🍓 Currently playing LADS but never saw myself as MC — the only day I would accept that I am her is the day when I could do multiple backflips (i love her sm ( ˘ ³˘)♥)
Synopsis: Trapped in a world that isn’t hers, a princess is forced towards the coronation woven with unease, whispers, and a sense of impending doom. When the crown shatters and blood is spilled, it becomes clear that the story has already gone horribly off-script. In the wake of betrayal, hidden motives, and deadly ambitions, no one can predict who will survive or seize power, and every step forward seems to plunge the kingdom deeper into uncertainty.
Synopsis: After mysteriously entering a romance novel’s world of Crimson Blossoms Under the Nalchik Sun, non-mc! becomes entangled with a stoic duke whose fate was never meant to intertwine with hers. When she vanishes after a cruel misunderstanding, both their worlds unravel. Two years later, she returns only to find the story, and the man she left behind, still waiting and unfinished.
Caleb
Purple Blaze
Preview | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
Synopsis: Caleb Xia rules the F1 circuit with infuriating ease, leaving Rafayel Qi forever stuck in second place that is until Rafayel’s chaotic sister, (Name), storms back into his life determined to “fix” his losing streak by sheer intimidation. All topped of with a little dirty game of seducing the enemy as nothing boosts race performance like emotional sabotage.
Sylus
Midnight Duke Mystery
Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Side Story 1 | Side Story 2
Synopsis: (Name) Yue, once sold to the enigmatic Duke Sylus Qin, begins to notice strange patterns in her husband's behavior—his late-night arrivals, the mysterious suitcase, and his eerie absence from the estate. When a series of gruesome murders grip London, (Name) concern grows, but nothing could prepare her for the night she overhears a chilling exchange that leaves her questioning everything she thought she knew about her husband. As secrets dark and dangerous begin to unravel, she must confront the terrifying truth about who—or what her husband truly is.
Rafayel
Led by Fate
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
Synopsis: At the Linkon Empire’s lavish anniversary celebration, (Name) Qián expects to dance with the Crown Prince—only to be passed over and claimed instead by the Empire’s most elusive duke, Rafayel Qi. One stolen dance is enough to shift the axis of her story, transforming a girl chasing a prince into a woman standing on the edge of a far more consequential fate.
Hii! I hope you’ve been okay! Just checking in on you since you haven’t posted in a while. I hope you’re enjoying the warm weather 💓💓
Hallooo! Life has just been busy for me lately cause im actually graduating this year and will soon be taking my licensure exam 😙. Although I admit I really miss writing (my drafts have been sitting there for idk how long :’>). Also, I’m dying from the weather since it’s summer here. Always take care too! <3
Synopsis: A princess trapped in a world that isn't hers is forced toward a coronation woven with unease, whispers, and a sense of impending doom. When the crown shatters and blood is spilled, it becomes clear that the story has already gone horribly off-script. In the wake of betrayal, hidden motives, and deadly ambitions, no one can predict who will survive or seize power, and every step forward seems to plunge the kingdom deeper into uncertainty.
～☆ Chapter 4
Chapter 5 - "The Death Route"
(Name) slammed the heavy oak door of the study shut and twisted the lock until it clicked. Her breathing came in uneven bursts, each inhale sharper than the last as she pressed her back against the door. The curtains were drawn and the dim afternoon light filtered through the narrow gap between them, casting the room in long golden stripes.
Her mind was spinning. Death route? Prevent my own death? What the hell does that even mean? She dug her fingers into her hair, muttering under her breath as though the system could hear her.
“Stupid system. Stupid, useless system. You dump me here and then—then what? Expect me to figure it out like some puzzle?”
The translucent interface flickered into existence in front of her. The system's words were cold and final.
>> [System Warning: Current route indicates premature death.]
>> [Objective: Prevent the assassination of Princess (Name) Qin/Duchess (Name) Shen.]
>> [Consequence: Failure will result in the death of Shen Xinghui by the hand of Sylus Qin]
(Name)’s hands trembled. “You’re kidding me. I’m not even the protagonist here!” Her voice cracked, echoing across the study. “There wasn’t even a ‘Princess (Name) Qin’ in the novel! How am I supposed to stop an event I don’t even remember reading about?!”
>> [ . . .]
The system offered no answer. The interface blinked once and then faded slowly in the background.
She stomped her foot in frustration and began pacing the room back and forth due to the unease she was feeling. Her heels clicked sharply against the wooden floor, each step echoing in the tense silence, while her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her chest. Think. Think, dammit. Coronation. Xavier. Death. Sylus. The heroine hasn’t even appeared yet. Something’s off. She dug through every scene of the original novel in her mind, but the details slipped like sand through her fingers.
A soft knock at the door startled her. “(Name)?” Xavier’s voice drifted through the wood, calm but taut. “Are you unwell? The maids say you’ve locked yourself in.”
(Name) bit back a curse. “I’m fine,” she snapped, though her voice shook. “I-I just—need a moment.”
Another pause. “Very well,” Xavier said after a beat. “I’ll give you space.” His footsteps receded outside, yet it sounded slow and reluctant.
When she was sure he was gone, she slumped into the nearest chair, hugging her knees close to her. Every time she closed her eyes, the image of the system’s words flashed in bright red burned in the back of her mind. Prevent your death. Prevent his death. She couldn’t even tell if she was more afraid for herself or for Xavier.
Preparations for the coronation moved like a tide she couldn’t hold back. Within hours, the Shen Estate bustled with staff carrying bolts of silk, trays of jewels, velvet-lined cases of regalia, and scrolls of invitations. Except something was wrong.
The preparations should have been unfolding at the Royal Palace. The very fact that her coronation was being arranged here felt like a deviation from the script.
(Name) watched from the top of the staircase as a group of palace attendants entered the grand hall, yet their faces were unfamiliar. She had seen the original staff—those who had chased her when she first arrived in this world—but these new ones carried themselves differently, their gazes quick and restless.
They’re not the same people. Then who were those others from before? The thought made her skin crawled with fear. This was still a dangerous novel.
Even as they bowed, she sensed it—their restraint, the careful neutrality stretched too tight. This was not where her preparation for the coronation should be taking place, and they knew it. Suspicion flickered in their eyes before their expressions smoothed into obedience.
The princess who had disappeared from the Palace.
A coronation prepared in private.
A location deliberately withheld by who knows whom. Was it Xavier’s doing?
(Name) managed to forced a smile as they bowed to her.
“Your Highness Princess (Name) Qin,” they greeted her in unison. The words made her stomach lurch. There it was again. That damned title they used to address her.
In the drawing room, Xavier’s patience had finally snapped. (Name) walked in to find him standing over the jeweler and tailor like a storm barely contained, his voice low and razor-sharp. “If one more stranger sets foot in this house, they will regret it."
Then his eyes flicker towards the trembling tailor, he looked at him and pointed his fingers sharply. "You there. Leave.”
The poor man almost tripped over his measuring tape as he managed to scrambled away, while the jeweler followed, clutching his case like a lifeline.
“Xavier.” (Name) strode over, heart pounding, but forced herself to sound steady. “Sit. Down.”
His eyes flicked to her, a flash of surprise breaking through his fury. Slowly, as though indulging her, he obeyed and sank into the chair.
“They’re intruders,” he muttered, still glaring at the empty doorway. “I won’t have you endangered under my roof.”
(Name) swallowed as she felt a lump in her throat. For a moment, his protectiveness felt like a lifeline, but she forced herself to stand tall. “I appreciate it,” she said, “but scaring everyone won’t fix anything. Let me handle it.”
His expression softened slightly, though the tension in his jaw remained. “As you wish,” he said, voice quieter now.
That night, the two of them walked the estate gardens, their steps crunching on the gravel paths under a violet sky streaked with fading light. Fireflies hovered above the hedges like little lanterns. Xavier’s hand brushed hers once, almost absent-mindedly, before he tucked it behind his back.
“With the day of the coronation fast approaching,” he said at last, breaking the silence between them, “you can still change your mind. Say the word, and I will... handle it. Or them.” His tone was grim, resolute.
(Name) stared at the ground. She wanted to scream I’m going to die but the words got stuck in her throat. Instead, she forced a brittle smile. “It’ll all go well,” she murmured just loud enough to hear for the both of them, though doubt gnawed at her.
He studied her face for a long moment, eyes dark and unreadable. “If you say so,” he said quietly, though the unease in his eyes said otherwise.
As they walked back toward the estate, (Name)’s heart raced. She had no plan. No answers. Only the sense that something vital was missing—a clue just out of reach. With each passing day, the invisible clock ticked louder.
The morning of the coronation dawned heavy, as if the very sky conspired against her. Gray clouds swirled above the Philos Empire’s most sacred landmark, the Sanctum of Empyrean, a cathedral whose spires seemed to pierce the heavens themselves.
Its gilded doors loomed before her, flanked by stoic knights in ceremonial armor polished to a blinding sheen. Golden rays caught the mosaics of saints and rulers etched into the cathedral’s facade, making their eyes glimmer like they were silently judging her. Trumpets blared in the distance, announcing the arrival of nobles and dignitaries who would bear witness to the day that was meant to secure peace for the Empire.
(Name) stood at the threshold, heart thundering inside her chest, palms slick with sweat. Her gown clung to her skin uncomfortably, layers of embroidered silk suddenly suffocating instead of regal. She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, biting her lip until it bled.
The system had been silent. No objective prompts, no guidance. Just silence, as though it was mocking her. I’m useless, she thought bitterly, her throat tight. All this time, and I don’t even know how to prevent my own death.
The cathedral bells tolled. Each ring felt like a countdown hammering against her skull. Then—a sharp pang split across her forehead causing her to stumble back, as she clutched her head, her vision blurring. The world around her darkened and time felt like it warped the surroundings.
She wasn’t standing before the cathedral anymore. Instead, she was inside it. The vaulted ceilings rose high above, painted in vibrant frescoes of winged figures, but they blurred into shadow as chaos broke loose. A scream echoed. The ceremonial crown clattered to the marble floor, wobbling at first before tipping over the chancel steps and slowly rolling down, until it finally came to rest at the bottom.
(Name)’s lungs seized. She could smell gunpowder.
A gunshot had rang out.
Her body moved before her mind could catch up—throwing herself between Shen Xinghui and the assassin’s bullet. Pain tore through her chest, white-hot and merciless. Her body convulsed, a broken gasp escaping her throat, swallowed by the deafening crack of the gunshot as she collapsed into Xavier’s arms.
“(Name)!” His voice cracked, raw and unrestrained. His usually composed face twisted into something monstrous with grief as he clutched her, hands pressed desperately to her wound, his fine clothes soaking in her blood.
But even through the haze, she saw him lift his head, eyes flicking across the sea of crowd. He caught only a fleeting glimpse—a noble from the opposing faction—slipping quietly through the chaos. Then came the words that chilled her blood more than the pain ever could.
“The future queen is dead,” one noble announced coldly. “But we do not mourn in vain—for the Empire yet has a rightful heir.”
The crowd parted and there he was.
A tall man with red piercing eyes, dressed in finery as though he had always belonged here. His presence radiated authority, a blade cloaked in silk.
(Name)’s vision blurred as Xavier’s grip tightened on her, as if he could anchor her to life through will alone. The nobles whispered and murmured, the cathedral filling with treacherous anticipation. And Xavier—Xavier’s anguish deepened into something sharp and venomous, the kind of grief that promised destruction.
What the nobles didn’t know, what they couldn’t foresee, was that the man before them—the duke they mocked, the strategist they feared—would soon become the very tyrant of their nightmares. The world around her (Name) slowly distorted when all of a sudden—the vision abruptly ended. Her eyes flew open and was brought back to reality. The golden doors of the Sanctum of Empyrean were still before her. Rain pattered lightly on the stone steps, though she hadn’t noticed when the clouds opened. She was trembling, knees buckling beneath her.
“(Name)!” Xavier’s hands were on her shoulders, shaking her gently but firmly. His voice was tight with concern. “You’re pale as death—what happened? Speak to me.”
She blinked, chest heaving, her lips trembling. For a terrifying moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even dare to move a muscle. All she could do was replay the vision again and again in her head, each detail burning like fire into her thoughts.
The gunshot. The bullet piercing right through her. The nobles’ scheme.
And then—her mind caught on the most damning realization of all.
Her name.
Sylus’s name.
Qin.
They both bore the same bloodline. The same family name. It was the most obvious clue she had ignored all along. Sylus wasn’t just a pawn. He wasn’t just the so-called hidden prince. He was her brother.
Her stomach dropped. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand, bile rising in her throat and felt its burning sensation. And yet the realization spiraled further, something far more darker. Was Xavier’s revenge not born from tyranny, but from grief? Was it because they killed his wife? Because they killed me?
Her heart stopped cold in her chest. She looked up at Xavier, who was still holding her, worry carved into every line of his striking face. And for the first time, (Name) realized the system hadn’t been vague at all.
She wasn’t just a bystander. She was the bait. The crown. The sacrificial lamb that would ignite the firestorm to come. Her lips parted, as her breath shuddered, but no words came out. The cathedral doors creaked open, its light spilling from within. Then—the herald’s voice boomed.
Xavier’s hand tightened around hers. “Are you ready?” he asked softly.
She couldn’t answer him back. For that moment, she wasn’t sure whether she was walking into her coronation—or her own execution. Since now she knows the assassination attempt was planned for today.
Synopsis: At the Linkon Empire’s lavish anniversary celebration, (Name) Qián expects to dance with the Crown Prince—only to be passed over and claimed instead by the Empire’s most elusive duke, Rafayel Qi. One stolen dance is enough to shift the axis of her story, transforming a girl chasing a prince into a woman standing on the edge of a far more consequential fate.
Chapter 1 - “The Cotillion”
Linkon Empire — Founding Anniversary Celebration
The Linkon Empire knew how to celebrate its own grandeur—and tonight was no exception. On this particular July evening, the Royal Palace Gardens had been transformed into something out of a dream.
A full cotillion platform—white parquet with gold inlay had been assembled right in the middle of the manicured palace grounds, complete with an ornate glass canopy overhead to shield dancers from the night breeze. Twinkling chandeliers floated above the polished floor, suspended by clever engineering, while string quartets tuned their instruments in tandem under the watchful ear of a renowned Linkon conductor.
Laughter and the clinking of crystal glasses filled the air. Long buffet tables were draped in silk and lined with hors d'oeuvres no commoner could pronounce. Velvet-rope paths snaked through the flowerbeds to various pavilions. Every guest was dressed in tailored finery—dresses sourced from Paris, tuxedos from Savile Row, and tiaras from safes that hadn’t been opened since the last coronation.
The Emperor himself presided over the evening from a raised dais, surrounded by military advisors and nobles of long-standing lineage. This was not merely a celebration—it was a demonstration of continued power. An annual reminder that, while the rest of the world modernized or democratized, the Linkon Empire still stood proudly atop the golden bones of its past.
In the middle of it all, stood utterly out of place, was Lady (Name) Qián, daughter of a marquis from one of the Linkon border provinces. She tried not to gawk. Her family was respectable—aristocratic, well-read, and embarrassingly traditional—but they weren’t imperial circle. Certainly not like the titled socialites gliding past her, all red lips and pearls, or the foreign diplomats murmuring in measured tones. (Name) clutched her silver clutch tighter and adjusted her House Qián pin. She had rehearsed this night a hundred times in her head.
