Darkness.
Veloria awoke with a throbbing head, ragged breath, and blurred vision. The candles in the grand chamber reflected a warm glow, illuminating the shadow of a beautiful woman in a blood-red gown. Her hair was neatly combed, makeup accentuating both grace and pride.
Veloria swallowed hard. Those eyes stared back—not the modern Veloria's eyes accustomed to laptop screens or city streets. This was Duchess Veloria Ardent, the official fiancée of Prince Eldric, the woman who, in last night's novel, would die tragically after being falsely accused of poisoning the heroine.
Memories of the original storyline flashed before her like a replayed film: the ballroom, the accusation of poison, everyone believing the slander, and ultimately, a tragic death.
A cynical smile curled on her lips. "No, this cannot stand. I'm not the type of woman who dies for a shallow plot."
Veloria stepped to the large window. From here, she could see the sprawling palace grounds. Servants scurried with trays, nobles chattered about politics and gossip, and in a corner, Prince Eldric sat solemnly over documents, not glancing up.
Hey, Eldric. I don't care about you. My focus is singular: survive and secure my own life… and, of course, money.
Her steps were light, but every move calculated. She observed every detail: the way servants bowed, the tone of the nobles, the hidden glances behind polite smiles. None of this intimidated her—it was material for analysis. She considered her strategy: figure out whom to trust, identify potential threats, find openings for advantage in the city market or palace intrigues, and above all, protect herself. Martial training, observation, ensuring no sly trap went unnoticed.
Veloria stifled a small laugh. The aristocratic world might seem serious and rigid to them, but to her, every detail was an opportunity. While they were busy with gossip and petty intrigues, she could calculate profits and survive.
Suddenly, a knock at the door. A young servant, pale-faced and trembling, bowed quickly.
"Your Grace… Lord Marcellus Dain requests a private audience."
The name made Veloria tense—not out of fear, but because her instinctive calculations kicked in. Marcellus Dain was the main villain in the novel: cunning, experienced, capable of ruining her reputation with a single misstep.
Veloria took a deep breath, calmed herself, and arranged her expression into a cold, poised mask. Alright, first practice. This time, I control the game.
The audience chamber was vast, walls adorned with portraits of past nobles. Crystal chandeliers reflected a soft gleam across the marble floor. Marcellus stood in a corner with a cold smile, while not far away, Elara Wynne—the fake heroine with a deceptively sweet smile—watched Veloria's every move.
Veloria stepped confidently into the room. Her sharp eyes assessed them both. Marcellus was a strategic threat, sly and seasoned. Elara, though appearing innocent, possessed enough cunning to ensnare anyone careless. Veloria tilted her head, suppressing a cynical grin. You think I'm still a foolish Duchess? Dead wrong.
She sat gracefully yet firmly, presenting herself as unshaken. Her modern mind was clear: Now I control the game, not them.
Marcellus began the conversation in a tone that sounded friendly but concealed a hidden threat. Veloria listened with a cold expression, eyes scanning gestures, voice inflections, and hand movements. She cataloged every potential weakness in her mind: disloyal servants, arrogant nobles, gossip to be exploited.
Veloria stifled another chuckle. To them, this world might seem rigid and serious, but to her, it was a field of opportunity.
Elara stepped forward, her sweet smile hiding sly intent. "Duchess Ardent, I hope you don't mind if I offer a few suggestions…"
Veloria stared coldly, weighing each word and movement. Ah, of course, a trap disguised as advice. Calmly but controlled, she replied, "Please, I am always open to sensible strategies."
Beneath the polite words, her mind raced: how to turn this trap to her advantage without arousing suspicion, while simultaneously proving she was no longer the weak target of the novel's tragic plot.
As night approached, Veloria returned to her chamber. Sitting in a lavish chair, she eyed her writing desk. Her modern thoughts ran quickly, analyzing every possibility: surveillance, strategy, business opportunities, and martial training. In this world, intelligence and wealth could be the most potent weapons.
