wondering why everything felt smaller.
Astelle almost smiled at the thought.
If that had happened—
She hoped the original Astelle found the mundane beautiful.
She hoped she enjoyed coffee.
And sunlight through blinds.
And anonymity.
She hoped she wasn't trapped in someone else's expectations anymore.
But she did not pretend she knew what that girl deserved.
That wasn't her right.
She opened her eyes again, steady now.
If she was going to rewrite this story—
It wouldn't be to excuse the villainess.
It would be to ensure no one else had to become one.
Footsteps approached down the corridor.
Astelle straightened.
Speculation was comfortable.
Reality was not.
And the story, whether justified or not, was still moving.
She was halfway through a second pastry when Cassian entered the sitting room without knocking, as if doors were a courtesy for other people.
Astelle sat up straighter immediately. Her eyes flickered, green tugged toward gray.
Cassian looked at her, then at the tray.
"You are eating," he observed.
"I am relaxing," Astelle corrected.
Cassian's gaze drifted to her eyes, then away. "Your color is different."
Astelle stiffened. "Don't."
Cassian's mouth curved faintly. "It appears you are capable of calm."
Astelle narrowed her eyes. "I was calm before you arrived."
Cassian walked closer, his presence changing the air the way weather changed temperature.
He looked at the pastries again.
"Were you poor?" he asked, returning to the offense as if it were a thread he enjoyed pulling.
Astelle's eyes flashed red immediately.
"No," she snapped. "And I already answered that."
Cassian's eyebrows lifted. "You answer with emotion. Not evidence."
"I don't have to prove my income to you," Astelle hissed.
Cassian leaned slightly, studying her like a document with interesting inconsistencies. "You have the posture of someone who has never had to command a household."
"I commanded plenty," Astelle said, furious.
"In what capacity?"
Astelle's mouth opened.
Closed.
She realized, with sudden irritation, that in her old life, she'd never ordered anyone to do anything and had it obeyed without question.
She'd led clubs. Managed projects. Won awards.
But she'd never been obeyed because of a title.
Cassian waited.
The silence was brutal.
Astelle's eyes reddened deeper.
"I was well respected," she snapped, finally.
Cassian nodded, as if she'd confirmed something. "So not wealthy."
"I was wealthy!"
Cassian hummed, unconvinced.
Astelle's eyes flared bright, furious red, so vivid it was almost exactly as the book described.
Cassian's faint smile returned.
"There," he said softly. "That is the Astelle I recognize."
Astelle's fingers curled around the edge of the cushion.
Across the room, a maid stiffened.
Another subtly shifted closer to the wall, bracing.
Astelle saw them and stopped herself.
She exhaled slowly.
Forced her shoulders down.
The red thinned.
Retreated toward gray.
Cassian watched, mildly pleased.
"You are learning control," he observed.
Astelle glared at him, but it was quieter now. "You are unbearable."
Cassian's gaze held hers. "And yet you remain."
Astelle's mouth parted.
No retort came.
Because she didn't know why she remained.
Because the honest answer was humiliating.
Because somewhere beneath the irritation and the fear and the absurd luxury—
She wanted to see if he could survive.
Cassian looked away first, as if satisfied with whatever he'd extracted.
"Come," he said, turning toward the door.
Astelle blinked. "Come where?"
"Your presence is required," Cassian replied.
"What, are you going to execute me for eating pastries?"
Cassian paused just long enough to glance back.
"I would not waste an execution on sugar," he said. "Not when it can be used as leverage."
Astelle stared at him.
Cassian left.
Astelle rose, muttering insults under her breath, and followed.
---
They returned to the study.
A retainer stood waiting, posture rigid, a sealed letter in his hands. Palace crest.
Cassian took it, broke the seal, and read.
His expression didn't change.
Astelle hated that. She hated how his face made everything feel as if it were under control.
"What?" she demanded.
Cassian handed her the letter.
Astelle read.
Lady Seraphina Elowen is requesting immediate travel clearance to the eastern territories.
Arrival expected within three days.
Astelle's stomach dropped.
Her eyes shifted, gray flooding in, swallowing the last of her anger.
"Too early," she whispered.
Cassian watched her reaction like a man watching a fuse burn.
"You said this occurs later," he said quietly.
"Yes," Astelle replied, voice thin. "Much later."
Cassian folded the letter once, neat and final.
"Then the board accelerates," he said.
Astelle looked up, pulse hammering.
"She's not supposed to be here yet."
Cassian's gaze sharpened, cool, alive.
"Then we greet her properly," he said.
And just like that, the warmth of her bath, the sweetness of pastries, the illusion of a normal morning—
All of it cracked.
The story had reminded them again.
And it was moving faster.