A/n: soooo...wrote this a while back nd just realised that the roxana writing in her diary is highly unrealistic. but hey enjoy. also english isn't my first language so apologies for the errors.
The air in the Agriche banquet hall was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, blood-rare meat, and unspoken malice. Roxana sat like a viper amidst the chaos, a picture of placid elegance. But behind her blood red eyes, a mind from another world was calculating.
She watched the grand doors, awaiting her newest and most crucial piece.
You arrived not with jeweled armor, but with a tremor. Dressed in a gown slightly too fine for your frail frame, you looked like a songbird.
Your wide eyes, scanned the room not with curiosity, but with pure and undiluted terror. This was the lion’s den, and you were a lamb served on a silver platter by your "benefactor," Lante Agriche.
Roxana’s lips curved into a faint, private smile.
In the original novel, your role was brief. A few stolen glances with Cassis Pedelian, a handful of sweet, doomed moments that sparked a romance which signed your death warrant. Lante, enraged at your audacity for looking at the filthy Pedelian, had you demoted to a maid. And then, after a petty argument with her—the original, vicious Roxana, you were cast into the dungeons. Your beauty and fragility made you not a person but a commodity. A plaything for the male leads until you broke completely.
An utterly tragic and stupid waste of a character.
But this Roxana saw not a tragic side character. She saw an opportunity.
As Lante presented you to the leering family with a mocking speech about his "charity," Roxana made her move. She rose, her every movement hypnotic and the crowd parted for her instinctively.
"Dear sister," her voice was a silk whip that cut through the noise.
Sister. It wasn't a term of endearment; it was a claim. All eyes snapped to her.
"You look lost. Come. Sit with me. Let me...acquaint you with our home."
Seeing your expression, she knew you realized that she was mocking you.
Her cool hand, closed around your trembling wrist. It wasn't an offer. She led you away from the main crowd to a slightly more secluded divan, her touch both a shackle and a shield.
She played her part flawlessly. The kind, gracious sister. She offered you a glass of sweet wine, her gaze missing nothing—the way you flinched at a servant's sudden movement, the way your eyes darted toward the exits.
"Don't look so afraid," she murmured, leaning close. Her scent was of night-blooming flowers and cold steel.
"It's a lot to take in, isn't it? This family is a lot different from what you are accustomed to. They see someone frail and their first instinct is to see if they'll break."
Seeing your fearful expression almost made her giggle, however she suppressed it for she had to keep the facade to gain your trust.
"Do not worry, I'm here, Sister will keep you safe."
The relieved expression of yours was also she needed to confirm that you had let your guard down. Over the next few days, her 'kindness' was a carefully constructed strategy for her own survival. She became your sole protector and friend. Gifting you dresses, defending your honor from Jeremy's overenthusiastic 'ventures', helping you get familiar with Maria's 'tea parties'.
However, it was all a performance. She didn't just keep you safe, she had started isolating without you knowing, making her your only source of comfort. Over time, she began to craft you. The wardrobe Roxana curated for you was a tribute to her intelligence. The dresses were not garish or overly seductive. Just the balance. She had taught you the art of seduction, without you knowing.
She was saving you from the fate of being a mere maid, only to offer you up as a sacrifice on a much grander altar. You would be the glorious devastating distraction that would allow her to survive.
One night, as you cried in her room after a particularly harsh encounter with Charlotte, she held you, her touch devoid of any familial warmth.
You looked up at her, your eyes filled with tears, completely unaware that your savior was lovingly, meticulously, preparing you for the slaughter.
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a hypnotic, confidential whisper. “They see a beautiful girl crying and they see one of two things: prey…or a masterpiece of emotion they wish to possess. You must never let them see the prey.”
She gently guided you to sit on a stone bench, sitting beside you, her posture open and patient. “You are not alone here,” she promised, her hand covering yours.
When you had buried your face in the silken, perfumed safety of Roxana's chest. She had held you, her fingers stroking your hair with a hypnotic rhythm, whispering words that felt like salvation. You hadn't seen it. You couldn't have. But the moment your eyes were hidden, her beautiful face had finally contorted into a vicious triumphant smirk.