From her window, she saw palace lights flicker on, shadows of nobles moving across the grounds, and servants bustling to prepare dishes. Everything appeared serene and elegant, but Veloria knew that every smile and step could hide a concealed agenda.
Suddenly, a message arrived: an invitation to tonight's ballroom dance.
Veloria frowned. Ah, the place where I was supposed to die in the novel. This time, I set the rules.
Head held high, eyes glinting, and a secret plan in mind, Veloria stepped into the aristocratic world of intrigue. A world beautiful on the surface, but hiding danger and opportunity in every corner. That night, the modern Duchess showed for the first time that she would no longer be a victim of a futile storyline.
Every step she took was purposeful, every movement strategic, and every smile she gave was the smile of a woman who knew her own worth—not just as a Duchess, but as Veloria, now in command of her own mind.
That night, the ballroom became not a stage of tragedy, but the debut of the reborn Veloria Ardent.
Veloria closed her eyes for a moment. The clash between two lives echoed within her. The memories of her old body—hard muscles, calloused hands, the ringing sound of gunfire—collided with the reality of her current form: the fragile frame of a Duchess. The difference was so sharp, it felt as though she had been hurled from a world of steel into a world of glass.
She remembered too clearly how her life had ended before. Betrayal. Explosions. Muddy ground soaked with blood. The image burned into her mind, unshakable. She had died as Veloria Hwang, a soldier whose final thoughts were not of honor or country, but of her empty bank account. A bitter irony—after years of trading sweat, blood, and loyalty, she had not even purchased the simple freedom of financial security.
Now she opened her eyes again as Duchess Veloria Ardent. Her hair shimmered silver, her violet eyes gleamed cold, her pale skin flawless. She was no longer in a military barrack but in a palace dressed in velvet carpets and chandeliers. Yet this body... it was fragile, soft, untrained. Three steps across a room left her breathless. Once, she could run through gunfire. Now, she could barely stand.
Still, the fire within her had not gone out. If anything, the contrast only stoked her determination.
"I died once," she whispered to herself. "I won't do it again. Not here. Not in this body."
She knew the fate of the original Duchess. She had read the story. A pitiful woman framed, despised, and cast aside—her tragic end sealed during a glittering ballroom night. But Veloria was no longer the same woman. She had been a soldier, trained to survive where others fell. This time, she would not play victim to fate.
The ballroom she now stood in shimmered with music and light. Nobles swirled in elegant gowns, whispers filled the air, and polished shoes tapped in rhythm across the floor. Yet behind the glamour, Veloria saw something else—hidden daggers, politics woven into every smile, predators circling their prey.
And she? They thought she was the weakest lamb of all.
A small laugh slipped from her lips. Let them think so. Wolves often hide best when they wear sheep's clothing.
She raised her glass, the sweet wine reflecting the chandelier's glow. Every sip was a reminder: she was no longer Veloria Hwang, the poor soldier who died penniless. She was now Duchess Ardent. She had wealth at her fingertips, influence to seize, and a fragile body she would forge into strength again.
No one here knew that behind her calm violet gaze lay the mind of a veteran soldier. No one knew that she carried strategies sharper than any jeweled dagger these nobles flaunted.
She glanced around, eyes narrowing at those who sneered behind their fans, at men who whispered promises to one lady while plotting against another. Fools, all of them. They thought power came from titles and bloodlines. Veloria knew better.
True power came from two things: steel and gold. Weapons and wealth. Survival and profit.
And so, as the music swelled and the ballroom glittered on, Veloria made her vow.
This world would not crush her. She would not be a pawn in someone else's story, nor a victim in another man's betrayal.
She would rise. She would fight. She would conquer.
Because here, in this grand masquerade of silk and lies, she had found her new creed.
That night, the ballroom became not a stage of tragedy, but the debut of the reborn Veloria Ardent.
From the ashes of betrayal and death, a new Duchess would rise.
No longer a pawn.
No longer a victim.
From this moment on, every step, every smile, every word she spoke—would be an investment.
And in this world of silk and daggers, she had only one creed:
Love is Money.