Tonight she had only one mission: Dance with the Crown Prince Caleb Xia.
He was the crown jewel of the Empire—both figuratively and literally. Young, tall, devastatingly photogenic. An outstanding pilot. A man with a reputation for charm and charity. (Name) had been hopelessly infatuated ever since she'd seen him the day she entered the Academy.
She’d spotted him across the courtyard in the Academy’s standard uniform—yet somehow wearing it as if it had been made for him. The navy blue blazer fit flawlessly, perfectly tailored rather than issued. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt and a slim maroon tie, all secured with school’s silver crest pinned to his blazer, catching the light against the dark fabric. His posture was impossibly straight, confident, lending him an air of effortless authority.
It was the same uniform everyone wore, yet on him it seemed elevated, almost regal. He hadn’t even looked her way, yet her pulse had stumbled all the same.
Years later, as an adult, she saw him again at the regional summits—no longer just a promising cadet, but a war hero stepping into rooms filled with diplomats and applause. Each appearance only deepened the quiet devotion she carried. She knew his favorite polo team, his exact ranking at university, and—most importantly—his attendance confirmation for tonight.
So, she did what any desperate and slightly foolish noblewoman would do. She bribed the palace attendant responsible for pairing dance partners.
Discreetly, of course.
A tasteful envelope passed during garden setup with enough cash to secure her desired arrangement—along with a very expensive, limited-edition perfume, rare enough to be recognized and appreciated by anyone with refined taste. To ensure that when the opening cotillion bell rang, she would be stepping onto that parquet floor with Caleb Xia on her arm.
She had even paid extra to have the orchestra play a specific waltz that she once heard the prince compliment in an old interview. But apparently the Empire ran on more than just hope and small bills. It’s because as the bell rang, (Name) stepped forward in her carefully hemmed gown, heart thumping in her chest, even subtly hiding her smile from the mere excitement then—Caleb Xia walked right past her.
She blinked. Once. Twice. Multiple times. There must be a mistake. Surely that wasn’t—but no, yet there he was, smiling at another woman—tall, blonde, diplomatic smile worn like a medal as he took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. (Name) recognized her instantly. Princess Yvette of Yang. Daughter of oil wealth and old blood.
Her envelope hadn’t been thick enough.
She was certain she had just heard the illusion of her dreams shatter.
“What?!” she hissed under her breath, eyes wide in disbelief.
“I believe you’re in my spot.” The voice was clipped and dry.
She turned—already flustered by the mix up—and came face to face with Rafayel Qi. The other imperial bachelor. The one no one wanted to gossip about, but everyone did.
He was a Duke. Richer than most banks. Known for his ties over transoceanic shipping conglomerates and the logistics corridors that fueled the Empire’s economy, he controlled container fleets, private ports, and enough offshore holdings to make regulators uneasy. His fortune moved through container terminals, maritime finance, and trade routes that kept half the Empire supplied—his influence subtle, guiding shipping schedules and port acquisitions rather than parades.
His unmatched debating skills at the Imperial Court, and his absolute disdain for press attention. Every photo of him at events looked like he had wandered in by accident and deeply regretted it. Tonight, he was in a dark three-piece suit, white cuffs immaculate, his expression unreadable.
She stared. “…I’m sorry?”
“Partner pairings were announced fifteen minutes ago.” He glanced at his watch, letting out a scoff. “You’re holding up the dance.”
(Name)’s brain stuttered. “But I-I was supposed to be with—”
“I assure you,” Rafayel interrupted curtly, “you are not.”
He extended his gloved hand with the mechanical grace of a man offering a business contract, not a dance.
(Name) looked at it. Then back at him. No warm smile. No flirtation. No sweeping bow. Just a tall, glowering aristocrat staring at her like a late appointment.
Then—something ridiculous happened. As the orchestra began to play and the dancers began to swirl across the platform, (Name) felt her pulse flutter in her throat. Rafayel Qi was many things—arrogant, cold, and almost certainly already plotting his exit from the party—but he was handsome. Impossibly so. The kind of handsomeness that came with old money and a cursed family crest.
Despite herself, despite the fact that her little plan had just been spectacularly ruined. She stepped forward and took his hand.
His touch was warm. His grip was precise. The kind of hold that said, I do not want to be here, but if I must be, I will be flawless.
The music swelled.
They moved.
(Name) Qián, who moments ago had been dreaming of Caleb Xia’s laugh, now found herself spun across the ballroom floor by a man who looked like he hadn’t smiled since boarding school. And yet—her cheeks were flushed.
There was something electrifying in the contrast. His cold demeanor, her burning embarrassment, the fact that neither of them spoke as they danced—just the rustle of fabric, the click of polished shoes, the barely-there pressure of his hand at her waist.
At one point, their eyes met. He didn’t blink. She forgot how to.
Then suddenly—suddenly at that moment—Caleb Xia didn’t matter. Not even a little.
All because Rafayel Qi was right there, and for a brief, glittering moment, it felt like she had fallen into someone else’s story—one not about a prince, but a rival. A slow-burn ballroom tragedy. Or perhaps something else entirely.
Theme/s: Vampire Duke Sylus Qin! Murder/Mystery. Dark Romance?
Synopsis: (Name) Yue, once sold to the enigmatic Duke Sylus Qin, begins to notice strange patterns in her husband's behavior—his late-night arrivals, the mysterious suitcase, and his eerie absence from the estate. When a series of gruesome murders grip London, (Name) concern grows, but nothing could prepare her for the night she overhears a chilling exchange that leaves her questioning everything she thought she knew about her husband. As secrets dark and dangerous begin to unravel, she must confront the terrifying truth about who—or what her husband truly is.
⏾ Extra — Rooftop Haunting
Extra — "Old Man Brewer"
Qin Estate, Secrets in the Soil
The tea had long gone cold. (Name) stared down into her cup, her voice flat as she repeated what happened the night before. Brewer, seated across from her at the small breakfast table, looked as though he was about to combust from anxiety. She finished at last. The silence settled between them, thick and uneasy.
“After she was gone,” (Name) said, without lifting her eyes, “I searched her belongings—of what remained in the maid’s quarters.”
Brewer stilled, not daring to move an inch, as though he had poured all his focus into what (Name) would say next. She reached into her pocket and set the press card on the table—the ink blurred but unmistakable, bearing the masthead of a London paper.
“She wasn’t a maid,” (Name) said at last. “She was a journalist.”
Brewer blinked. Then he blinked again. And again. Several—no, multiple times in actuality. He blinked like a man desperately hoping reality would correct itself. He had failed his masters. Failed spectacularly. He deserved to perish. He seized his old heart and let out a dramatic strangled cry, while his back lurched on the chair.
“I KNEW IT!” he wailed, hurling his napkin in the air. “My background checks failed me—I should’ve gone through her closet, her family tree, her baptism records—!”
(Name) simply ignored him.
“She said something before she chased me up the rooftop,” she continued, her tone distant as if recounting a dream. “She said, ‘You and your husband—he’s not the only killer. You knew. You covered it. Just like what happened with the others.'"
Brewer stopped mid-rant. “B-but.. but you didn’t know anything! You don’t even know where the master keeps his gloves!”
(Name) didn’t bother to correct him. She didn’t remind him of that night—of seeing Sylus arrive at the Estate drenched in blood, of overhearing their hushed conversation when she was meant only to tend the cut the glass had left on her skin. She’d hidden behind the pillar then, like a cornered mouse holding its breath. Now, she wasn’t sure which was more dangerous. Knowing or pretending not to.
“I need to find something, and Brewer, you can’t follow me this time. I swear—it’ll be quick” she said, abruptly standing.
“My lady, wait!” Brewer yelped, tripping over his own foot as he followed. “I swore I’d never take my eyes off of you again! If the master finds out, I’ll sleep in the garden—I mean it! There are bugs out there, no heated floors, and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” she cut in, her gaze boring into him like a sharpened knife. He froze mid-protest.
“I—uhh—I mean, I’ll be careful!” he stammered, already backing away. He winced, then quickly corrected himself, his shoulders slumping. “No—I mean Lady Qin, you be careful.” He averted his eyes, utterly defeated, knowing better than to challenge her gaze.
Her footsteps carried her to the back garden of the Qin Estate. There might be a clue here hidden somewhere as she had seen the previous maid went here. The garden shed was barely used—half overtaken by vines, lost behind rows of freshly planted moonflowers and gardenias. She pushed open the door. It gave a low groan, as if it had been used only recently. Dust rose in the golden light. There were flower pots, rusted trowels, and a faded oil painting of the estate resting against the back wall. Nothing seemed out of place—but the faint imprint of footprints on the floor boards suggested otherwise.
Until she saw it. Tucked beneath a pile of old burlap sacks, half hidden beneath a rake handle. A journal. She was certain this was the same black journal which belonged to the maid. The leather cover was cracked, and one corner stained with something dark.
I-Is that blood? She thought to herself. But this wasn't the time for hesitation. She needed to know the truth even if Brewer kept knocking outside the shed despite warning him not to follow her. (Name) picked it up carefully and opened it. Inside the journal, it was composed of sharp, inked handwriting. Skipping formalities. Precise. Angry.
“Arrived under cover as a maid. How convenient that the opportunity presented itself quite timely. The Qin Estate is quiet. Too quiet. All staff terrified of speaking.”
“(Name) Qin. Young. Newly married. Keeps to herself. Not stupid. But might be ignorant to what he is. Or maybe she’s too scared to speak. I’d be.”
“He didn’t just kill my sister. He erased her. There was no funeral. Her body floated in the Thames like rubbish.”
(Name)’s breath caught.
“She was a Member of the Parliament. Good. Honest. Brave. She tried to expose someone. I didn’t know who, not until I followed the money. All trails led back to Sylus Qin.”
(Name) remained silent. She turned the page.
“He silences people who step out of line. I believe he’s done it for years. People vanish around him. Officials, clerks, even a bishop once. No cause. No suspect. Just ‘disappeared.’”
“If he took my sister, then I will take something of his.”
Did she meant me? (Name) closed the journal slowly. “She wasn’t here for a job. She was here for revenge.”
“She nearly killed me,” she said to herself, horrified. “What kind of journalist tries to avenge someone by knifing an innocent noblewoman in sleepwear?!”
She stared at the journal in her hands. The weight of the truth—or at least one side of it settling in. Sylus had secrets.
There were bodies in the Thames and people were starting to take notice. The wind stirred the hedges outside. The moonflowers remained still, untouched by the breeze. (Name) stood up, the journal in her hands. She suddenly felt very tired and unease that someone from the shadows watched.
Qin Estate, One Candle Between Them
The newspaper came late that evening. So late that even Brewer—usually the first to seize it from the delivery boy like a hawk from the skies had to wait with mild irritation on the front steps, tapping his foot and threatening the mail slot with a sermon on punctuality.
When it finally arrived, the mood shifted. Brewer accepted it with a curt nod and out of long habit, carried it inside and delivered it to (Name) without a second thought. It wasn’t until he had settled into the kitchen with the rest of the household staff, unfolding his own copy, that his eyes drifted to the headline—and froze. The newspaper headline screamed in bold, all-capital letters:
“SHOCKING MASS DISCOVERY IN THAMES: FIFTEEN BODIES FOUND ALONG THE THAMES. OFFICIALS SUSPECT POLITICAL INVOLVEMENT. THE RIVER HAD CLAIMED NOT ONE, BUT MULTIPLE LIVES, LEAVING A GRIM TRAIL ALONG ITS BANKS."
Brewer’s face drained of color before he even reached the bottom of the page. He was already walking—no, charging into the drawing room, where (Name) sat with a cup of tea.
“Absolutely not,” he declared, snatching the paper from her hands mid-sip.
“Brewer.”
“My lady, I beg you. Please don’t read it. It’s not worth your time—it’s just politics, nonsense, river-related nonsense!”
“Brewer,” she said again, calmly. “I already know.”
That made him stop. She didn’t look at him, but there was something still and unreadable in her tone that made him freeze. The kind of stillness one hears just before a storm strikes a quiet lake.
“…You do?” he asked weakly. Like a kid who got caught sneaking sweets behind their parent's back.
(Name) finally looked up and met his gaze. “I found the journal. The one the journalist left behind.”
Brewer went stiff. There it was—the truth. Or part of it. And now, there was no taking it back. His chest tightened, heart hammering, as a cold dread crawled up his spine. What if (Name) already had a glimpsed of the truth? What if she was to discover that the man her husband really was the one behind those murders? And what would that mean for Sylus? For them both? The thought made his stomach twist—a terror of part dread, and part of desperate protectiveness, a fear for the woman and the man he had sworn to serve. For the first time, Brewer felt the full weight of fear pressing down on him, crushing any pretense of calm.
She set her cup down with a delicate clink. “Brewer, would you please tell the kitchen staff I’ll be dining alone with the Duke tonight?”
He hesitated. “My lady, if I may—”
“Please,” she said softly, “I won’t do anything reckless.”
Of course that was a lie.
Now here she was, seated at the far end of the dining table, her chair rigidly upright, her back never quite touching it, positioned in a way quite deliberately and defensively. The polished wood stretched between them like a barrier, cold and intentional. The candle between them flickered softly as (Name) lifted her fork, then set it down again without touching the food. Across the table, Sylus was predictably poised, elegant, and unreadable as ever.
He hadn’t touched his wine.
“Sylus,” she began.
He looked up, expression polite, expectant.
“I wanted to ask you about something,” she said slowly. “Something I found in the garden shed.”
A pause. Brief. Almost imperceptible. Then, “Go on.”
She pulled the journal out from beneath the folds of her skirts and placed it on the table. The leather was worn. The bloodstains from its edges hadn’t faded. Sylus’s eyes dropped to it. He didn’t flinch.
“I found this after the incident,” (Name) continued, her voice steady. “That woman wasn’t a maid. She was a journalist. She said you killed her sister—a Parliament member. That you’ve been behind the murders.”
Sylus’s gaze lingered on the stationary piece for a long moment. The candle between them hissed gently as the wax pooled. Finally, he spoke.
“I’ve never denied that I clean up what the law is too afraid to touch.”
(Name)’s fingers curled slightly on the tablecloth.
“So it’s true?” she asked. “You’ve killed people?”
He lifted his eyes to hers. Never once breaking contact.
“I’ve removed threats,” he said plainly. “People who would destroy others, who use power to strip away dignity, voice, protection. Men and women who were never going to be punished. Not by our courts. Not in this Empire.”
“But their blood ended up in the Thames,” (Name) said, as if trying to reason with him.
“They would have bled this city dry.” His burning gaze seared through her.
Silence settled between them—thick and heavy like dust suspended in the air.
(Name) forced herself to speak “What about her sister?”
Sylus’s jaw tensed. “She was different,” he said at last. “She had promise. But she stepped into something she couldn’t comprehend. She made herself a liability to something greater than her. She was warned.”
“And she died in your hands.” Her tone of voice trembled as it rose.
“Yes,” he said, “all because she didn’t listen.”
(Name)’s breath caught. Sylus on the other hand was so calm. So matter-of-fact as if death were a business expense. A calculated risk. He looked at her then—not with cruelty, but with something worse. Conviction.
