I had always lived behind a mask.
Not the porcelain kind that nobles wore at elaborate balls, nor the flimsy ones of silk and ribbon that concealed only a portion of the face. Mine was subtler, heavier—a mask made of perfection.
In the world I came from—our world, the year 2025—I was known as Liora Veylen, a face every camera craved. Magazine covers, luxury campaigns, and billboards ten stories high bore my likeness. Long ebony hair that caught light like flowing ink, eyes a strange gray that bordered on silver, and skin that even critics called "luminous." My beauty was my crown, and my work—modelling—was the kingdom I ruled.
But a crown is heavy, and kingdoms rot if they are not guarded.
I wasn't just a model. I was something else in the shadows. Something the tabloids never touched, not because they didn't want to, but because they couldn't. Liora Veylen, adored by millions, was also a hunter of liars. Specifically, cheating men.
It had begun years ago, when I saw my aunt broken beyond repair by her husband's betrayal. Watching her beg for scraps of love had left a scar on me that no camera flash could bleach away. So I became an avenger of sorts. A phantom. I investigated husbands who strutted like gods in daylight and slithered like rats at night. And when I caught them—and I always did—I stripped them of money, pride, and secrets. A portion of their stolen wealth always went to the wives they wronged.
No one suspected me. After all, who would doubt the angelic model who smiled on runways and spoke of "kindness" in interviews? That was my mask—sweetness, purity, perfection. But behind it, I was sharp, calculating, merciless.
And yet, I was satisfied. Or at least I thought I was.
The last man I exposed before everything changed was Anton LeClair, the CEO of a booming tech company in Paris. To the world, he was the golden visionary, beloved husband and father of three. To me, he was a predictable man with predictable weaknesses. In two weeks, I had enough evidence of his affairs with both secretaries and influencers to drown him in scandal. The night before his empire crumbled, I had slipped away from his penthouse with proof enough to make his wife's lawyers devour him alive.
The world knew Anton as brilliant. I knew him as pathetic.
That was the last face I saw before I woke in another world.
The smell was the first thing.
Not the sterile sweetness of hotel perfume or the electric tang of city air, but something raw and heavy—burnt herbs, candle wax, and the copper bite of blood. My eyelids were leaden, and when I forced them open, I wasn't in my apartment or a Parisian suite. I was in a dim, crumbling room, its stone walls scrawled with dark runes that pulsed faintly red. At the center of the floor was a circle, smeared in black ink and old blood.
And there, at its edge, lay a note.
My name—Liora—was written across it in shaky, desperate script.
I sat up, heart thrumming, and noticed something strange: my body wasn't dressed in my silk robe anymore. I wore a gown of stiff, outdated fabric—high collar, ruffled sleeves, all in dark hues that swallowed the light. Heavy chains of jewellery bit into my neck and wrists, gaudy and tasteless.
When I reached for the note, my hands froze.
They weren't my hands.
Gone were my manicured nails and slender fingers. These were pale, bony, trembling.
The note crackled as I unfolded it. The handwriting was frantic, slanting, words carved in urgency:
To the one who reads this, I beg you—live my life for me. I had no mana. I was worthless here. They called me filth, mocked me, broke me. I turned to black magic, though it devours the soul. I brought you here. In return, let me stay by your side until the end. My body is yours. My name, my sins, my fate. You are the villainess now.
The paper slipped from my fingers.
"Villainess?" I murmured aloud.
"You are," came a voice.
I jolted, head snapping toward the sound.
Hovering near the broken circle was a figure—a girl, transparent and faintly glowing, her outline hazy as smoke. Her hair fell in tangled waves of pale gold, her eyes a dull green that carried exhaustion deeper than any age. She was… me, and yet not me. The original owner.
"You… did this?" I asked, voice sharper than intended.
Her expression was calm, almost relieved. "Yes. I am Seraphina Duskbane. The daughter of House Duskbane. But without mana, and no god had contracted me, I was nothing. My family disowned me, the nobles spat on me, the servants sneered at me. They called me the villainess, said I was cursed. But now… You are me."
Seraphina. That was the name of the body I now inhabited. Her figure flickered, then steadied. She had shrunk, no larger than a child, and floated by my shoulder like an obedient wisp. Only I could see her.
"You gave up your life?" I asked, still reeling.
Her lips curled in something between a smile and sorrow. "I was never living. But you—you looked alive. Strong. I watched you through the summoning. You wore a mask, didn't you? Always hiding."
I froze. How did she know?
The phantom girl tilted her head. "You wanted to drop it, didn't you? To be free? Then this is your chance. This world already calls you a villainess. Why not truly become one?"
Her words rang inside me, like a blade striking stone. I rose unsteadily, legs weak beneath the weight of the ornate gown. My reflection in the cracked mirror at the far wall made my breath hitch.
Seraphina Duskbane—the villainess.
The girl in the glass wore layers of black lace and stiff velvet, the kind nobles wore to funerals. Her skin was too pale, as if it hadn't seen the sun in months. The eyes—her eyes, my eyes now—were sharp green, though dulled by years of disdain. Her lips were painted a deep crimson that made her look dangerous, unapproachable. No wonder they whispered about her. No wonder they hated her.
I touched the mirror, studying myself. In my old world, I wore a mask of gentleness, all light smiles and warmth. Here… here, I didn't need to pretend. The label of "villainess" was already mine, wrapped around this body like a second skin.
For the first time in years, I felt the faintest thrill of freedom.
The ghost of Seraphina drifted closer.
"They think I tried to poison the duke's daughter," she explained quietly. "They say I seduce men, that I'm vain, cruel, heartless. But it was lies. I only lacked mana. Without mana, you're worthless in this world."
Her voice was brittle.
I inhaled deeply, grounding myself. "So they call me villainess because they need someone to hate."
Seraphina nodded.
I smirked, the expression foreign on this face but strangely natural. "Then let them hate. I've played the saint long enough in my world. It's time I tried on the mask they've already given me."
For once, my mask wasn't something I had to maintain. It was something I could choose to wear—or not.
And for the first time, I wanted to let myself be seen.
The door to the ritual chamber creaked open. A servant girl stood there, a sneer already plastered on her face.
"Well, if it isn't the cursed lady," she spat, not even bowing. "Still alive after your filthy games? Don't bother coming out. No one wants to see your face."
My hand twitched. In my old world, I would have smiled sweetly and let such words slide off me. But now… now I was no longer the masked angel.
I stepped forward, the chains of jewelry clinking softly. My new green eyes locked on the servants', and I let a slow, sharp smile unfurl.
"Then I suppose," I said, voice dripping with silken menace, "they'll have to endure me."
The servant paled, stumbling back. For the first time, fear—sweet, sharp, familiar—flashed in another's eyes, not because of the mask of perfection I wore, but because I had removed it.
Seraphina's ghost giggled softly, covering her mouth with tiny hands. "You're different from me."
"Yes," I murmured, relishing the weight of my new reality. "And that difference will change everything."
That was the moment I truly entered the world of black thorns and false crowns, the moment the mask of Liora Veylen cracked and the villainess Seraphina Duskbane was reborn.
And I vowed, as I stepped from that dark chamber into the cruel daylight of this world:
If they wanted a villainess, I would give them one.
But on my terms.