"Die. Die. Die."
The words ripped from my throat, feral and unrestrained, as my fingers dug into the slick, fevered flesh of his neck.
He thrashed beneath me—gasping, kicking, clawing at my arms in a frantic attempt to escape. His bulging eyes locked onto mine, pleading, drowning in terror. His mouth yawned open, straining to speak, but no words came. Only that pitiful, rasping whisper of a dying man.
Tears streaked his contorted face, a symphony of agony playing across every twitch, every quiver of his features. Ah… that expression. A perfect blend of fear, pain, and despair—the purest, most unfiltered display of vulnerability.
I could almost taste it.
My breath shuddered. Not from exertion. No. It was exhilarating. A rush so potent it sent a delicious tremor through my limbs. Adrenaline. Control. Power. The divine thrill of watching someone teeter on the precipice of death—knowing it is my grip, my hands, my will that keeps them there.
This. This is what it means to be alive.
His struggles slowed. His frantic kicks weakened, fading into nothing.
I held my grasp a moment longer, savoring the stillness. No more whimpering. No more pleading. Just silence.
Only then did I release him.
My pulse roared in my ears, the rhythm intoxicating.
With slow, deliberate movements, I picked up the knife I had discarded earlier, its cold blade whispering against my fingertips. I looked down at the thing sprawled beneath me—a pathetic smear of what once called itself a man.
I smiled.
And plunged the blade into his chest.
Again. And again.
Each stab carried weight.
A broken promise.
A betrayal.
A deception.
He cheated on me. Made a mockery of my devotion, my effort, my restraint.
I had tolerated him far longer than I should have—offered kindness, mercy, space.
For what?
They always say love makes you blind. But it was not love. It was hope. A delusion. A foolish fantasy that he might be different. Better. Someone worth keeping.
What a joke.
They all had it coming.
Lian. That lying bastard.
My teacher, who touched me when no one was looking.
My "friends," who laughed behind my back.
Even my own parents. Cold hands. Cold hearts. Their stares void of love, empty of warmth.
A child they never wanted.
A mistake.
A monster.
Maybe they were right.
But if God would not strike them down—then I will.
Pain. Sharp. Splitting. Crawling behind my skull like a thousand needles.
I gasped for air, but it slipped between my lips like sand, fragile and untouchable.
Why can I not move?
Invisible chains bound my limbs, heavy and suffocating. I tried to scream, but no sound escaped.
Where… am I?
The last thing I remember… was walking home.
Darkness. Rain. Cold pavement beneath my feet. A shadow of unease curling around my spine. Then—nothing.
Now, warmth assaults me. A golden ceiling. Drapes cascading in velvet waves. Ornate furniture carved from dark mahogany.
This is not my room.
Hell—this is not even my world.
I push myself up, sluggish and aching, as if I have aged a century overnight. My fingers press against silk sheets, plush and unfamiliar.
Panic sinks its claws deep.
Nothing feels right.
With trembling steps, I approach the vanity, the cold marble sending a shiver up my spine.
Then I see her.
No.
I see me.
But it is not me.
The woman in the mirror has porcelain skin, untouched by sunlight or imperfection. Her hair spills in waves of burgundy silk, a shade so rich it seems unreal. And her eyes—dear God—her eyes. A deep, unnatural orange. Like embers smoldering in a dying fire.
She is beautiful. Striking. Terrifyingly still.
But her eyes... they are mine.
Empty. Emotionless. Hollow.
They have seen things no one should ever see.
Have I seen those things?
I reach forward, fingers ghosting over her delicate features. She mirrors me perfectly.
No.
No, no, no, no.
This is not possible.
Is this some twisted dream? A hallucination? Did I finally break? Did my mind snap after Lian?
I stumble back, crashing onto the cold floor. My limbs tremble, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs like a war drum.
Whose body is this?
Who am I now?
Am I dead?
Have I been thrown into hell for what I have done?
No. No, I will not accept that.
I refuse to accept it.
I still have things to do. People to punish. Wrongs to right.
If this is divine punishment, then I will crawl back from the depths and drag my own version of hell with me.
Deep breaths.
I steady myself, wiping away the cold sweat beading my forehead.
First—I need information. Whose body I am in. Where I am. Why I am here.
Second—I need a way back.
Back to my world.
Back to my unfinished business.
I rise slowly, brushing off the silk nightgown that clings to me like a stranger's skin. It smells of rose and iron.
I step into the hallway.
Vast. Dimly lit. A corridor of memories—bathed in sorrow.
Dark-orange walls bleed into shadows. Candle sconces flicker low. Paintings stretch across the length of the hall—haunting, grotesque, poetic in their decay.
Figures curled in fetal positions. Wilted flowers. Bare trees reaching for a sky that is not there.
This woman—whoever she was—lived in loneliness.
Her world is painted in ruin.
Then I reach the staircase.
I inhale sharply.
A massive portrait looms above the landing.
A woman draped in crimson velvet, a tiara upon her brow, rubies glimmering at her throat. Regal. Elegant. Untouchable.
But those eyes.
Dead.
Haunted.
Mine.
I step closer, scanning the carved frame.
Princess Madeleine Ceres Habsburg.
A name fit for a fairy tale. Or a nightmare.
That is who I am now? A princess?
I laugh—a brittle, hollow sound swallowed by the silence.
From murderer to monarch.
What a delicious irony.
Before I can process the absurdity, a voice slices through the stillness.
"Ahem. Your Highness," a deep voice states, edged with quiet discipline. "Wandering the halls in your nightgown is not appropriate for a lady of your standing."
I whirl around.
A man stands before me—tall, composed, hands clasped behind his back. His silver hair falls neatly, framing sharp, ocean-deep eyes that regard me with subtle disapproval.
Everything about him is pristine. Controlled. Beautiful. But distant.
He looks at me like I am delicate. Breakable.
Like I am someone I am not.
I say nothing, willing my expression to remain unreadable.
Who is this man?
And why does he look at me as if I have always been Princess Madeleine?
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