“I’ve done many things, (Name),” he said. “Things I can’t undo. But everything I’ve done, I’ve done with reason. There is more at play than you know. The people in that journal? Half of them weren’t people at all anymore. They were monsters wearing noble titles.”
She swallowed, hesitant to ask another question—or perhaps unsure whether she could bear the answer Sylus would give.
“And what about me?” she asked, voice softer now. “Am I just a liability too?”
Sylus’s gaze flickered—just a fraction. He sat straighter.
“No,” he said quietly. “You are the only part of my life that feels unstained.”
Quite a breather. Such a rare honesty. It was frightening. Said with such conviction.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” he continued. “But if I told you everything, it would destroy the comfort you still have.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’re my wife. And you deserve to be safe.”
Another silence. This one heavier. (Name) studied him—the elegant curve of his gloved hands, the untouched food before him, the shadows at his collarbone where no warmth ever reached.
She remembered the moonflowers. Blooming red. She remembered the glass shard beneath her pillow. She remembered the way the Thames rippled like it had secrets.
Then she said, “I want the rest of the truth, Sylus. All of it.”
Sylus stared at her for a long moment. Then he stood. The sound of the chair being pushed back echoed the dining room. He moved slowly to her side of the table and knelt—knelt—beside her chair. One gloved hand reached up, fingertips just brushing her cheek.
“You may not like what you find,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But if you still wish to see.”
He offered her his hand.
“Then follow me to the west wing.”
Qin Estate, The Room of Red Strings
The west wing door opened with a low, mechanical click. Sylus had not spoken a word since they left the dining room. His presence was a quiet current beside her, one that did not touch her hand but hovered close enough to sense. She followed him through the darkened halls, past familiar oil paintings that grew unfamiliar under the weight of silence. (Name) had passed this hallway before. But never like this.
This time, the locks disengaged with a precise metallic sound, like clockwork jaws unclenching. A scent of old paper, candle smoke, and something darker—like iron or dried blood—lingered in the air. She didn't speak. Neither did he.
The room they entered was not large, but its shadows were thick. Candles lined the perimeter. A heavy oak desk sat at its center, surrounded by tall glass cases, drawers, crates, and velvet-pinned boards. But it wasn’t the furniture that stilled her breath. It was the wall. It was covered.
Parchment files. Court sketches. Clippings. Names. Some alive. Some crossed out in black ink. Some carved through entirely. Red thread pinned connections between them like a spider’s web spun by obsession. Whole regions of London mapped out in blotches of red—Thames docks, Parliament rows, old cathedrals, aristocratic estates.
(Name) walked toward it slowly, careful not to brush the pinned strings. The deeper she went, the more recognizable the names became. Lords, Ministers, even the old Bishop of Westbrook. They were all around London—no, it was the entirety of London.
"These all are—" she started, but the sentence gave up midway. As if the words got lost at the tip of her tongue.
“Public figures,” Sylus said behind her. “Men and women placed in high seats. Not by merit and not for the Empire’s good.”
He stepped beside her, folding his hands behind his back.
“There’s a faction buried within our Parliament. Some call them the Hollow Circle. Some say they don’t exist at all.”
“Do they?” she asked.
“They do,” he said calmly, “, and they are not human.”
(Name) blinked. “Excuse me what—?”
“They feed. On people. On power. They bend law and loyalty to make themselves untouchable. Until now.”
He gestured to the board. “I’ve been undoing them. One by one.”
(Name) couldn’t look away from the inked names. A chill tickled her spine. The last thread of hope that this was all a misunderstanding began to pull taut. She moved toward the side wall—smaller frames, more private, less official. And then she saw it.
A photo.
A woman in Parliament robes. Stern. Intelligent. Pretty, even. Her eyes looked strangely familiar. (Name) squinted.
“That’s the journalist’s sister,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” Sylus answered without hesitation. “Her name was Lilac Marlowe. She worked with me. Closely.”
“You were allies?”
“For a short time. She understood discretion. Strategy. At least, I thought she did.”
(Name) studied the photo.
“She betrayed you?”
“Yes.”
(Name) turned toward him, her brow furrowed and forehead scrunching, “Why?”
Sylus’s expression didn’t change. But something in his jaw shifted. A clench. Subtle.
“She wasn’t pleased when I married,” he said finally. “She believed my attention belonged to her. That she was entitled to more than a professional partnership.”
(Name) stared at him. “You’re saying she tried to expose you—just because she was jealous?”
“She grew emotional,” he said. “Dangerously so. I reminded her of boundaries, and the role she played. That was enough to tip her.”
(Name) blinked. “That’s a shallow reason to attempt to destroy someone,” she muttered.
“I agree,” Sylus said. “But emotion has always been a poor strategist.”
There was no bitterness in his voice. Only resignation. (Name) didn’t know what to say. The room felt warmer now, as if the red strings carried heat.
“She wanted to destroy you,” she whispered, “so her sister tried to destroy me.”
Sylus looked at her now, his gaze unreadable but heavy.
“You were her collateral.”
(Name) exhaled. Her fingers itched to touch something. To anchor herself. Instead, she began pacing slightly, scanning the web of connections, trying to find the place where truth ended and danger began. Somewhere along the wall, she saw another name—one not crossed out. And her heart skipped. It was someone she knew. Someone still alive. But the ink around that name was not pinned. It was circled. Twice.
(Name)’s voice trembled. “This person is next?”
Sylus stepped beside her. “If they make their move. Yes.”
Her eyes widened. “They’re close to the Royal Court.”
“I know.”
She turned to him. “Does the Queen know?”
“No,” he said. “And she can’t. Not yet.”
The candle beside her hissed as if in warning. (Name) stepped back. Her mind flooded with images. Dead officials in the river, glowing red moonflowers, a woman with a knife whispering that she knew. She looked at Sylus again. She didn’t know if she was afraid of him anymore. Or afraid of what would happen if he wasn’t there.
Qin Estate, A Still Night
(Name) Qin no longer walked the gardens at night. Didn't even bother sneaking out at night anymore to water her moonflowers.
She changed the rhythm of her days—intentionally. Her mornings now smelled of soil and dewdrops rather than blood-slick moonlight. She tended her flowers with a calm grace, wearing her gloves as always, the soft brush of gardenias and moonflower stems grounding her to reality. She even started bringing tea outside during her morning ritual, placing a cup beside the stone birdbath as if expecting someone who’d never arrive.
The staff noticed. Brewer did too, though he said nothing. The incident with the imposter maid branded as the red-eyed fury had not been spoken of since. But (Name) still locked her doors more than usual now. She counted the windows at night. She double-checked the garden shed.
And though she had not said it aloud—she felt watched.
That evening, she didn’t light the lamp in her bedroom. She preferred the silver light of the moon. It bathed the Qin Estate in a calm glow, like the pale reflection of an old lullaby. The moonflowers were blooming. She could see them glowing faintly along the stone garden paths, their petals catching the moon’s touch like little lanterns.
They bloomed for her. Yet she did not smile. Her hands gently pressed against the window frame. Her breath fogged the glass slightly. There, just beyond the outer gates— a figure of a person. It stood in the dark. Remained impeccably still. Watching? Observing?
At first, she thought it might have been a statue. A tree’s shadow. Yet it moved. Slightly. Almost as if breathing. (Name)’s eyes narrowed. Too far to make out features. But the presence was undeniable. Lingering. Unmoving. Not approaching. Not retreating. It simply stood there. Like a warning.
She stepped back from the window, her hand instinctively brushing her chest where the rosary used to hang. Her heart ticked faster. There had been no murders reported in the newspapers this week. No officials found in the Thames. Which could only mean two things. Either Sylus hadn’t made his move—or the ones left unmarked were biding their time to strike first. A possibility of both, wasn't also out of the question.
She hadn’t seen him since the west wing. Exactly one week ago. That night he had guided her into the room of red threads, revealed names and secrets and scars of a world she never asked to belong to, then—he vanished.
No letters. No notes. No midnight carriage creaking down the gravel drive. Just Brewer with a tighter jaw. Maids exchanging nervous glances when she asked if the master had dined in. She had become the quiet heartbeat of the estate. Waiting. She heard Brewer knocking gently before pushing the door open with a tray of tea.
“My lady,” he said, voice gentler than usual. “You haven’t touched your supper.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” she replied softly, eyes still lingering at the window. “There’s someone outside.”
Brewer didn’t need to look. His shoulders tensed immediately.
“You saw them?” he asked grimly.
She nodded. “Just past the gate. Watching.”
Brewer set the tray down with great care. He didn’t bother with his usual dramatics. Not this time.
“That makes the third night.”
(Name) turned to him sharply. “What?”
He sighed. “I didn’t want to worry you. Thought they might just be—well. You know. The sort of cowards that like to skulk and peer through fences like disgraced dogs.”
“And you didn’t think I should know?”
“I was hoping the master would return first.”
A long stretched silence between them. Then, almost childishly, (Name) murmured, “…He didn’t say why he left. Didn't even bother to bid me farewell."
Brewer looked at her with something close to pity.
“No,” he said. “But I’d wager it’s because he didn’t want you to see what happens next.”
Qin Estate, Tea and Truths
(Name) Qin had waited long enough. She had seen the journal. She had heard the rumors. She had even watched her husband come home bloodied, torn, silent, smiling. And now—now there were watchers at her gates, and still Sylus had not returned.
She wanted answers. She knew exactly where to get them. Brewer hadn’t expected it. He quickened his pace down the corridor, ignoring the protests of his aging legs. Too late. She closed in with quiet precision, cornering him the way a cat stalks a pigeon—patient, deliberate, and certain there would be no escape.
“My lady, please, I’m too old for—”
“Sit,” she said, placing the tea set down with practiced grace.
“But the kitchen needs—”
“If you don’t sit, I’ll climb into the rooftop again and scream your name loud enough for the master to hear it wherever he is.”
Brewer’s soul visibly left his body at that. He listened and sat—his posture impeccably accurate and upright. Quite mechanical yet stiff. Muttering under his breath the entire time. “First the master threatened to hang me by my ankles for letting a vampire journalist into the estate, and now the Lady’s a menace too. I’m surrounded by creatures. This is how I die. I knew it.”
(Name) poured the tea calmly. “Milk?”
“No thank y—wait this isn’t drugged is it?”
She gave him a sharp look.
“Okay,” Brewer huffed, arms crossed. “What do you want to know?”
She stirred her cup—slowly, measured and precise—as if every moment leading up to now had been steeping toward this one.
“Everything.” she said.
Brewer sighed, his gaze drifted toward the high arched windows. The sky was gloomy. It was grey and heavy, as if a heavy downpour was to occur, as though the world itself was holding its breath before the rain. Maybe this really was the right time, he thought—the one the truth had been waiting for, at last, to step into the light.
“You ever seen the Thames in winter, my lady?” he asked quietly. “It never freezes. It just darkens—turns still, black as oil, swallowing every reflection. That’s how I remember it. The river that night. The night I met the master.”
(Name) tilted her head, confusion flickering across her face. Where was Brewer going with this?
“I was a beggar boy. Seven…maybe eight. Thieves had already taken my shoes. Bloody cold as hell. I used to sell matches back then. Thought maybe if I cried hard enough, someone would toss a coin my way. They didn’t. People don’t stop for rats.”
His voice caught slightly, yet he continued on.
“I was dying. I know that now. Couldn’t feel my fingers. Yet I remember lookin up and seein’ this man in a coat. Dark gloves. Didn’t speak. Just.. knelt.”
Brewer chuckled weakly, brushing a tear from his cheek. “A noble. Kneelin’ in the street to look me in the eye. And then he says, ‘You’re wasting away, boy. Would you like a job instead?’”
(Name)’s brow furrowed. “And you just said yes?”
“I didn’t even ask what kind of job,” Brewer snorted. “That’s how desperate I was. He gave me his coat. Carried me to his carriage. Nursed me like I was a stray animal he rescued from the gutter.”
(Name) softened. She hadn’t expected this. Not really. Not the weight of it.
“And that’s… how long you’ve worked for him?”
“Forty-nine years,” Brewer nodded proudly. “I’ve seen things, my lady. Things you wouldn’t believe. But I also owe him my life. He never treated me like a servant. More like a comrade.”
There was a pause. Then Brewer’s tone changed to something far more serious. Even his expression.
“But I won’t lie. The master is not—how shall I say—he’s not a man like others.”
(Name) sipped slowly. “Is he… then what is he?”
Brewer didn’t answer immediately. He just stared into his tea.
“Do you think you’re being hunted?” he asked softly.
(Name) looked up sharply. Brewer leaned forward, his facial expression suddenly turning serious.
“It's because you are.”
She felt the cold crawl up her spine.
“It’s not just the watcher at the gates,” he whispered. “It’s the names on the wall. The ones that aren’t crossed. They’ve realized you’re his tether. That you matter.”
“Then why hasn’t Sylus done anything?” she whispered. “Why did he leave?”
Brewer hesitated. “My Lady, it's because if he stayed, the ones in hiding would never come out. But if they think he’s gone—”
She went cold. “They’ll come for me.”
Brewer nodded grimly. “He’s not just a noble, my lady. He’s a warden. A butcher. A protector of this twisted Empire in ways the public don’t know. He takes out the rot.”
“By killing it?” she said.
Brewer met her gaze. “Yes.”
The tea had long been forgotten. (Name) stood by the window now, arms crossed. Watching the garden, the flowers, the shadow at the gate.
Brewer rose and dusted his coat. “You may not like him, my lady. But he is the reason none of them have crossed that gate. Yet.”
She didn’t turn to him. “You still didn’t tell me what he is.”
Brewer gave her a wan smile.
“I didn’t have to.”
Then he left.
(Name) stood frozen for half a breath—then hurried after him, footsteps quick against the marble.
“Brewer—w-wait!”
He didn’t stop. Not even turning around even once as he continued and increased his pace. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even turn around once—only quickened his stride, as if he could outrun the very question chasing at his heels.
“Tell me the truth!” she demanded, catching up just as he reached the corridor’s end.
Brewer finally paused, his shoulders tense, as if he could feel the weight of her question pressing between his ribs.
Then at that moment—CRACK.
Thunder split the sky. Lightning poured through the tall windows, flooding the hall in harsh white—illuminating the oil painting mounted beside them.
Sylus, clad in an older fashion—dark velvet, high collar, the kind of portrait that belonged to a century long buried. His face was untouched by time. Too smooth. Too perfect. Too unchanged. A flawless reflection. At the bottom of the frame, a faded inscription surfaced in the light. A date. Too old to be real.
(Name)’s breath hitched as she stared. Brewer didn’t. Didn’t even react—only glanced at the portrait with a grim familiarity, like a man who had always known what she was only beginning to see. His expression tightened expression—as if watching a secret finally catch up to someone.
The lightning vanished. Darkness returned. Yet the image stayed burned behind her eyes. Impossible. At that final moment, she could not move. Could not breathe. Could not even blink. The world around her seemed to have dissolved, leaving only that silent and unbearable truth. Behind her, Brewer’s retreating footsteps were the only answer that remained.
Note: Thank U sm for sticking until the end ♡(.◜ω◝.)♡ . That concludes everything. Ngl, the part where Sylus offered child Brewer a job had me screaming ‘child labor’ and the idea made me giggle so much I had to add it.
