Margot's soft knocking came before the first light even dared slip through the curtains.
"Milady, the morning has arrived."
I groaned under my breath and rolled over, burying half my face in the pillow. "Tell the morning to come back later." I muttered.
"Milady?" Margot's voice wavered—gentle, uncertain, like she was afraid I'd throw a vase at her.
Of course, I didn't listen. I stayed sprawled across the bed, clutching the blanket like a lifeline. The sheets were softer than anything I'd ever known—smooth, faintly scented with lavender. It felt sinful to even move.
God, this was the first time I'd actually slept since I got here. Prisoners might have had a basic straw pallet to lie on, but those were often old, unwashed, and infested with vermin so I couldn't really used the bed and just stand.
"Milady, you'll… you'll catch cold if you lie too long," Margot tried again, her voice careful, tiptoeing on glass.
"I'll risk it," I mumbled into the pillow. "If the D'Aubigny people wants me awake this early, they can file a formal complaint."
There was a pause. I could feel her confusion hanging in the air. "A… file... complaint, milady?"
Right. They don't do sarcasm here.
"Never mind," I sighed, turning on my back. "Just… give me five more minutes. Or ten. Make it fifteen and I'll pretend to be civilized."
Margot hesitated by the door. "Y-yes, milady. I shall… pretend with you."
I cracked one eye open, almost laughing. The poor girl looked like she wasn't sure whether I was testing her or genuinely insane.
Staring up at the canopy, I exhaled through my nose. "Margot," I called, "what ungodly hour is it?"
The maid flinched, visibly startled that I'd spoken her name so casually. "It—it is the first hour past dawn, milady."
First hour past—God, right. They didn't even use normal clocks here.
I groaned again. "So… too early," I concluded flatly. I usually wake up early to focus on tasks like reviewing cases, responding to emails, and preparing documents, since it's quiet and peaceful in the office.
But now, with everything that's happening, my mind just screams for rest.
Margot shifted her weight from one foot to another, clutching her apron like it might shield her. "The Count requested your presence in the study."
"The Count?" I opened my eyes. Well, as much as I don't want to go and meet him, I can't, as he's the patriarch of this family and his word are law.
She blinked, then quickly lowered her gaze. "Shall I draw the curtains, milady?"
Before I could protest, sunlight poured in—golden and almost mocking. I hissed and buried my face again. "Criminal," I muttered.
"That's assault."
Margot froze, scared. "A-assault?"
I peeked up at her through my hair. "Never mind. Just—help me get up."
After a moment's hesitation, Margot approached, moving as though one wrong step might trigger an explosion. She helped me sit up, hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the pillows behind my back.
"Milady," she said carefully, "shall I bring the washbasin?"
"Please do. And…" I paused. Do they even have coffee? "Bring whatever it is I usually drink before committing social murder."
Margot blinked again, utterly lost, but curtsied anyway, voice nervous. "At once, milady."
While she scurried off, I took in the room properly for the first time in daylight. Pale gold wallpaper, embroidered drapes, a vanity lined with perfume bottles and brushes that looked older than most of my ancestors.
Everything screamed wealth and expectation. And me—an overworked lawyer who'd spent nights eating instant noodles in front of a glowing laptop—was sitting in the middle of it.
When Margot returned, she carried a silver basin steaming faintly and a tray of delicate glass bottle. "For your morning toilette, milady."[1]
"Right." I stared at the setup—rosewater, combs, ribbons, powder. A ritual. Their kind of professionalism.
She dipped a cloth in the water and offered it to me with both hands. "If you permit, milady, I shall assist."
I hesitated. Having someone bathe and dress me still felt deeply alien. Back home, I'd be lucky to remember brushing my hair before a court hearing. But Margot looked so anxious, like refusing her might be a capital offense.
I sat straighter and gave a lazy wave of my hand, trying to sound bored. "Very well. Be quick about it. I've no patience for dawdling."
Margot blinked at my tone but instantly curtsied. "Of course, milady."
As she worked, I forced my expression into the same detached indifference Laetitia must have worn. The warm cloth slid across my shoulders, my neck, down my arms—gentle, precise, professional—but I still felt awkward. My brain screamed personal space, while my body sat there, letting the maid do her job.
How the hell did nobles live like this?
Every movement was delicate, every pause rehearsed, like existing itself must be played well.
Still, I kept my chin high, masking my discomfort with disdain.
"Be careful near the hair," I said calmly when she reached for the towel. "It tangles too easily."
"Yes, milady," she whispered, moving slower now.
When she finished and brushed my hair until it gleamed, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
The cold beauty staring back looked untouchable, untamed, and cruel. The kind of woman you admired from afar. But never dare to approach.
Beautiful—too beautiful, in that effortless, dangerous way that drew envy like moths to a flame. Smooth skin, long lashes, eyes that seemed to stabbed and know too much. The old Laetitia had wielded that beauty like a weapon. I, on the other hand, was still learning how to live with it without accidentally stabbing myself.
As Margot brushed my hair, I let my mind drift. What am I supposed to do today? I couldn't exactly stroll into town without sparking whispers. After all, not long ago, half the capital believed I'd murdered a Count.
It didn't matter that I had proved my innocence, that every piece of evidence cleared my name. In the world of nobility, truth mattered less than perception—and Laetitia's name was already tainted to begin with. The daughter of a count who had been accused of murder? That kind of scandal didn't wash off easily. The court might have forgiven me, but society never would.