A predator's grin. It was the smile of a master puppeteer finally feeling the strings tighten.
The air in the dungeons was different that day. Thicker. Colder.
And then you had seen him.
He was not what you expected. You expected a monster, a brute to match the Agriche. Instead, you found a beautiful man who was chained to the wall, all lean muscle and shattered pride. Blood matted his silver hair, and bruises bloomed across skin that seemed too pale, too noble for this filth. But his eyes…his golden eyes were the most terrifying thing. They weren't wild or pleading. They were cold. A frozen furious gold that promised a future of retribution so absolute it made your own breath catch.
This was the man Roxana had spoken of with such pity.
You jumped as a hand settled on the small of your back. Roxana was suddenly beside you, her presence as silent as a shadow. She didn't look at you. Her gaze was fixed on Cassis, alight with a strange glee.
"See?" she murmured, her voice a hypnotic thread in the dank air. "They break everything beautiful here. It is their only art."
Her hand pressed gently, propelling you forward. "Go on."
This was the beginning of Roxana's careful choreography.
The "accidental" meetings became your new routine. A dropped handkerchief you had to retrieve near his cell. A request to bring "extra water" to him. Roxana was the architect of every seemingly coincident encounter.
And so you played your part, like an oblivious marionette.
You would kneel, your modest, sculpted dress pooling around you on the filthy stone, and offer him a cup of water. Your hands would tremble—a real tremor of fear that sold the performance of vulnerability perfectly. You'd murmur empty comforts, your eyes wide with sympathy.
"Thank you," he grunted one day, his voice rough from disuse. His frozen eyes had thawed, just for a second, as they looked at you.
You were a perfect, beautiful illusion. A gentle angel in a house of demons. And he, the fallen prince was starting to believe in angels.
But you were never alone. Roxana had ensured an audience.
Jeremy had seen you once, kneeling so close to the chained Peledian. His face darkened with a possessive, jealous rage. You were his toy to break, not some prisoner's comfort. The sight of your delicate profile, your attention focused on Cassis fueled his cruelty.
Lante was informed by his spies who saw it not as romance, but as defiance. His property was showing affection to another. It was an insult. Griselda watched from the shadows, a smirk playing on her lips. She saw the beautiful, tragic play unfolding and found the dynamics fascinating.
And Roxana? She saw it all.
Jeremy's jealousy, Lante's anger and Cassis's growing fixation and felt utter satisfaction.
Her plan was unfolding perfectly. You were the tragic star of a play only she was directing. Every glance you shared with Cassis, every moment of kindness you offered him, was just another brick in the wall of distraction she was building around herself.
You were the beautiful trembling rose offered to the beast, and all the Agriches were leaning in, salivating, desperate for a taste.
And the ghost of Roxana's vicious smile hung in the air, the only real thing in the world of her terrible lies.
It was the two days of Roxana's grand plan where she was going to help you elope with Cassis, ensuring that your ties would be broken from the Agriche name. You were supposed to meet with Cassis one more time, before escaping this hell on earth. You were supposed to.
It wasn't intentional that you read her diary. Just pure coincidence. You had come to her room and were told that she had gone to Maria's tea party, so you waited and eventually got bored.
The silken cover of the small locked journal felt innocuous tucked beside her bed. A simple and elegant thing. The key, glinting from a crack in the jewelry box you were idly admiring seemed to call to you. It was a quiet treasonous whisper. A temptation born of boredom and the desperate clawing need to understand the beautiful enigma that was your savior.
You told yourself it was to know her better. To find some way to thank her. To understand the depths of her kindness so you could someday repay it.
The lock turned with a definitive click.
The script inside was not what you expected. It was not a girl's flowery musings. It was a ledger. A cold clinical record of assets and outcomes.
And your name was on every page.
The first was a flow chart of sorts, but once you read carefully, you froze. The flowchart summed the events that had happened in your life so far perfectly. Flipping the page, you found many different entries with horrifying titles.