Synopsis: A princess trapped in a world that isn't hers is forced toward a coronation woven with unease, whispers, and a sense of impending doom. When the crown shatters and blood is spilled, it becomes clear that the story has already gone horribly off-script. In the wake of betrayal, hidden motives, and deadly ambitions, no one can predict who will survive or seize power, and every step forward seems to plunge the kingdom deeper into uncertainty.
～☆ Chapter 3
Chapter 4 - "A Date, a Death, and a Warning"
When (Name) woke again, the first thing she registered was silence. No rattling carriage wheels, no storm hammering against stone. Just the faint crackle of a fireplace and the distant echo of rain tapering to drizzle outside.
For a moment, she thought she was back home, in her small apartment, where her biggest worry was the mountain of laundry she’d ignored for two weeks. But then—reality hit. The heavy blanket cocooning her wasn’t hers. And the man at her side—Duke Shen Xinghui himself—was very much real.
She almost screamed.
The panic came rushing back, a tidal wave that nearly choked her. Yet she didn’t have time to gather herself before the door opened and a parade of staff swept in like a tidal force of propriety and duty.
“Milady, you are awake!” a maid gasped, as though (Name)’s mere consciousness was a miracle.
(Name) blinked. “Mi—uhh who?”
Another maid stepped forward slightly then curtsied, the voice soft but trembling with enthusiasm. “Lady Shen, forgive us for disturbing your rest, but His Grace insisted we attend to you immediately.”
(Name)’s brain flatlined.
Lady Shen.
Lady.
Shen.
No matter how many times she repeated it inside her head, it still sounded wrong—it was utterly absurd. It refused to make any sense at all. The maids, however, didn’t care that she was mentally breaking down. Their concern lay not with her distress but with the obligations drilled into them long before this moment. Tending to their duties comes first after all. They descended upon her bed like a well-trained army of attendants, moving with purpose.
Of course, there was just one tiny, insignificant problem. The Duke.
Shen Xinghui—villain of the novel, terror of her nightmares, inexplicably breathtaking in reality—was seated right beside her. Still in his crisp attire, though the cloak and gloves had been discarded, he looked as though he hadn’t moved all night. His posture was upright, yet there was a looseness in his shoulders that hinted he hadn’t left her side. And when the maids tried to reach for her, Xavier’s hand shot out.
“She stays.” His voice was low, commanding, leaving no room for negotiation.
The maids froze, exchanging wide-eyed looks. (Name), meanwhile, wanted to die of second-hand embarrassment, her eye twitching at the slightest. Didn’t you literally order them to attend to me? What followed was the most awkward tug-of-war in existence. The maids trying to gently pry her away while Xavier kept her tucked under his arm like a particularly precious possession.
“Your Grace please kindly let go,” one of them whispered timidly, “the Lady needs to be bathed and dressed. If you would allow—”
“No.” His arm tightened around (Name), his voice sharp as a blade. “You will not take her from me.”
(Name) was internally shrieking. TAKE ME! TAKE ME NOW! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEONE REMOVE ME FROM THIS SITUATION!
Finally, when the maids hesitated, (Name) seized her one and only chance. She bolted. Literally lunged across the bed and into the arms of the startled attendants, clinging to them like a drowning woman clinging to driftwood.
“Go, go, GOOO!” she hissed at them under her breath, using the maids like a human shield.
To her immense relief, they didn’t question it. They escorted her out of the room, half-flustered and half-victorious. (Name) threw one last glance over her shoulder and nearly combusted at the sight of Xavier’s gaze fixed on her, unreadable yet burning with intensity.
Shen Estate, The Private Chambers
Of course, her moment of reprieve didn’t last long. After being scrubbed raw, dressed in silks too fine for her taste, and drowned in perfume that made her sneeze, she was escorted back—not to some guest quarters, but to their private chambers.
The reality of that word—their—wasn’t lost on her. (Name) froze before the heavy oak door, her stomach twisting into knots. She swallowed hard, cursing every decision in her life that had led her here. She stepped inside, pointedly keeping her gaze fixed anywhere except the massive bed dominating the room. And the man already seated on it.
Xavier looked up from where he was unbuttoning his cuffs, perfectly composed. (Name) marched straight to her side of the bed, yanked the blankets back, and crawled under with all the dignity of a sulking cat. She kept her back to him, jaw tight, and willed herself to pretend he didn’t exist.
It might’ve worked—if he hadn’t moved.
The bed shifted, the mattress dipping, and then warmth pressed against her back. She stiffened, biting her tongue to stop herself from shrieking when his arm came around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
Every nerve in her body screamed in protest. This is fine. Totally fine. You’re just casually spooning with the villain of the novel. No big deal. Definitely not panic-inducing. Nope. Not at all.
She wanted to kick him. Hard. And then, as if her panic wasn’t enough, his voice brushed against her ear, low and deliberate.
“You will be queen soon.”
(Name) froze. Her heart stuttered, her blood ran cold. Queen? What was that supposed to mean? Before she could demand clarification, Xavier’s breathing evened out, his body relaxing fully against hers. He was asleep. She, however, was wide awake, staring into the darkness with eyes the size of saucers.
By the time the sun rose, she was a wreck. Seated at the long dining table, dressed in finery she didn’t remember putting on, she stared blankly at the plate before her. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t think. She was trying—and failing—to piece together what on earth was happening.
Her supposed marriage.
Her supposed coronation.
Her supposed life.
Nothing made sense. The novel had never mentioned her existence, much less that Xavier had a secret wife or that she was meant to be queen. She was on the verge of spiraling again when he entered.
Xavier descended the staircase like he owned the entire world, because of course he did. He didn’t bother with ceremony, simply took the seat beside her. His presence was overwhelming—impossibly composed, ridiculously handsome, and terrifying in the way only Shen Xinghui could be.
He didn’t waste time and went straight to the point.
“You don’t need to do this,” he said, voice calm, as if continuing a conversation they hadn’t actually had. “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty to erase those nobles. One command from me, and they’ll never trouble you again.”
(Name) whipped her head toward him, eyes wide. Erase? What was he— then, like a sledgehammer, a memory slammed into her. Not hers. Hers-but-not-hers. Her voice, firm and earnest, echoing from the fragments the system had dumped into her head.
“Violence isn’t the answer, Xavier. If you kill them, you’ll only prove them right—that you are nothing but a tyrant. I have to face them. Show them I am worthy of ruling. That I can lead without bloodshed. This instability will pass. And when it does, they will have no choice but to acknowledge me.”
(Name) blinked rapidly, horrified. Did she really—did she say that?
Xavier studied her reaction with unnerving patience. His lips curved, faintly, almost indulgent.
“You still intend to compromise with them, then,” he murmured, more statement than question. “Even after everything they’ve done.”
(Name)’s heart thundered. She had no idea what the right answer was, but one thing was clear. Whatever her past self had been planning, it was something that placed her at the center of this empire’s chaos. And she was so, so doomed.
(Name) had faced a lot of stressful things in her life—tax deadlines, work meetings, riding a crowded bus during rush hour—but nothing compared to sitting at an ornate dining table in a literal villain’s mansion while trying to figure out how not to combust.
Across from her, Shen Xinghui still looked perfectly composed. Of course he did. The man was elegance incarnate, every movement precise, every glance sharp enough to cut glass. He had just offered—so casually, as if discussing the weather—to “erase” the nobles who opposed her. Meanwhile, she was sweating bullets under layers of silk.
She couldn’t Google anything. Couldn’t text a friend. Couldn’t even scream into a pillow because there were maids and footmen everywhere.
She was going to be queen. While her husband—the villain of the story—was staring at her, patiently waiting for a response.
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her brain had went blank. Then the light bulb above them popped. It felt ominous. It was a sharp, snapping sound that echoed like a gunshot in the ornate dining hall. Glass shattered, sparks fizzled, and for a split second, everything was plunged into dim flickering light. The maids shrieked softly, immediately scurrying to clean the mess, their apologies tumbling over one another.
(Name)’s heart leapt into her throat. The sound had startled her so badly she nearly toppled out of her chair. But then her eyes drifted—by accident—toward the far wall.
The calendar.
It was a large, beautifully illustrated piece, the kind nobles used to mark the date of hunts and banquets. But something about it made her stomach drop.
“What day is it today?” she asked, her voice too sharp, too urgent.
Xavier’s gaze flicked to her, his brows arching ever so slightly. “The twelfth of Zenith,” he said smoothly, as if it were obvious. “Why?”
The name of the month wasn’t what hit her—it was the number. The day.
She felt her breath caught. She remembered the opening lines of the novel she’d been reading before she fell asleep, the one with all the plot holes she’d roasted in the comment section. The author had been annoyingly specific about dates. And the first page—the one that introduced Sylus Qin’s rise to power—had begun exactly two months from now.
Two months from this date.
That was when the “story” officially began.
She was here before the story started.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Oh no no no no no.”
Her hands trembled under the table. She clutched the edge of her chair like a lifeline. Apparently the universe hadn’t finished tormenting her yet, the system popped up. Its cold, translucent window materialized right in front of her face, bright enough to make her flinch.
>> [WARNING: PREVENT YOUR OWN DEATH.]
>> [WARNING: PREVENT YOUR OWN DEATH.]
>> [WARNING: PREVENT YOUR OWN DEATH.]
The letters pulsed in an ominous red. Her blood turned to ice. She’d been panicking this whole time, sure, but she hadn’t actually considered the possibility that the entire point of her transmigration was to die. To literally die.
“Wh—what?” she whispered, her voice thin, strangled.
The system didn’t care. It flashed again, repeating the same message. As if she would miss it if she even blinked. The system's message was loud and clear.
>> [WARNING: PREVENT YOUR OWN DEATH.]
>> [WARNING: PREVENT YOUR OWN DEATH.]
She felt sweat slide down her spine despite the coolness of the room. Her heart hammered in her chest, deafening. Transmigrated into a book? Fine, she could deal with that. Married to a villain? Horrifying, but maybe survivable. But dying? Actually dying as part of the “plot”?
No. No no no.
She scrambled mentally, thinking through the story, the characters, the timeline—but none of this was in the book. Not the warning, not her presence, not this ominous prelude. She wasn’t even supposed to exist.
“Are you unwell?” Xavier’s voice cut through her panic like a knife.
She jerked her head up to look at him. He had risen from his chair, the faintest crease of concern on his brow. He looked so composed, so steady, while she was falling apart.
“I-I—” she started, but her voice cracked. She stumbled back, bumping into the chair. Her legs felt unsteady. Then the system spoke again, but this time with a new message.
>> [SYSTEM MESSAGE: If you fail, Shen Xinghui will meet the same fate. Death at the hands of Sylus Qin.]
(Name)’s heart stopped. Her eyes went wide.
Sylus.
The hero of the story.
The one destined to kill Xavier—the villain.
Her mind spun out of control. Why me? Why this? How is any of this relevant? Was I brought here just to die?
The room around her tilted. She couldn’t breathe. The weight of it all—her becoming queen, preventing her death, Xavier, Sylus—was crushing her chest.
“I—I need—” she stammered, then turned and bolted.
She didn’t even know where she was running, only that she needed out. Her slippers skidded on the polished floor as she burst through the doors, her skirts swishing violently. She kept going until the cool damp air of the gardens hit her face like a slap.
She made it just far enough to reach a row of manicured hedges before she doubled over and vomited. The sound was loud in the morning quiet. The taste of bile burned her throat. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, eyes stinging. This was real. This was all real.
Footsteps followed her. Fast, purposeful.
“(Name)!” Xavier’s voice, closer now, sharp with worry. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
He arrived moments later, a firm but careful hand settled on her back. She flinched but didn’t shove him off—too busy fighting her own spiraling panic.
He crouched beside her, his other hand reaching to steady her shoulder, his expression for once completely unguarded. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”
She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even explain the truth. Couldn’t tell him that the system had just handed her a death sentence and tied his fate to hers. All she could do was choke out a breathless, broken whisper: “Why?”
But the question wasn’t meant for him. It was for the invisible, silent system, and whatever cruel author had written this nightmare. Xavier’s thumb brushed her cheek, wiping at the tears she hadn’t even realized were there. His blue eyes softened in a way that terrified her more than his anger ever could.
“(Name),” he said, urgently, “look at me.”
She did. And for one terrifying heartbeat, the villain of the story looked nothing like a villain at all.
Theme/s: Vampire Duke Sylus Qin! Murder/Mystery. Dark Romance?
Synopsis: (Name) Yue, once sold to the enigmatic Duke Sylus Qin, begins to notice strange patterns in her husband's behavior—his late-night arrivals, the mysterious suitcase, and his eerie absence from the estate. When a series of gruesome murders grip London, (Name) concern grows, but nothing could prepare her for the night she overhears a chilling exchange that leaves her questioning everything she thought she knew about her husband. As secrets dark and dangerous begin to unravel, she must confront the terrifying truth about who—or what her husband truly is.
⏾ Chapter 9
Extra — "Rooftop Haunting"
Qin Estate, No Such Thing as Too Much Garlic
It started with her eyes. Not (Name)'s though, but the new maid. The new maid had those eyes.
(Name) had seen them before—not in the estate, not in any tea salon, not even in the halls of The Parliament. If she had passed her there at all, she had failed to notice her. She had only seen her through a photograph, in one of the newspapers from the growing stack Brewer insisted she stop collecting. A face belonging to one of the bodies recovered from the Thames. A low-ranking Parliament aide who died two weeks ago. The resemblance was faint but unmistakable—something in the bone structure, the eyes. Not the same woman, but close enough to unsettle. Unremarkable, except for her piercing blue eyes, the kind that saw more than they should.
Now, they were here. In her house. Under the roof of her estate. Wearing the Qin maid uniform and carrying a tray of scones.
“She’s just here for the week, my lady,” Brewer had whispered anxiously, rubbing his forehead as he handed (Name) her tea. “We’re terribly short-staffed after—well, after Mary fled the property screaming about shadows with teeth—but I assure you, she’s harmless. Probably.”
“Probably?” (Name) asked, her voice uncertain.
Brewer gave her a shaky thumbs-up. “She’s a quiet sort!”
As if that could remove the unease in her chest. (Name) narrowed her eyes at the maid across the hall, who seemed very busy aggressively fluffing a single pillow for twenty minutes.
By day, the maid moved silently through the halls. Too silently as if she were a ghost. She never greeted the staff, never made eye contact. Yet she always lingered in the corner of the halls long after, like a shadow that refuses to leave, always watching. No—observing her in particular. Every moment of hers.
The maid, as she noted, was always writing in that little black notebook of hers. (Name) once asked her what she was jotting down—maybe instructions? grocery lists?
The maid blinked, snapped the book shut, and excused herself before the word suspicious could even form in (Name)’s mouth. Maybe she really just hated people Maybe she should just let it go. Maybe it was simply one of the maid’s quirks—antisocial, withdrawn, and harmless. Or so she thought.
The garlic incident was the first real crack. The moment she tasted her soup after one spoonful and nearly choked from the overwhelming stench of cloves. She turned to Brewer, her expression was a mix of disbelief and exasperation.