Going out too soon, smiling too freely, acting as if nothing happened… that would be suicide. The old Laetitia would've done it anyway, chin high and lips dripping with venom. That's how ignorant she is, but me? No, I rather liked being alive.
"Margot," I said at last, breaking the silence. "Do we still have embroidery frames in the storage room?"
Her brush paused mid-stroke. "Embroidery, milady?"
"Yes." I rubbed my temple. If I'm to spend another day trapped indoors, I might as well pretend I'm doing something ladylike.
Margot nodded. "I believe we had plenty, I'll prepare the set immediately."
*Make sure the needles aren't cursed." I said.
She nodded. "I'll see to it personally."
The scent of roses drifted faintly through the air as I dressed, the silk brushing against my skin. Even after weeks of wearing gowns, I still missed the simplicity of jeans and loose shirts. Who knew survival in a noble's body came with the curse of corsets and lace?
By the time I made my way down the hall toward Father's study, the morning sun had climbed higher, streaking through the tall windows. My heels clicked against the floors. Servants cleaning bowed as I passed, eyes carefully avoiding mine. The walk itself felt ceremonial, like a condemned prisoner heading toward judgment.
The double doors of Lord Armand D'Aubigny's study loomed at the end of the corridor.
I paused, exhaled once then knocked lightly.
"Enter."
His voice was deep, clipped, and cold as always.
I stepped inside. The room smelled of ink, leather, and aged paper. The Count sat behind his massive desk, sunlight tracing the lines of disapproval etched into his face. He didn't look up immediately, just continued writing, his quill scratching furiously against parchment.
"Father," I greeted, lowering my head slightly.
He didn't answer right away. When he finally did, his tone was sharp. "You seem to enjoy keeping me waiting."
"My apologies, Father," I said smoothly. "It will not happen again."
His gaze lifted, cold, assessing, as though measuring the distance between tolerance and anger. "I should hope not. The last thing this family needs is another scandal sparked by your behavior."
"I understand."
He leaned back in his chair. "Do you? Because I doubt it. You have a habit of seeking attention like a moth seeks flame. I trust you will not step outside this estate again—not until I say so."
There it was, the leash.
"I have no intention of disobeying you," I said, lowering my eyes. "If it eases your mind, I will remain indoors until further notice."
He seemed surprised by my calmness. His brows drew together, but he said nothing for a moment.
Then, with a scoff, "See that you do. I will not have this family's name dragged through the mud any further. You may have escaped conviction, Laetitia, but society's judgment is not so merciful."
"Yes, Father."
He returned to his papers, already dismissing me without words.
I curtsied deeply, the gesture automatic, graceful—the perfect imitation of submission.
When I turned to leave, the heavy door shut behind me with a dull thud. I exhaled slowly. My heart was racing, but my face didn't show it.
So that's how it is, I thought. A cage gilded with manners and silence.
The old Laetitia would have screamed, thrown something, demanded her freedom just to spite him.
But me? No. I'd play along. For now.
Because when you live among wolves, you don't bark—you wait, you watch, and you learn how to bite back harder.
I returned to my chambers where Margot had already laid out the embroidery set.
On the table lay soft linens, colorful threads, tiny silver needles, and a wooden hoop. It looked harmless enough—until I remembered how many noblewomen used embroidery to sharpen both their tongues and their patience.
I ran my fingers over the fabric and smiled a little. I tried learning this once, back when I still had a phone and the outcome was... decent.
Margot gave me that patient look before bowing. "If you need assistance, I'll be just outside."
I nodded.
When she left, the room fell quiet again. I adjusted the hoop, threaded the needle with mild difficulty, and began my first awkward stitch. The thread snagged instantly.
"Of course it did," I muttered. "Some things never change—even reincarnation can't save me from being terrible at crafts."
The pattern I chose was simple—flowers, maybe violets. They were common in this era and supposedly symbolized modesty. I snorted. How ironic.
As the needle slipped in and out of the fabric, I found a pattern, slow, steady, almost meditative. Each stitch was a small rebellion against the chaos that used to rule this body's life.
How I strongly wish people would see this moment of mine, and show how I was the opposite of what this body used to be, the old Laetitia that spent her days gossiping, scheming, and manipulating everyone around her. I, however, was spending mine stabbing cloth with colored string. Progress.
If I were still in my old world, I'd probably be scrolling through social media right now, watching tutorials on embroidery just because I was bored or some funny reels and motivational one that I would immediately scroll down. Funny, isn't it? The very thing I learned out of curiosity back then is what keeps me sane now.
I looked down at my clumsy stitches and smiled despite myself. "Not bad, Laetitia. Maybe you won't die of boredom after all."
Outside, faint laughter echoed through the garden—a reminder that life in this mansion continued, with or without me. Maybe that was for the best.
I bent over my work again, focusing on the next stitch, then the next. The threads began to form something coherent, something mine. And for the first time since waking up in this body, I felt… calm.
Not free, not safe—but calm.
The candle beside me flickered, its light glinting off the silver needle. I held the fabric up to the window, examining my work. It was uneven, imperfect, a little messy—much like me.
But it was alive.
And for now, that was enough.l
[1] A "morning toilette" is the act of getting ready in the morning, which includes washing, grooming, and dressing. Historically, it was also a public ritual for royalty and the nobility to prepare in a ceremonial and social manner, often with assistants present like Margot (maid)