She arrived today. I had anticipated her arrival for many years now she's here. A bit more fragile and terrified than I thought. She looks at me like I'm her savior. The irony is simply rather clownish.
Jeremy’ and Dion's interest is piqued. Good. Their interest will make her more dependent on me. She flinches so beautifully. I have her complete trust. The foundation is laid.
Entry: First Meeting with C.P.
The reaction was textbook. His pride and her pity. He had viewed her with utter disgust but her vulnerability and purity had eventually made him lower his guard down. She is a natural actress, unaware of her own performance. I could not have designed a better marionette.
There were more entries just like this.
Page after page, your entire trust and love for her shattered bit by bit until you couldn't help but breakdown, finally realizing that your 'Sister' had never viewed you as a human with basic rights but rather a puppet she could control at her whim. The journal was rather thin so you were able to read it in no time, but then came the second last entry.
You turned the page, your breath hitching.
Entry: Progress with Subject C.P. exceeds expectations.The ‘stolen moments’ narrative is firmly established. J’s jealousy is a predictable but useful whereas L’s anger adds necessary pressure. Her dependence on my guidance is now absolute. The stage is set for the final act.
The entries were a cold, dissecting analysis of your every tear, every trembling smile, every moment of hope you had shared with her. You were not a person. You were a tool.
Then came the final entry.
Entry: Final Parameters for ‘Operation Elopement’.The capture of the star-crossed lovers will serve a dual purpose: for the Agriches, a brutal reaffirmation of their power and disposal of a troublesome child. For C.P., it will be the catalyst that forges his hatred into a weapon and binds him to me, the sole mourner of his lost love. I will play the grieving sister, my own innocence cemented by the brutal spectacle.
You understood. The escape wasn’t freedom. It was the ultimate diversion which was to make her more powerful. You were to be captured likely killedd—a devastating public tragedy designed to manipulate everyone: the Agriches, Cassis, even you until your last breath.
The journal slipped from your numb fingers. The world didn't end; it sharpened into a million jagged horrifying points. Every kindness was a calculation. The love you felt for Cassis felt like a disease she had cultured in a petri dish.
You placed the journal back with trembling hands, a perfect, obedient little asset to the last. You walked back to your room, each step mechanical. The door clicked shut behind you.
The room was a monument to her manipulation. The modest silk gowns hanging in the wardrobe were costumes she had chosen for her star. The delicate hair combs on the vanity were props to accentuate your fragility. The faint scent of night-blooming flowers from a gifted perfume was the scent of her control.
It was all a lie. A beautiful yet unsuspecting lie.
The first tear that fell was one of pure, shattered disbelief. Denial.
Then came the anger. It didn't roar; it flooded you, a silent, seismic wave of pure heat that turned your vision red. It was a fury not just at her, but at yourself for being so blind, so trusting, so weak.
Your eyes landed on a pair of sewing scissors left on a chair.
The first gown, the pale blue one you wore when you first offered Cassis water, you ripped it from the hanger with such ferocity that it surprised you. The sound of tearing silk was viciously satisfying. You didn't just tear it; you mutilated it, hacking at the fabric with the scissors until it was a pile of useless shreds.
If I destroy it, it never happened. If I ruin what she made me, I can be someone else. Can I?
You grabbed armfuls of dresses, the beautiful uniforms of your captivity and threw them into the cold fireplace. You found a matchbox your hands shaking so badly you could barely strike a spark. But then it caught. The fire leapt hungrily, consuming the silks and linens, the light dancing on your tear-streaked face. The heat was a punishment you welcomed.
But it wasn't enough. The gifts were external. The true prison was you. You were her masterpiece.
You stumbled to the vanity and looked in the mirror. You saw what she saw: the wide eyes she called "perfectly vulnerable."
The long, beautiful hair she would gently brush while whispering poison.
Your hand tightened around the scissors.
A deep utter despair consumed you that the only way out was to destroy the thing she had crafted. The thing you had become.
You grabbed a fistful of your hair—the hair she admired, the hair that was part of her carefully curated play. Without a second thought, you brought the blades up and sawed through it. It wasn't a clean cut. It was ragged, brutal and desperate. Long locks fell onto the vanity and the floor around your feet. You didn't stop until your hair was a ruined, short mess around your shoulders.