Brewer, whom instantly noticed her distress, quickly stepped forward. "Excuse me, milady.” He said, holding out a tasting spoon for himself. He took a careful sip—and immediately recoiled, as if the taste had knocked the wind out of him.
He looked ready to faint. “G-Garlic?! In your food?!”
He immediately swatted the bowl away like it was poison and shoved four pieces of bread onto her plate in a panic. "Eat the carbs! EAT THE CLEANSE, MY LADYYY—"
It wasn’t just merely poor seasoning. It was a test, laid down in the form of silverware. Then came with the flower incident. Her flowers. (Name) had just finished breakfast and was about to attend to her Moonflowers, a familiar morning ritual when she saw it—the maid in the garden, cutting them down one by one with silver shears.
“HEY!” (Name) bolted forward, fury igniting in her chest. “What do you think you’re doing?!” she barked. She knew that her sudden outburst was quite unlike her—she had always regarded the staff with courtesy and respect, and governed herself the composure expected of a noble lady, but this offense was far too great to be overlooked.
The maid didn’t turn. She whispered something under her breath which sounded like, “She’ll die. Just like the rest.”
(Name) froze, a sudden chill running down her spine. “W-what did you just say?” She stammered, hardly daring to believe her ears.
The maid spun around slowly—her eyes wild, lips trembling, even raising her hand as if she was shielding herself. “I didn’t mean it! Don’t hurt me my lady!”
“I didn’t—what?” (Name) said, clearly taken aback by the maid's action.
“Don’t—DON’T LIE TO ME, I KNEW WHAT YOU DID—”
(Name) stepped back. The maid dropped the flowers and ran. That should’ve been the final straw. But it wasn’t. Not yet. No, the final straw came that night.
(Name) had just extinguished the last of her candles and reached for her nightgown when she heard it. Rummaging. From behind her bedroom door. The distinct sound of drawers being opened. Of cloth being moved. Of pages turning. She yanked her bedroom door open with a bang—and froze at the sight. There. Standing beside her wardrobe. The maid. No. Not a maid. She was half-dressed now, the uniform unfastened, revealing a hidden leather holster beneath. And in her hand—a knife. A big, large, butcher knife.
“YOU—!” the woman hissed.
(Name) stumbled back. Taking small steps back inch by inch.
“You think you can charm your way into this family and no one would notice the trail of death following you? You think the blood in the Thames would remain a secret forever?”
“What are you talking about—?” (Name) gasped.
“You and your husband,” the woman spat. “He’s not the only killer. You knew. You covered it. Just like the others.”
“I didn’t—!” (Name) stepped back again, slamming into the hall.
The woman advanced, eyes sharp, knife raised. “I’ll end it. Here. Now. Before another disappears—!”
(Name) did the only thing she could think of. She ran. Her slippers slipped against the floor as she turned sharply, bolting down the corridor—her breath catching in her throat.
There was no other way to turn. The only way left was—the West Wing.
Brewer had always warned her not to. She was forbidden to enter that part of the estate. It belonged to Sylus, and only he held the key. But tonight? She didn’t care because the woman was right behind her.
Whatever secrets lay in the West Wing, they were still less terrifying than the knife-wielding mad woman behind her screaming about murder. She slammed the doors open—which happened to be suspiciously unlocked. No time. Brewer could scold her later and braced herself against the darkness.
West Wing, Between Heaven and Hell
The moment (Name)’s slippers touched the marbled floor of the forbidden West Wing, a chilling draft snaked up her spine. The air was colder here. Still. Undisturbed. Darkness swallowed the room, thick and absolute. It carried a faint scent—old paper, wax.. and something metallic.
She had no time to notice the details. The corridor stretched before her like a gaping throat, moonlight slicing through the arched windows in jagged slivers. Shadows warped and crawled along the walls as she ran, her barefeet—having already lost her slippers—silent, the soft slap of fabric against her skin the only noise.
She dared a glance behind her—the woman was still following. However, it wasn’t a woman anymore. Not fully.
Her face was human. But her eyes—oh god, her eyes—blazed crimson, glowing like coals buried under flesh. When she moved, her bones seemed to twitch and twist at unnatural angles, as if her limbs couldn’t decide how to remain within the shell of a human body.
(Name)’s breath hitched. Panic threatened to choke her. She reached into the shallow pocket of her nightgown—fingertips brushing against the cool wood and metal of the rosary Sarah had given her when she newly arrived in the Estate. A strange comfort, always tucked close. Without thinking, she whirled on her heel and threw it. It struck the woman in the chest with a soft clink—then fell. No smoke. No burning. Nothing. No reaction. The thing in the maid’s skin let out a guttural, inhuman snarl.
(Name)'s mouth went dry. “She’s not afraid of it…?” Then, as if she had lost hope at that realization,“—I’m dead.”
She didn’t wait for the creature to charge. Her eyes scanned down the hall—there. A metal chain dangled down the side wall from a square panel in the ceiling. A hatch. She bolted. Fingers trembling, she grabbed the chain and yanked. She didn't even know where it lead to.
The hatch groaned open. The wooden ladder creaked as it unfolded. The ladder steps dropping down into place just as the slow heavy, deliberate, and unhurried footsteps echoed behind her. She climbed. Fast.
The ladder bit into her palms, splinters tearing at her skin as she hauled herself upward. The thing followed below, its steps steady. Confident. It knew she couldn’t outrun it. With all the strength she could gather—shoved the hatch above her head and froze.
She didn't expect to be greeted by the night sky.
Cold air slammed into her as she dragged herself onto the rooftop platform, clutching at whatever she could hold onto—wood, metal, anything solid. The roof pitched sharply beneath her feet. She nearly slipped on the steep incline of the roof beneath the rafters as the wind tore at her hair, biting and relentless. She staggered away from the opening, breath coming sharp and ragged.
Then—click. The ladder creaked. The hatch began to rise.
The woman's face emerged—lit by the blood-colored moonlight. (Name) was terrified at the sight of the woman. The figure stared up at her, lips curling into a sneer. Her human mask was crumbling. The whites of her eyes were now fully red, pupils tiny pinpricks. Her jaw seemed unhinged. Her fingers curved like talons.
“You don’t deserve to live,” the woman spat. Then her voice cracked. “You knew. You watched him bleed London dry!”
The woman lunged upward, clawing at the rooftop tiles—reaching for (Name)’s ankle. (Name) backed up, her legs shaking in fear. Her heart pounding against her chest, as if it was about to burst any minute now.
Before the woman could pull herself fully into the roof—a hand shot out of the darkness below and grabbed her by the ankle.
A man’s hand. Pale. Veined.
(Name) didn’t even have time to scream. The maid or “creature” let out a shriek—the sound tore through the walls sounding like an animal, wrong, dying. Their eyes met, and in that instant, (Name) saw fury simmering in the woman's eyes. Then—she was yanked violently downward.
The roof hatch slammed shut with a thunderous bang. The scream cut off mid-note. Silence followed afterwards.(Name) collapsed to her knees, her chest heaving in shallow, shaky breaths. Her ears rang from the force of it all, and the rooftop felt impossibly still. Above her, the moon hung crimson and swollen in the sky. But its glow didn’t warm her. It watched. She stared at the hatch below her feet. Waiting. But it never opened again.
Qin Estate, The Rooftop Haunting
Brewer nearly lost his soul that night. He had returned from a short errand—ten minutes, just ten harmless minutes—only to find all the doors locked. Bolted from within. Not even the side servants path nor the greenhouse latches budged. The only open thing in the entire godforsaken mansion was his mouth as he screamed from the outside like a lunatic.
That was until he looked up and saw her. (Name) Qin. His Lady. On the roof. Frozen. Pale. Clinging to a roof tile like her life depended on it, nightgown fluttering in the icy wind. The ghostly glow of the estate’s moonlit windows illuminating her figure like a tragic oil painting. Brewer swore his heart screeched.
He did not take it well.
“My LAAADY—!!” Brewer wailed from the ground as he sprinted around the hedges. “—W-What are you doing on the roof?! Is this an EMOTIONAL CRISIS or a POSSESSED one?!”
“Brewer!” she shouted back, her teeth chattering from the chilling night breeze, “you’re the only one panicking! I just got chased by that maid who might not even be human!”
She pointed a trembling finger toward the rooftop hatch in front of her. “SHE HAD RED EYES, BREWER! RED!”
“Red eyes?!” he choked, whilst slipping on a stray pebble. “What in the bleeding hell—where are the other maids?!”
“She locked them out,” (Name) said, eyes wide and voice flat. “She might have planned this.”
Brewer took one look at her shivering against the steep slope and absolutely lost it. “You’re not a noble wife—you’re a MISSING PERSON waiting to happen! Get down this instant, or I will go up there and carry you like a sack of potatoes!”
Brewer ran to the kitchen entrance—kicked it with everything he had. It didn’t budge.
“Damn it—!” the old man hissed under his breath.
He grabbed a rake beside the garden shed and slammed it against the frame. The wooden handle snapped clean in two, now he held them uselessly in his hands. Panic clawed up his throat as he cast it aside. For his last attempt, with a wail that could only be heard by God himself, Brewer ripped a heavy iron skillet from the wall—dealing the final blow, the hinges tore loose with a shriek of metal, and the door crashed inward.
The entire estate groaned as the cold night air rushed in. Brewer didn’t stop running as he continued on screaming, “MY LAAAADY!”
He thundered through the corridors, boots slipping on marble, lungs on fire, heart hammering hard enough to split his ribs. The stairs to the upper floor blurred beneath him as he took them two at a time, then three, driven by pure terror. Unbeknownst to him, (Name) wasn't there anymore.
During that final moment—just before Brewer had made it in—while (Name) had still been crouched, her fingers white from gripping the steep tiles, staring at the sealed hatch, while trembling in the cold, is when she heard it. The sound of the hatch opening which made a click sound.
The hatch opened softly. Emerging from the shadows like a silent apparition, Sylus Qin rose from the rooftop hatch. Completely clean. Not a single drop of blood. Not a trace of panic. As if the chaos, the shrieking, and the almost-murder were nothing more than a forgotten draft in the breeze.
He met her gaze and extended his hand. “Are you hurt?”
(Name) could only stare at him. Her heart was still racing. It was clear she had not yet recovered from either the aftershock or the terror. After all, she had just been chased by something inhuman. She’d seen red eyes, and though her husband’s were red too, they had always seemed natural—nothing like the monstrous, inhuman gaze she had just encountered. A woman’s twisted form. The dark, shadowed West Wing.
Despite all of that, Sylus's voice was calm. Grounded. Human. (Name) took his hand and Sylus pulled her effortlessly into his arms, carrying her easily as if she weighed nothing. His coat smelled of pine, smoke, and something darker beneath.
They passed through the West Wing again, silent but aware. Shadows followed them along the walls—shadows that didn’t move the way they should. Candles lit themselves. A whisper might’ve said her name. Neither of them spoke. Just complete silence. Only the sound footsteps echoed down the corridor, and the soft flicker of candlelight breathing along the walls.
When they reached her room, he gently set her down on the bed. He brushed her hair back from her face, and looked her in the eyes for a long, unreadable moment.
“Are you alright?”
“I—I think so.”
Sylus simply nodded, his expression unreadable, as though something hidden within him had snapped. (Name) caught the slightest curve of his lips—like a smile, and yet not one of warmth. Then he departed, and did not return the rest of the night.
Meanwhile, Brewer reached the rooftop nearly ten minutes later. He hauled himself up through the hatch, panting like a dying horse, a broom clenched in his shaking hands as if it might save him.
“MY LAAADY—?”
He received no answer. Only the sound of silence. He stumbled forward, and scanned the empty tiles. No sign of (Name) anymore. The roof was empty. The wind whispered above the Estate.
“…Oh god,” Brewer whimpered, his knees giving out beneath him. He collapsed onto the roof, clutching the broom to his chest. “She’s been vampired. She’s been taken. This is how the staff dies, one by one—I knew this day would come—”
The wind offered him no comfort either.
Elsewhere in the Qin Estate, (Name) already lay in bed, wrapped in multiple blankets, wide-eyed, whilst staring at the ceiling. She didn’t feel safe—well, not exactly. The moon was no longer red anymore, yet she couldn’t tell whether that was a blessing or a warning.
Synopsis: A princess trapped in a world that isn't hers is forced toward a coronation woven with unease, whispers, and a sense of impending doom. When the crown shatters and blood is spilled, it becomes clear that the story has already gone horribly off-script. In the wake of betrayal, hidden motives, and deadly ambitions, no one can predict who will survive or seize power, and every step forward seems to plunge the kingdom deeper into uncertainty.
～☆ Chapter 2
Chapter 3 - "The Man Under the Bridge"
The world beneath the bridge smelled of rain-soaked stone, earth, and something faintly metallic—like iron left out overnight. Water dripped from the arches above in a slow, steady rhythm, almost masking the sound of her ragged breaths. Her soaked nightgown clung to her skin, plastered and heavy, and her heart pounded so loudly she thought for sure he could hear it.
The stranger had not let go. One strong arm still anchored her in the shadows, the other braced casually against the wall of the bridge. His grip on her arm was firm but not cruel. It was steady, grounding—yet no less terrifying.
(Name) stared at him, trying to discern his features through the veil of darkness. The storm outside roared on, but here under the bridge it was quieter, the heavy stillness of stone amplifying every sound—their breaths, her frantic heartbeat, his low voice when he finally spoke.
“Your Highness,” he said softly, as though addressing a long-lost secret.
(Name) blinked at the stranger, her head tilting slightly with confusion. "...What?”
Then the rest of his words fell like stones into her chest.
“Princess (Name) Qin,” he murmured, and then, with a subtle tilt of his head, his tone sharpened into something far more intimate, almost a whisper, “Or should I say... my wife, (Name) Shen?”
Her world tilted, as if it had been violently turned upside down. She froze—utterly, completely—as if her very muscles had locked up. For a heartbeat she thought she’d misheard him, that the storm had garbled his words. But no. He had said it plainly, with quiet certainty.
“My wife.”
(Name) stared at him as though he had just announced he was a Martian. She was waiting—waiting for the punchline, for the mocking grin, for some sort of aha, just kidding. But it never came. His expression, what little she could see of it in the darkness, was serious.
Her stomach plunged. Panic surged through her veins, white-hot and dizzying. This couldn’t be real. This had to be some twisted joke from the system.
Her instincts screamed for her to Run. Get out.
She jerked back, ready to bolt into the storm again, but his hand shot out and caught her arm—not harshly, but firmly enough that she couldn’t slip away. The contact was warm despite the rain. His fingers wrapped around her wrist with a steadiness that contradicted the chaos around them.
“Are you all right?” he asked, voice low and edged with concern. “Did they hurt you?”
(Name) blinked, thrown off by the question. He sounded worried. Not angry. Not threatening. Not what she imagined from a complete stranger.
“You shouldn’t have returned to the Palace,” he continued, his voice dipping softer, almost a growl of worry. “Not without telling me. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? You stopped replying to my letters. Not even a single message. I had them delivered in discreet—”
She stopped listening. Her brain had flatlined at my wife.
This man—this stranger hidden under a bridge in the dead of night—was claiming to be her husband. Her husband of all things.
Her mouth opened and closed, the sound refusing to come out. She wanted to punch him, wanted to break free of his grip, but the reality was undeniable. He was taller, broader, and solid as a wall, while she was a drenched, shaking mess who could barely stand. Her fists clenched helplessly at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
Why. Why. Why is this happening to me?
A flash of lightning cracked across the sky, and for an instant the entire space beneath the bridge flooded with white light.
(Name)’s breath caught. For that single moment she saw his face clearly. The thunder boomed above, and she swore the sound echoed inside her chest.
He was—God help her—he was breathtaking.
Silvery blond hair, rain-slick and falling in precise disarray, framed a face all sharp angles and pale refinement—a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, cheekbones set in fair skin that seemed to glow against the storm. His blue eyes, clear and unyielding, pierced straight through her. The soaked coat clung to his frame, hinting at broad shoulders and an aristocratic posture impossible to fake. He looked as though he had stepped straight out of a portrait—the kind that hung in a gallery for centuries and made viewers whisper.
(Name)’s heart gave a humiliating, traitorous stutter. She nearly swooned, which only made her angrier.
“Don’t you dare,” she hissed under her breath to her own treacherous nerves.
And then, as if the universe itself was conspiring to destroy her, the system screen flickered.
>> [Objective: Find Shen Xinghui.]
It blinked once. Then vanished.
>> [System Message: Objective Success.]
(Name)’s eyes went wide. Her mouth went dry.
“No this can't be,” she whispered. “No. No, no, no, no—”
She stared at the man before her, words failing her entirely, the system’s declaration ringing like a death knell in her skull.
Shen Xinghui.
This was him. This was the man who, according to the novel she had read just hours ago, was destined to die as the villain—the tyrant duke cut down by the glorious hero Sylus Qin.
Yet she was standing inches away from him. And he was calling her his wife. Her vision blurred. The storm roared louder, the shadows under the bridge deepening around them. She felt the last threads of her composure snapping like frayed string.
“(Name)?” he said again, softer now. “You’re pale. What’s wrong?”
She tried to speak, but only a strangled sound came out. Her knees buckled. The last thing she saw before her body gave way was his face—those luminous blue eyes widening as he reached for her—and the flash of lightning that illuminated them both like a grim portrait.
I’m dead, she thought numbly as everything tilted away. I’m going to die right here. Then the darkness took her.
The first thing (Name) registered was motion. The low, steady rumble of wheels against cobblestone, the occasional jolt of uneven road. Then, warmth—something far heavier and more comforting than she expected, considering her last memory was clinging for dear life under a storm-drenched bridge like a soggy sewer rat.
She cracked her eyes open, prepared to be greeted by the same suffocating darkness she remembered last, but instead was met with a dim glow from a small lantern fixed inside the carriage. It painted the world in warm, golden hues, making everything both gentler and, somehow, more terrifying.
Because the first thing she saw—was him.
Shen Xinghui.
His face was right there, angled down toward her. Too close, far too close. His expression was serious, but beneath it lingered something far softer, was it worry? Concern, even. His sharp features were etched with intensity, but his blue eyes were trained solely on her, as if she were the only thing in the universe worth looking at.
(Name) wanted to scream. Or punch him. Or maybe both.
Her mind scrambled, replaying what she had just witnessed—the dream, no, the memories—the system had forced into her brain. It was too much, far too much. All of it.
The stolen glances across gilded palace halls. The whispered meetings in secret gardens. The clandestine marriage vows exchanged under candlelight. The way Xavier’s voice had trembled—actually trembled—when he promised to protect her against the world.
And then, horror of horrors, the system had apparently decided that she also needed front-row seats to every tooth-rotting, saccharine, romantic moment between the two of them. (Name) had practically choked on the sweetness.
She thought that was the end of it. What's worse still—had been the other moments. The kind she absolutely did not want to think about. The kind that made her face burn so hot she thought she might combust on the spot. The kind that had her flailing internally, yelling at the system in her mind like:
“WHY ARE YOU SHOWING ME THIS?!”
“STOP. STOP. THIS ISN’T PG-13 ANYMORE!”
“HELLO?! I DIDN’T CONSENT TO THIS DLC CONTENT!”
By the time the memories finally ended, she felt like she had been through an emotional blender—spun, shredded, and then unceremoniously dumped into reality again. The system had chimed happily with a calm little >> "[Reboot completed. System synchronization successful.]" as if it hadn’t just emotionally scarred her for life.
Now here she was. Reality. Or something dangerously close to it. Lying in a carriage, draped in an impossibly thick blanket, tucked securely against—against him. His lap, specifically. Her body was positioned in a way that screamed familiarity, her head pillowed against his thigh, one of his large hands resting on her shoulder, the other adjusting the blanket with unconscious care.
Her brain short-circuited. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to faint again. She wanted to leap out the moving carriage and take her chances with the mud outside. Instead, she just stared. Stared at him like a deer caught in lantern light.
Xavier seemed to notice immediately. His sharp gaze softened as their eyes met.
“You’re awake.” he said quietly, his voice smooth and steady, the kind that carried authority without needing to raise volume. “You gave me quite a scare.”
(Name)’s tried to speak, but no words came out. She was too busy processing. Too busy denying reality because this wasn’t right.
This man—the so-called villain of the novel—the one who was supposed to be cruel, ruthless, and power-hungry enough to warrant being slain by the oh-so-noble Sylus Qin—was currently tucking her in like a concerned husband.
It didn’t make sense. None of it did.
Xavier studied her carefully, his gaze searching, lingering far longer than was comfortable. He tilted his head slightly, lowering his voice to a gentle murmur. “You’re still feverish. Don’t strain yourself. Rest. We’ll speak more when we return to the estate.”
The estate. The Shen Estate. (Name)’s blood ran cold.
Estate.
Marriage.
Xavier.
(Name) Shen.
She nearly choked on the ridiculousness of it all. The novel had never once mentioned her existence—no “Princess Qin,” no “secret wife of the villain.” Nothing. She was supposed to be a reader, an outside observer of the plot, not shoved into the role of Shen Xinghui’s clandestine spouse.
Her inner monologue spiraled, collapsing into incoherent protests.
No, no, no, absolutely not. This isn’t canon. This wasn’t in the website! I’m not supposed to be married to the villain. I was supposed to watch from afar, laugh at plot holes, roast characters in the comment section like a responsible adult! What fresh, cursed fiction is this?!
She swallowed, darting a glance back up at him. Xavier was still watching her. Closely. His expression didn’t waver, though his thumb brushed absently over the edge of the blanket, adjusting it higher to her chin as though she might catch cold at any second.
“Sleep,” he repeated, firm but not unkind, “you’re safe now. I’ll handle everything.”
And just like that, the tension in his face eased—not fully, but enough to show the exhaustion in his eyes.
(Name) rolled her own eyes reflexively. She couldn’t help it. It was a knee-jerk reaction, her only defense mechanism in the face of sheer absurdity.
“There we go, now the attitude is back.” Xavier muttered under his breath, almost amused. The faintest twitch of his lips betrayed a smile that didn’t quite form.
Before she could think of a retort—before she could even process the fact that he was holding her closer as if she were fragile porcelain—her body betrayed her. Warmth, exhaustion, and the rhythmic rocking of the carriage pulled her under once more.
Her last conscious thought before succumbing to sleep had nothing to do with survival, or the storm outside, or even the terrifyingly attractive man she was unfortunately bound to.
It was a simple, exasperated truth. I’m so dead.
With that, she drifted into uneasy slumber, tucked against the so-called villain of the story who was supposed to destroy everything who was instead holding her like she was his entire world.
Theme/s: Vampire Duke Sylus Qin! Murder/Mystery. Dark Romance?
Synopsis: (Name) Yue, once sold to the enigmatic Duke Sylus Qin, begins to notice strange patterns in her husband's behavior—his late-night arrivals, the mysterious suitcase, and his eerie absence from the estate. When a series of gruesome murders grip London, (Name) concern grows, but nothing could prepare her for the night she overhears a chilling exchange that leaves her questioning everything she thought she knew about her husband. As secrets dark and dangerous begin to unravel, she must confront the terrifying truth about who—or what her husband truly is.
The carriage creaked to a stop after rolling through the tall gates of the Qin Estate, its wheels echoing softly within the courtyard—minus one door, of course.
The moment they pulled up, Brewer came storming out like a worried hen in too-tight shoes. His eyes went wide. Not “Oh dear the horses are tired” wide. Not even “Did someone forget to iron the linens again” wide. No.
It was the “What in the blasphemous biscuit is this chaos” kind of wide.
He stared at the gaping side of the carriage like it had just proposed marriage to him. “W-Wh-Where is the DOOR?!” Brewer shrieked.
“We still have it.” (Name) said tiredly, gesturing to the door propped next to her like a guest that overstayed its welcome.
Brewer blinked rapidly. His mind struggling helplessly over the undeniable fact that his masters had arrived home in a doorless carriage. A doorless carriage of all things.
“Did you get ambushed?? Mugged? Nabbed by anarchists?? Did someone attempt to rob your glove buttons??” he cried, immediately darting around Sylus to check for bruises, scratches, and possibly missing organs.
Sylus, completely unfazed, coat crisp, hair perfect—adjusted his gloves. “No ambush,” he said smoothly. “Just an unfortunate hinge issue.”
“A hinge—?! What kind of unholy hinge sends a door into orbit?!”
(Name) side-eyed Sylus, her gaze making it clear who was truly responsible for the chaos, but didn’t bother responding. Just let out a sigh. She was too exhausted from the carousel-induced trauma, vomiting behind tents, and watching her husband arm-curl a piece of architecture like it was paper craft.
Sylus turned to her then, voice low and cool, “The maids will assist you. You must be tired.”
He didn’t wait for her to agree. Instead, he offered a ghost of a smile and vanished toward the west wing. (Name) paused. Just long enough to see the shadows of the corridor swallow him whole.
An hour later, (Name) stood before her window, already in her nightgown, hair unpinned and loose. The fire in the hearth crackled behind her. The curtains swayed gently with the late summer breeze. Though there was an unnatural stillness in the air, as if the entire estate had gone quiet. Too quiet.
From her windows, she stared out into the garden and that's when she saw it. Her moonflowers. The ones she had planted so carefully with Brewer and the maids watching like a paranoid nanny. They were in bloom, but not glowing white.
They glowed blood-red. Once more. Similar to what she saw the previous nights. Her heart dropped. It wasn’t just the flowers as when she looked up, the moon too, looked different. It was larger, looming, casting a strange crimson hue across the lawn like spilled wine across silk. A grotesque mockery of its earlier softness at the carnival.
She blinked, stepped back, then leaned forward again. Still red. Wrong. She felt something inside her stirred. One that she can’t quite put her fingers on clearly— a feeling of unease she couldn’t quite place, a creeping sense that something terrible was about to happen. Her fingers slipped into the pocket of her nightgown, and she drew out the rosary, clutching it tightly.
What she didn’t know was that somewhere beyond the gate, hidden deep within the shadows, something was watching her—standing perfectly still in the silence. Once again, the future had grown uncertain. Now, it was only a matter of waiting.
After all, they had discovered that the former Old Circle member finally had a weakness—his beloved wife. Not only that, but she was a descendant of the Yue Bloodline. Perhaps she had been the answer all along, the key to achieving full immortality—and with that revelation, danger drew ever closer.
The Thames Knows All Things Buried
Somewhere in the forbidden west wing, Sylus Qin sat before the fireplace, ink staining his fingers and desk alike. Papers lay scattered in disarray, while a web of suspects was mapped and pinned across the wall behind him, flickering in the firelight remained. Unmoved.
Sylus was a man bound by routine—but never by morality.
By day, he moved through Parliament halls like a whisper of storm clouds—always watching, always knowing which voice to silence, which string to cut. He spoke eloquently, his coats always pressed, his gloves immaculate, and his loyalty tailored to no one but himself.
By night? He cleaned up. He called it unfinished business.
The public saw only the polished Duke. The parliamentary official with sharp words and a sharper jawline— whose name carried weight without ever needing to rise above a murmur. The man who dwelled in quiet isolation on the remote edges of Blackwood Hills'.
London politics had always been a sewer beneath marble floors and candlelight. Secrets festered there. Ambition rotted. Power bred parasites. Someone had to take out the trash and Sylus Qin didn’t mind getting his gloves dirty. He even preferred it.
The Thames was his chosen witness. Its waters never spoke, but it remembered.
They called them disappearances. Murders. Assassinations. But Sylus didn’t see it that way. He saw corrections. Necessary adjustments in a city that reeked of rot and ambition. A nosy minister here. A corrupt whistleblower there. A journalist who nearly figured out what exactly Sylus was.
Where he draw the line, or perhaps where it finally snapped rather was the moment they turned their eyes to his wife—that was when the quiet predator became something else entirely.
It happened on a Tuesday. Quiet. Ordinary. Predictable. (Name) had already gone to bed. Her breath soft, her eyes shut in exhausted innocence.
They must have assumed he wouldn’t be home yet. That his routine was predictable. That they could break a window, slip inside, and vanish before dawn.
They were wrong.
Sylus felt the ripple before he saw it. The subtle shift in air pressure. Heard the tremble in the wind. Noticed the faint, metallic scent that lingered—a trace of blood in the air, maybe from shattered glass. Maybe from fear.
Then he saw them. One shadow in the window. Another creeping across the floor. He ended it before either could say a word. The aftermath cleanup was swift.
The broken window? Replaced. Swept clean by Brewer, and the maids disposed of what was left—leaving no trace.
The body that hit the garden wall? Gone.
The second one? Reduced to ashes in the grate.
(Name) never woke. Not fully. At most, she stirred. Maybe murmured his name. She wouldn’t remember when morning comes.
Sylus knew she had seen something. That night when she hid behind the pillar, the night his coat was soaked with blood—he smelled her there.
He had heard her heartbeat spike in fear, and her breath catch. He knew she was watching. But he let it slide. She had not run. Not yet. She had not asked questions.
Deep inside the depths, some part of him—dark and ancient—found her curiosity charming.
It was foolish of them to even involve her. Now the city would bleed twice as hard because no one threatens what belongs to Sylus Qin and survives.
NOTE (forgot to actually add this my bad): This is actually the last chapter, but I still kinda feel like it's incomplete. I originally planned to make this into a series, but I'm too lazy for that, so instead, I'll be posting extra content (probably about two side stories). Thank UUU !!
Synopsis: A princess trapped in a world that isn't hers is forced toward a coronation woven with unease, whispers, and a sense of impending doom. When the crown shatters and blood is spilled, it becomes clear that the story has already gone horribly off-script. In the wake of betrayal, hidden motives, and deadly ambitions, no one can predict who will survive or seize power, and every step forward seems to plunge the kingdom deeper into uncertainty.
～☆ Chapter 1
Chapter 2 - "The Chase in the Storm"
The system's message would not stop flashing, its violent red glow burning itself into (Name)'s vision. It throbbed insistently, making it impossible to ignore— its screen felt less like a display and more like a threat.
>> [Warning: Escape Immediately.]
>> [Failure Condition: Capture or Death.]
(Name) groaned, shielding her eyes as if she could swat away the intrusive glowing text hovering just in front of her. “Escape? Escape where?” she whispered hoarsely, heart thudding in her chest. She had only just woken up in this strange, gilded nightmare of a room, and the sheer absurdity of it all was pressing down on her.