But it still wasn't enough. You were still you. The asset. The puppet.
Your eyes, red-rimmed and frantic, scanned the room. They landed on the small bottle of perfume—her scent, the one she had given you to wear, the scent that marked you as hers.
You picked it up. And with a cry of pure, gut-wrenching grief, you hurled it against the stone wall of the fireplace. The glass shattered, and the room was instantly drenched in the overwhelming, cloying, toxic sweetness of night-blooming flowers.
You stood there, breathing heavily, surrounded by the ruins of her creation. The fire smoldered. The shreds of silk clung to your shoes. Your shorn hair littered the floor like straw. The air was thick with the perfume of your betrayal.
The puppet had finally broken its strings. But now, alone and surrounded by the wreckage, you had no idea what was left underneath.
Stepping out of the room into the balcony with a bottle of wine that she had gifted you. Weeks ago, it had tasted like salvation. Now, it was just bitter.
Why me? The question was a silent scream in the void of your mind. Wasn't it enough that you’d volunteered, a lamb offering itself to the slaughterhouse to spare your sickly sister? Wasn't the mere fact of being in this hell sufficient misery? Did your very soul have to be unraveled and rewoven into a weapon for another’s ambition?
Downing the wine, like a madwoman you thought about him.
His face, proud and broken, flashed behind your eyes. Was the ache in your chest when you saw him yours? Or was it cold manipulation? Did he look at you and see a kindred spirit or just another beautiful, pathetic creature of the Agriche zoo, a mirror of his own captivity?
The moon stared down ,cold and indifferent. A strange peace settled over you, washing away the madness, leaving only a core of ice-cold resolution.
You would be her marionette.
You would be the perfect pawn.
So perfect, so obedient, that you would become the flaw that shattered her entire design.
You would win by losing everything, in a way she could never anticipate.
The only advantage you had was the one she’d given you: her utter, arrogant trust. She saw you as a finished product, a tool to be used. She would never waste her precious 'butterflies' for you.
With a mechanical smile you called for your maid. The girl arrived, her eyes widening in horror at the scene of destruction, your shorn hair, your red-rimmed eyes. You let her fuss, offering a practiced, wobbly smile.
“A moment of foolishness, that’s all,” you murmured, your voice a perfect imitation of shaky remorse. “I was so…frustrated. Please, clean this up. Bring new dresses. Tidy my hair. I must…I must look presentable.”
Four hours later, your room was pristine. The scorch mark in the fireplace was the only scar. The shelves, once adorned with her trinkets, were bare. You sat, swathed in a simple, high-necked gown, when the door opened without a knock.
Roxana glided in, a vision of concerned elegance. Her blood-red eyes swept the room, missing no detail—the bare shelves, your newly trimmed hair, the faint scent of smoke still clinging to the air.
“Sister,” she began, her voice a silken probe. “I heard there was quite a fuss. Is everything alright? You look....troubled.”
You looked up, letting your lower lip tremble just so, like she had crafted you to act like.
“It was…a performance,” you whispered, letting your gaze dart around as if fearing eavesdroppers. You leaned closer, drawing her into your confidence. “I thought…if I am to be the frustrated broken girl desperate enough to run away, shouldn’t there be evidence? A tantrum? Something for them to whisper about, so my desperation tomorrow night seems…believable.”
You paused, letting the lie hang in the air, so perfectly aligned with her own manipulative logic. Then you did the hardest thing you had ever done. You shuffled forward on the settee and nuzzled your head against her side, like a scared child seeking comfort from its mother. Disgust ran down your spine, but you forced your body to stay soft and pliant.
“Did I…” you murmured into the fabric of her dress, your voice small and seeking approval. “Did I do a good job, Sister?”
You felt her tense for a fraction of a second, a predator sensing a shift in the wind but unable to identify the source. Then, her hand came up, stroking your hair with its familiar, hypnotic rhythm. The touch now felt like a snake coiling around your skull.