Her head spun as she paced back and forth, the hem of her nightgown brushing against the polished floor. It can’t be real. Surely it can’t. Yet the chill from the marble beneath her bare feet, the faint smell of rain in the air, and that cursed system screen still pulsing relentlessly proved otherwise.
Then she heard it— Knock. Knock. The sound was heavy, deliberate, each rap thudding against the door like a heartbeat.
“Your Highness,” a muffled voice called through the heavy wooden doors, smooth and polite. “May I come in?”
(Name) froze. She felt her body stiffen as if the air itself had thickened around her.
Your Highness?
Her mind reeled. Who—who could they possibly be talking to? Certainly not her. She wasn’t royalty, she wasn’t even remotely noble material—she was just a burnt-out adult with a mediocre job and had a tendency to read bad novels at ungodly hours. Yet the sound of the words, was spoken with such sincerity. How in the world had she become someone’s “Highness”?
Before she could even gather her scattered thoughts, a violent crack of thunder shattered the silence. Lightning illuminated the room in a blinding flash, throwing long shadows across the ornate chamber. (Name)’s breath hitched, dread sinking like a stone in her gut. The system’s warning glared even the brighter, every letter etched into her vision— as if it was reminding her once again that time was running out, that she could not stay any longer, that she needed to escape.
“Oh, this is perfect,” she hissed under her breath, panic crawling up her spine. “Just perfect. I’m trapped in some cheap melodrama, and the plot’s already gunning for me.”
The knocking came again— firmer this time. “Your Highness, are you unwell? You haven't answered. Shall I call for the imperial physician?”
Her instincts screamed at her not to answer. Instead, she stumbled toward the tall balcony doors. Rain hammered against the glass, the storm outside growing fiercer by the second. A sensible person would never even think of going out there. But she wasn’t feeling particularly sensible right now— not when voices began rising just beyond her chamber door.
“Check on the princess at once.”
“Did she answer?”
“No, Your Grace. Something may be amiss.”
(Name)’s blood ran cold. Princess. Princess?!
She didn’t stick around to find out what would happen next. Fumbling with the latch, she shoved the balcony doors open. Rain lashed her face, instantly soaking the fine nightgown clinging to her skin.
“No, no, no, this is insane,” she muttered, gripping the balustrade. The stone was slick beneath her fingers, the drop below impossibly far, her stomach lurched at the thought of falling. But the possibility of being “found” by whoever was searching for her felt worse.
“Forgive me, body,” she mumbled, her heart beating too fast as she hoisted herself over the railing. The cold rain stung her face and each gust of wind threatened to knock her off balance, but kept her grip firm, every inch of her muscle burning with cold and fear.
The heavy doors to her chamber burst open with a thunderous crash — with multiple footsteps can be heard storming inside. She was already clinging to the balcony’s edge, praying the darkness and pounding rain would conceal her.
“She isn’t here!” a voice barked. “Find the princess! Now!”
(Name) unleashed a string of curses inside her head, each one burning her tongue. Princess my ass. I didn’t sign up for this!
Her arms screamed from the effort of hanging on, every muscle trembling. She swung herself sideways, inch by inch, until she reached a narrow ledge. From there, she scrambled down, heedless of how ungraceful or desperate she looked. The storm drowned out the clamor inside as she finally set foot on the slick grass of the palace gardens.
Her chest heaved, the nightgown clinging to her like a second skin, mud splattering the delicate fabric as she stumbled forward.
The system flared again, bringing her yet another objective. (Name) hissed, "What now?"
>> [Objective Updated: Find Shen Xinghui.]
(Name) stopped dead in her tracks. “Excuse me? Excuse me? Stop joking with me right now! I nearly died out there!” she snapped at the glowing text as though it were a person. “Didn’t you just tell me to escape the palace? Now you want me to waltz straight up to the villain of the story? Are you trying to send me to an early grave?!”
The system offered no reply, only flickering insistently like an infuriating screensaver.
“Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.”
She gritted her teeth and pressed on, skirting hedges and fountains, the storm cloaking her movements. At least the rain had one mercy— it blurred her figure, muffled her footsteps, and made it harder for anyone to track her. Or so she thought.
“Over there!”
(Name)’s heart stopped as a sharp voice cut through the rain. She whirled around to see a tall man in a servant’s uniform— a butler, of all things— standing under a lantern post, his keen eyes locked on her soaked, bedraggled figure. Relief sparked for an instant. Maybe he could help. Maybe she could bluff her way out.
She raised a hand weakly. “Wait—I can explain—”
“She’s here! The princess is here!” the butler bellowed, his voice carrying like a thunderclap.
(Name)’s jaw dropped. “You traitor!”
Adrenaline rushed into her veins. She bolted, her bare feet slapping against the cobblestones, the storm swallowing her figure. The shouts of pursuit rang out behind her, muffled and scattered in the downpour.
She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t know who she could trust. She didn’t know why she was a “princess” or why her name had become a joke pulled straight from the worst villain ever written.
All she knew was that she had to keep running. And the system’s unrelenting words glared in her mind as the gates of the palace rose ahead, silhouetted against in the rain-soaked darkness.
>> [Objective: Find Shen Xinghui.]
The storm showed no mercy as rain battered down upon her. Thunder erupted from the clouds, its echoes rippling through the rain soaked night. She slipped out of the palace courtyard and through the towering gates, moving unnoticed beneath the cover of the downpour.
(Name) tore through the rain-slicked grounds, her breath coming in ragged gasps, lungs burning as though fire had taken root within her chest. Her hair clung to her face, plastered against her skin in wet strands, and every frantic step splashed through puddles that soaked her to the bone.
“Damn it— damn it all—!” she swore, but her curses vanished beneath the roar of thunder overhead. The storm drowned everything— her pounding heart, her cries of desperation, the system screen that had become a hateful ghost hovering in front of her vision.
“Are you kidding me?!” she shouted, half-hysterical. “That’s all you’ve got to say?!”
The words vanished into the rain, leaving them meaningless. No matter how many times she blinked or tried to swipe it away, the message stayed, pulsing with cold indifference.
Her chest heaved, her legs screamed, but still she ran. Because behind her— came the sound that made the blood in her veins froze.
Footsteps. Dozens of them. Heavy, purposeful, unrelenting.
(Name) risked a glance over her shoulder, only to see it— figures in dark cloaks and uniforms, blurred by the veil of rain, holding lanterns that cast an eerie light glowing like disembodied eyes in the storm. Their flames bobbed and swayed, growing larger with every heartbeat.
They were chasing her. Her stomach flipped violently, fear twisting like a knife in her gut.
“No—no, no, no!”
The streets offered no mercy either. Narrow, unfamiliar, they stretched in every direction, cobbled roads glistening with water, each turn leading to another identical lane. Had she already passed this fountain before? Wasn’t this the same alley she’d sprinted across minutes ago? She couldn’t tell. For all she knew, she had been running in circles, a trapped animal with nowhere left to go.
And still—“Your Highness!”
The voices rang out behind her, cutting through the storm like shards of glass. “Your Highness, wait! Please come back!”
Her breath caught. Even in this chaos, even as they hounded her like hunters, they called her that.
Your Highness.
It sent a chill colder than the rain down her spine. She couldn’t bring herself to slow, couldn’t dare ask why. All she could do was run, the storm clawing at her clothes, mud splashing her ankles, every step heavier than the last.
She tried calling to the system again, her voice breaking with desperation. “Fine! You want me to find Shen Xinghui? Where?! Which way? Show me something useful for once!”
“That’s not an answer!” she screamed, her voice raw carrying frustration.
She almost tripped as her utterly soaked nightgown tangled around her legs. She caught herself against the side of a stone wall, panting, her chest heaving. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she thought it might burst free.
The storm showed no sign of easing. Rain cascaded from rooftops, fog curled like smoke at her feet, and the lanterns behind her grew brighter, drawing closer every second.
“There!” one of the voices shouted.
(Name) jerked her head to see the glow of torches piercing the fog, cutting closer. Panic clawed at her throat. Her legs moved before her mind could, continued forward again, her bare feet aching with every slap against the jagged cobblestones.
She rounded a corner too fast, nearly colliding with the edge of a crumbling wall. The thunder rumbled so loudly it felt like the ground itself quaked.
She was cornered.
She could feel it in her bones— that awful sensation of inevitability. There were too many of them. Too many footsteps, too many voices calling her “princess” and “highness” like some cruel joke. Was this how she’d die?
Her vision blurred with tears and rain. She could taste salt on her lips. Her body was failing. She was a few seconds away from collapsing, from being dragged back into whatever force had been chasing her.
And then—hands.
A pair of arms shot out of the shadows and yanked her violently sideways. She only managed to let out a gasp—too shocked to scream—as she was pulled under the low arch of a stone bridge. A hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the cry that ripped from her throat. Her body thrashed instinctively, struggling against the iron grip.
Her heart hammered so hard she thought it might burst, every nerve in her body screaming in terror.
“Shh.”
The voice was low, steady. A whisper that cut through the chaos.
“Don’t move.”
(Name)’s wide, terrified eyes darted upward, but the shadows under the bridge swallowed the figure holding her. She could only make out the faintest outline— broad shoulders, the glint of rainwater sliding down a sharp jawline. Whoever it was, he was no palace servant. His grip was firm, commanding, yet not cruel.
Outside, the footsteps thundered past. The light of lanterns flickered across the rain, voices echoing.
“She went this way!”
“Search the area! Don’t let her escape the vicinity!”
The sound of pursuit faded slowly into the storm.
(Name)’s breath rattled against the stranger’s hand. She was trembling, soaked to the bone, her lungs screaming for air, and her body for safety. Yet, even in that moment of fleeting silence, one thought burned in her mind.
Theme/s: Vampire Duke Sylus Qin! Murder/Mystery. Dark Romance?
Synopsis: (Name) Yue, once sold to the enigmatic Duke Sylus Qin, begins to notice strange patterns in her husband's behavior—his late-night arrivals, the mysterious suitcase, and his eerie absence from the estate. When a series of gruesome murders grip London, (Name) concern grows, but nothing could prepare her for the night she overhears a chilling exchange that leaves her questioning everything she thought she knew about her husband. As secrets dark and dangerous begin to unravel, she must confront the terrifying truth about who—or what her husband truly is.
⏾ Chapter 7
Chapter 8 - "Night Carnival & Lost Dignity"
High District, The Night Carnival Begins
The dinner remained quiet, though "quiet" feels like an understatement. Beneath the silence, uneasiness lingered in the air—tense, like an orchestra playing under a chandelier hanging by its last thread. The food was exquisite. The view, divine. The wine was poured generously, spilling slightly to keep their bellies full. But none of it mattered. Not with Sylus sitting across from her like the perfect portrait of civility.
They’d exchanged pleasantries. They spoke about the view. The weather. The roast duck. Then Sylus dabbed his lips with a linen napkin, set his glass down and spoke.
“Did you hear,” he said idly, “about Lord Halbridge? Such a tragedy.”
(Name)’s fingers froze around her fork. She nodded carefully, the gesture polite, if not genuine. “Yes. Found in the Thames. Quite tragic.”
“Mhm.” He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Drowned men always seem so surprised.”
There was a pause. A long one. Then he smiled even brighter, almost warmly. “The sauce is excellent, isn’t it? A hint of herbs and red wine. Quite French.”
Just like that, the conversation shifted. (Name) didn’t flinch. Her face remained calm, controlled. She was becoming good at that. Though her actions suggested otherwise—fiddling with her wine glass. She attempted to ease the tension between them with a harmless, everyday question.
“How was work?”
Sylus leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers laced over his knee. “Repetitive,” he said. “But repetition is necessary. Even the most civilized institutions must be purged of rot from time to time.”
He smiled again. A soft, easy smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Though, admittedly, I do find the bloodletting tedious.”
(Name) who was mid-sip, choked as the wine bubbled at her throat. She slammed the glass down on the table, her cheeks heating up in embarrassment—the sound, thankfully was drowned out by the bustle of the restaurant surrounding them. Did I just hear that right? No—did he really just say that? She forced a steady breath and stared at him.
Sylus, completely unfazed, handed her a neatly folded napkin. His smile never wavered. “I meant budgeting. Quite draining.”
“Of course.” she replied smoothly. She wanted to scream.
They left the restaurant together and took a stroll. The city glowed under the lantern-lit evening. The streets of the High District seemed alive with well-dressed pedestrians and the warm glow illuminating from the shopfronts. Carriages lined the cobbled streets, their wheels rattling like applause.
They walked side by side. (Name) stole a glance at a shop window. It was a gold-trimmed bakery with crystal panes that displayed an array of fancy pastries, and marzipan cakes stacked like architecture.
Then she blinked. The reflection staring back at her, was only her own. No tall figure in a black coat. No husband beside her. Just her. Alone. She didn’t react this time. She simply kept walking. No clumsy or dramatic slip-ups.
At this point, she didn’t know whether he was hiding anything at all or if that too, was part of the deception. Or whether this was some kind of sick test. A gentleman’s twisted chess match to see how long she’d keep up the game before she called checkmate.
Was this dinner a reward? A threat? A farewell? She didn’t know.
Perhaps Sylus was simply enjoying himself— watching her struggle to name the unease she could no longer explain, moving his pieces with infuriating patience, while she was left to wonder whether her growing suspicion meant that her husband no longer conformed the rules of the ordinary world.
She allowed herself a faint, puzzled smile. Was she was imagining it all? Perhaps she had dedicated altogether too many hours to mirrors and her own idle thoughts. Yes, that must be it. Nothing supernatural.
The carnival rose ahead of them like a dream stitched from light and noise. String lights danced above the entrance gates, flickering warm and gold. The smell of popcorn and toffee apples drifted through the air. Children laughed somewhere near the carousel. A street violinist played a haunting waltz under a lamp post.
(Name) hesitated. This wasn’t what she’d expected, especially when Sylus offered his arm.
“Would you join me?”
It wasn’t a command. It was worse. It was courteous. She took it.
The carnival welcomed them with noise and magic. A world of painted masks and red velvet tents. She told herself to stay calm. To observe. To say nothing unless necessary. They passed a fire breather. A sword swallower. A pair of acrobats launching through the air like birds.
A cheerful man in suspenders wearing a crooked hat waved them over with a grin. “Care to try your strength, good sir? One swing of the hammer, hit the bell impress the missus!”
(Name) opened her mouth. “No thank you, we were just—”
“I insist,” Sylus said mildly, already moving forward.
She blinked, momentarily taken aback, her reaction hitting a few seconds late. “You— wait what?!”
He removed his coat slowly, handed it to her with the grace of a ballroom escort, then flexed his gloved fingers.
“I may be a little rusty,” he said, “but I suppose I can try.”
The man laughed. “That’s the spirit!”
(Name) crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. The other men who had tried earlier barely reached the halfway mark. Some hadn’t even made the bell budge, or even managed to lift the puck past the first marker. Their attempts ended in awkward laughter, with the bell above remaining stubbornly silent and still.
The crowd leaned in, suddenly interested in watching the suspiciously good-looking gentleman make his attempt. Sylus stepped forward at the base of the tower. He accepted the sledgehammer from the attendant, fingers closing around the handle as if measuring it. With an easy motion, he lifted it cleanly— no bracing, no adjustment. He struck.