“A brilliant job.” she purred, her voice dripping with honeyed pride. “So thoughtful. You are learning faster than I imagined.”
It was the highest praise she could give and you had to fight not to shudder.
The next day, you became a ghost of your supposed frustration. At breakfast, you picked at your food, your eyes downcast. When Charlotte made a crude remark, you didn’t just flinch; you let a single, perfect tear trace down your cheek before quickly wiping it away, a show of trying and failing to appear strong.
Your second audience was with Jeremy. You found him “accidentally” in a west wing corridor, sharpening a knife against the stone wall. You flinched, as always, but this time you didn't scurry away. You hesitated, letting a single, perfect tear trace down your cheek.
He leered. “What’s wrong, lamb? Cage too small?”
You wiped the tear away with a trembling hand, your voice a fragile whisper. “N-No…It’s just…Sister Roxana is so kind. She tries so hard to make me feel better. She…she says soon I won’t have to be sad anymore. That she has a special surprise to make all the…the frustration…go away forever.”
You let the words hang, then flinched again as if realizing you’d spoken too much, and fled down the hall.
To Jeremy’s possessive, simple mind, a "surprise" that would make you happy sounded like a threat. Something or someone that would take his unclaimed toy away.
Your second and most important target was Lante. You waited near his study, a book of poetry in your hand, another of Roxana’s props. As he passed, you shrunk back against the wall, as usual. But as he reached for the door, you mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear.
“...so grateful for her guidance…she thinks of everything…even the smallest detail of my…departure…”
Lante froze. His head turned slowly, his cold eyes pinning you to the wall. “Departure?”
You looked up, eyes wide with feigned shock at being overheard, then dropped your gaze in fear. “I-I misspoke, Father! I meant…my departure from melancholy! A figure of speech! Sister Roxana is just…so diligent in planning my cheer.” You bowed your head, trembling perfectly.
He said nothing, only stared for a long, chilling moment before entering his study and shutting the door with a soft, definitive click.
To Lante, the word "departure" meant one thing: his property attempting to leave. And "planning" and "details" simply meant a conspiracy. He wouldn’t confront you; he’d watch. And he’d watch Roxana.
Your final audience was the one dreaded the most. Dion.
You found him training in a courtyard, a whirlwind of lethal grace. You waited at the edge until he paused.
“What do you want?” he snapped, not even looking at you.
“I…I was just admiring your skill, Brother,” you stammered. “When I first came here, I was scared of you but now seeing you I, now realized what a poor judgement it was. It's a shame that we won't be able to get to know each other anymore, Brother. You let your voice fill with naive sadness. “It's truly saddening.”
Dion finally turned, his expression one of bored contempt. But his eyes, the same color Roxana had, were sharp.
“Why won't we able to get to know each other?,” he boredly inquired.
"Ah, it's just I'll be go-I mean, I have reached the age of marriage, and whose to say my future won't lie miles away from here?"
Stepping forward, you wrapped your arms around his torso, in an attempt act as a woeful and unwilling sister. He had stiffened and didn't relax until you let go. With a practiced melancholic smile, you stepped away and whispered goodbye.
You had already given him what he needed.
That evening, Roxana came to your room. Her eyes swept the bare shelves and your short hair.
“I heard you had a…tiring day,” she said, her voice a silken probe. “The maids said you seemed unsettled.”
You looked up, letting your eyes shine with unshed tears. You shuffled forward and nuzzled your head against her side, the touch making your skin crawl.
“I was just practicing,” you whispered, the perfect picture of a seeker of approval. “Playing the part of the desperate girl. For the family. For the plan. Did I…did I do a good job, Sister?”
Her hand came up, stroking your hair. The gesture was now a mockery as it always was.
“A perfect job,” she purred, her voice dripping with condescending pride. “You are exceeding every expectation.”
She believed it. She saw only the flawless performance she herself had directed. She was too arrogant, too convinced of her own genius, to see the tiny, toxic seeds you had sown in the fertile ground of the Agriche's paranoia.
She trusted her puppet completely.
And it was her greatest mistake.