CLANGGG!
The hammer met the platform with a bone-rattling sound. The bell didn’t just ring. It launched. It shot off the top of the machine like a rocket and landed two stalls over with a loud clang, startling a flock of doves and causing someone to drop a tray of tarts.
The crowd gasped. The man in suspenders stared at the machine like it had betrayed him. Sylus handed the hammer back politely. “Apologies. Bit overexcited.”
(Name) stared at him in horrified silence.
“Shall we try the carousel next?” he asked calmly. She simply nodded. After all, what else could she say?
Still at The High District Carnival, Evening Ends with Dignity Lost
The carousel glittered beneath the lights, spinning slowly like a dream half-remembered. Painted horses rose and fell, while the music box tune mingled with the scent of sugar and varnish.
(Name) took Sylus’s hand without thinking, still unsettled from the hammer incident, still wondering if she had somehow married both a nobleman and a cannon in human form.
Sylus said nothing, but his hand was steady and eerily warm—guided her toward the painted horses with graceful ease. He helped her up, his gloved hand steady at her back as she climbed the wooden platform. She sat on the nearest steed, one with golden braids and a rather judgmental expression.
Sylus didn’t mount a horse himself. He simply stood beside her, one hand on the pole, the other neatly folded behind his back, perfectly still, like a cursed wax figure in a museum. Tall. Composed. Possibly cursed.
(Name) tried not to think about it. Instead, she tried to focus on the lights, the music, the laughter of children nearby, the feel of wind through her hair.
She mainly focused on not dying. Why? the carousel was moving fast. Far too fast. She wasn’t sure if it was her nerves or the pastry she had back at dinner, but the world began tilting in a way that felt very un-ladylike.
“Lady Qin?” Sylus’s voice was smooth, curious, clearly with concern.
(Name) slowly turned her head, her face pale. “I-I think I need to—” The carousel stopped. She shot off the horse like a cannonball.
“I’LL BE RIGHT BACK.”
She barely made it behind a red velvet tent before she lost the battle entirely. It was not glamorous. It was not dignified. Yet, it was effective. Somewhere, a street violinist changed keys in her honor.
Sylus, of course, followed. Of course he did.
“Please don’t,” she wheezed, waving him away as she bent forward again. “If you don’t go away, I swear just stand over there and act like we don’t know each other. Pretend we’re not married—”
“It could be dangerous,” Sylus said mildly, voice far too calm for someone hearing his wife retch behind a tent beside a clown juggling knives.
“The only danger here is your stupid carousel idea and this lemon tart haunting my soul!”
He remained. He heard everything. He probably catalogued it by category. (Name) was going to die from embarrassment.
When she finally emerged. Her face pale, dignity shattered, with pride in critical condition—Sylus merely offered her a handkerchief as if she’d sneezed delicately and not just challenged a pastry to a duel and lost.
They exited the carnival with (Name) feeling utterly defeated, and made their way back to the carriage. The carriage was already waiting by the curb, its black panels reflecting the light radiating from a nearby lamp post, completely indifferent with the chaos on the sidewalk.
“Let’s just go,” she muttered, tugging open the door handle. It didn’t move. She tugged again. Still stuck.
“Ugh—hold on, I’ve got it—”
Sylus stepped forward with that quiet “allow me” smile. He placed a hand on the door, applied minimal effort.
CRRREAAAAAKKK
The carriage door ripped clean off its hinges with a horrendous metal groan. (Name) stared at him. He stared at the detached door now in his hand like it had personally offended him. The driver screamed.
Yet, Sylus remained calm. Still holding the door like a decorative tray. “…Apologies,” he said.
“Stiff hinge haha.” Sylus let out a very dry laugh.
(Name) didn’t even know how to respond. Her dignity was already lost for the rest of the evening. She didn't know whether to cry or laugh. Instead she nodded slowly, climbing into the carriage.
“Y-You’re.. strong.” she muttered while avoiding his gaze as she sat upright, her posture rigid as a board. Rather than acknowledging the incident, she fixed her gaze ahead and pretended none of it had happened. Sylus gently placed the door inside next to her as if that made it better.
HIII I LUV UR PAGE SM🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 may i pls request reader complimenting xavier’s grown out/wolfcut hair saying that its easier to pull at during yk and xavier takes it rlly seriously👅👅
tyyyy bbyyyyy( ˘ ³˘)♥︎!!! and ofc! here it is ⤵︎
18+
walking into the kitchen one morning, you saw your boyfriend xavier closely studying the interior of the fridge. you had also noticed that his hair was a little longer than usual. kind of resembling a wolf cut that you've only seen on social media.
so you complimented him, not thinking twice about your act of flattery.
"your hair's longer—i like it," you chirped, walking over to him and ruffling his silvery blonde tresses. "you should keep it like this; it's easier to pull."
even though you said the last part in a joking manner, you still felt the energy in the room shift. it felt menacing, as if you had just walked into a personalized trap.
a lazy grin began to grow on his face as he slowly turned his head towards you, eyelids low in desire. "oh, really?" he drawled, his voice upbeat but predatory as he gradually pushed the fridge doors shut—attention fully on you now.
that's how you ended up being thrown on the couch—only because the bedroom was too far away for him—with your legs wrapped around your boyfriend's slutty waist, all the while he's practically putting you through the cushions with each thwack! thwack! thwack! of his hips.
"a-ah—xavier!" you cried out, your voice shaking with every hard thrust into your wet, needy gummy walls—hands instinctively reaching to latch onto his soft strands for purchase.
his pace quickened in response, mouth leaving your lips in favor of the side of your neck—into which he sank his teeth, eliciting a deep and guttural moan ripping from your throat.
the more you continued to tug at his hair, the more you noticed his pace gradually becoming more erratic and chaotic. the strangled and shaky moans that came from your boyfriend reverberated in your ears; each word being enunciated with a wet slam! of his cock. "fuckfuckfuck—just like that, baby—k-keep goin'."
your eyes rolled to the back of your head—legs squeezing his waist as your climax intensely crashed over you. with every cry and scream, your grip grew harsher, yanking at his locks with no mercy.
his breathing hitched as he twitched—suddenly releasing his white, hot ropes of come in your creamy hole.
as you both came down from your highs, bodies relaxing, your fingers slowly released their grip on his strands. capturing your swollen lips softly, "was your assumption correct?" he questioned, breathing between each wet kiss.
being too fucked out to answer, you simply nodded your head.
"good," he exhaled, one calloused thumb coming up to your cheek to swipe away at a stray tear, "then i'll keep it—just for you."
Synopsis: A princess trapped in a world that isn't hers is forced toward a coronation woven with unease, whispers, and a sense of impending doom. When the crown shatters and blood is spilled, it becomes clear that the story has already gone horribly off-script. In the wake of betrayal, hidden motives, and deadly ambitions, no one can predict who will survive or seize power, and every step forward seems to plunge the kingdom deeper into uncertainty.
Chapter 1 - "Thorns of the Empire"
(Name) considered herself an ordinary adult. She belong to the sea of one of those faceless commuters lost in the shuffle of city life. She had a stable— if dull job, a small apartment she could barely keep tidy, and a routine that could be set to the ticking of a clock.
Her little guilty pleasure, her one indulgence away from the monotony of her days was curling up at night with a warm cup of instant coffee and devouring novels as if her life depended on it. Not exactly classic literature pieces, mind you. Not the kind that won awards or made critics swoon. She preferred the messy ones— the kind with tragic, melodramatic, and utterly nonsensical plots that seemed stitched together by an author who couldn’t decide whether they wanted romance, politics, or pure angst, yet were somehow utterly irresistible.
She was already settled in her bed when she stumbled upon the latest release by a rising author during her idle scrolling through book forums on her laptop. It was just past 10:00 p.m. and the screen’s glow filled the dark room. The cover was gaudy, with shimmering gold script inlaid over the shadowy silhouette of a crown. She clicked it without much thought, rolling her eyes at the title.
“Thorns of the Empire.”
The title alone— how would she put it? Classic. Cliché. Original. Perfect. (Name) skimmed the synopsis, her tired eyes darting through the words.
The story was set in the grand Empire of Philos, where political unrest brewed like a storm cloud. Enter the male lead— Sylus Qin— who, as it turned out, was none other than the hidden crown prince in disguise. Betrayed in his youth and cast out of the palace, he had returned at the Empire’s hour of decline to reclaim his rightful throne. By his side, the destined heroine— Lady MC— whose wit, courage, and unfailing devotion to justice would guide him through hardship.
(Name) scoffed. Predictable. Yet, that didn't stop her though, as she started flipping through the pages. The story unveiled the trials the protagonist faced— assassination attempts left with no room for mercy, betrayal from nobles, whispered secrets through the cold palace corridors, and relentless power plays among the ruling elite. All culminating in their final and inevitable confrontation with the villain, Duke Shen Xinghui. The most powerful noble in the realm, a man who controlled more than half of the Empire from the shadows. Ruthless, cunning, ambitious— Xavier was the tyrant who stood in Sylus’s way, the snake who sought revenge upon the royal family for vague reasons never quite elaborated upon.
The ending was obvious. Sylus and MC, despite being battered in the end, reigned victorious and reclaimed the throne. Shen Xinghui, unmourned and unloved, was struck down— reduced to nothing, just another villain checked off the list.
(Name) pinched the bridge of her nose, as she let out a long sigh. Really?
Out of habit, she scrolled straight to the comments section. It was a battlefield itself— half the readers were swooning over Sylus’s “noble suffering” and MC’s “radiant purity,” while the other half tore into the novel for its endless clichés, abandoned subplots, and nonsensical world-building.
Then there were the rare few comments— the ones she secretly agreed with that asked the real questions.
Wait, why exactly was Xavier evil again?
Didn’t the Empire collapse because the royals were incompetent? How is it his fault?
Why do all the side characters who could’ve added nuance just.. vanish?
Give me the villain’s POV, please. I want the backstory of the Duke, not another scene of Sylus brooding in the rain.
She let out a laugh that startled her cat off the bed. “Honestly, what a waste of time,” she muttered, though she was already bookmarking the page.
With a dramatic sigh, she snapped her laptop shut, tossed it onto her desk, and flopped onto her bed with arms and legs sprawled. The clock read 3:01 a.m. Today’s shift would be hell, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The city hummed faintly outside lulling her to sleep, her eyes drifted shut.
She didn’t expect to wake up to silence. No humming traffic sound. No distant barking. Not even the soft creak of her apartment pipes. Just silence.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she was met— not with her familiar cracked ceiling, but with an expanse of ornate woodwork, each curve and flourish painstakingly carved, glinting with gold. High arches, delicate crown moldings, and heavy velvet drapes framed the canopy of the bed. Her throat went dry. Slowly, she sat up, her fingers sinking into sheets so soft they could never belong to her IKEA bedding.
“What the—” Before she could gather her thoughts, something flashed before her eyes. A screen. A literal floating screen.
>> [SYSTEM INITIALIZATION . . . ]
>> [SYSTEM WHIRRING. . .]
>> [Hello Host, ẃ̴̨͖̬̱̳̥͓͈̣̤̝͈̲͍̗́͋̄̀̓͝è̵̛̛̫͓̖̮̞͈̭̬̺̯̄͗̋͗̈͒̃̕͝ļ̸̲̠̜̤̫̻͎̼͈̦͉̫͌͘ͅc̷̡̫̱͖̖͓̹̣͚͉̯̳̘͔̓̔͆̄ͅö̵͈̱́̑̾́m̷̨͓̼̤̞̲̣̱̤̗̳͖̦̎̈̽̋̄̀̌̃͘͜͠͠e̶̪͎͖̔̔̀ͅ to this world.]
>> [SURVIVAL QUEST: Escape the Palace]
>> [FAILURE CONDITION: Capture or Death]
(Name) felt her pulse spiked. “W-what is this?!”
She scrambled out of bed, tripping on the long folds of a silk nightgown that most certainly wasn’t hers. Every detail around her seemed ripped straight from the English period dramas she’d binge-watch during the weekends. A vanity of polished mahogany stood by the window, its gilded mirror reflecting a woman she almost didn’t recognize.
Her. But not her. The face staring back was undeniably hers, yet draped in aristocratic finery, her hair arranged elegantly— one she had never once achieved with her own clumsy hands.
Then her gaze fall onto somewhere. Resting on the desk was a stack of neatly arranged letters, each sealed with crimson wax. What caught her eye among them was one letter, its seal bearing a faint impression— the crest of a rabbit, and the name etched on the envelope which read: Lady (Name) Shen.
She felt her body stiffened. “Shen..? I-Isn't that—?"
The name caught in her throat, unease settling in her chest before she could push it down. "You’ve got to be kidding me..”
The words felt like a curse on her tongue. She had read enough transmigration stories to know what was happening, but this? Of all the possible characters, of all the roles she could’ve landed, she was tied to him? The villain who was fated to be killed in the finale?
“HA! (Name) Shen..” she repeated out loud, laughing nervously. “What kind of ridiculous knock-off Mary Sue name is that? No. No, this can’t be real. I’m dreaming. I-I’m absolutely dreaming.”
(Name) snapped her eyes shut, though the silken curtains brushing her fingertips, the scent of jasmine lingering in the air, and the suffocating dread of the glowing system screen told her otherwise. Her knees buckled, and she sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
Somewhere in the Empire of Philos, Sylus Qin was plotting his glorious rise. Somewhere, MC was waiting to play the perfect heroine. And looming at the end of it all, Duke Shen Xinghui, her supposed blood relative? husband? fiancé? cousin? uncle? — was doomed to meet a tragic end. And (Name), she had just woken up in the middle of it all. Her heart hammered as the system screen pulsed again.
>> [REMINDER: Survive the story. Alter the villain’s fate.]
(Name) let out a shaky breath, the corners of her vision swimming. Then, realization suddenly dawned upon her.
“Oh God. Of all the stories in the world why did it have to be this one?!”
you and xavier having a massive argument and it ends up with him storming off and you seething... so in the midst of your annoyance, you purchase a lumiere body pillow online (you want to yell at it and squeeze it instead of taking it out on xavier). you and xavier make up on the same day and you forget about it entirely. it's placed on backorder and the delivery keeps getting delayed, but all the updates for it get sent to your spam inbox, so you never see them.
weeks later, you're cooking for xavier at your place. your doorbell rings, and you hear through the intercom someone yell "delivery!" you ask xavier to answer the door, and he does. he lugs in a sizeable box, just a little bit shorter than him. "what's this?" he asks you. you shrug. "i dont know. why don't you open it?"
he takes a pair of scissors and opens the box. it's something big that has been vacuum sealed. curious, you walk out of the kitchen and into the living room and watch as he tears the wrapping up. the thing starts to inflate itself a little and unfolds - it's the damn life-sized lumiere body pillow. lumiere is pictured on it, in his uniform and mask, lying on a bed, smirking at you. your heart drops. you start to stammer out an excuse.
"xavier, i can explain–"
"you sicko. you pervert."
"xavier, please–"
"a body pillow? seriously?"
he picks up folded piece of cloth that was also in the box. it unfolds – it's an alternative pillowcase, where lumiere is just in his underwear and mask. you gape at it, while xavier shakes his head at you.
