The first thing Evelyn noticed was the thread count.
These were not her sheets. Her sheets were a faded blue poly-blend she'd bought on sale at Target three years ago. These sheets felt like they had been woven by silkworms who were exclusively fed ambrosia and paid a living wage. They were offensively soft.
Evelyn cracked one eye open. Instead of the familiar popcorn ceiling of her studio apartment and the half-empty bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos on her nightstand, she was greeted by a canopy bed draped in enough crimson velvet to upholster a small theatre. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a room that looked like Versailles had thrown up in it. Gold leaf. Everywhere.
Okay, Evelyn thought, her brain still foggy from what she assumed was a post-gaming-marathon nap. Either I got super drunk and broke into a museum, or my landlord finally upgraded the place. Odds are on the museum.
She sat up, and a wave of silky, violently red hair cascaded over her shoulders. Evelyn paused. Her hair was brown. Mousey brown. And it usually reached her chin, not her waist.
She scrambled out of the gigantic bed and practically tripped over the hem of a lace nightgown that probably cost more than her gaming PC. There was a mirror across the room—an enormous, gilded monstrosity.
Staring back at her wasn't Evelyn, the 24-year-old graphic designer whose main hobbies included raiding in MMOs and ranking the best local taco trucks.
Instead, it was a stunner. Sharp, aristocratic cheekbones. Emerald green eyes that were slightly upturned at the corners. And that hair—a waterfall of deep crimson. It was a face that naturally looked down on people, possessing an Olympic-level Resting Bitch Face.
It was also a face she recognized.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Evelyn whispered, her voice coming out smoother and more melodic than she expected. "GG, universe. Well played."
She was Evangeline de Claire. The villainess from The Duke's Frozen Heart, that trashy romance novel she had binge-read last night while waiting for her raid queue to pop. The villainess who was obsessed with the male lead, bullied the heroine, and ended up publicly dumped, disowned, and exiled to a nunnery in the frigid north where the food was terrible.
I'm the cannon fodder. I'm the tutorial boss meant to be stomped by the heroine.
Panic began to set in. This wasn't a dream. The air smelled too much like expensive lavender and impending doom.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted her existential crisis. Before she could answer, the door burst open, revealing a young maid in a crisp uniform, carrying a silver tray with a steaming porcelain cup.
"Good morning, Milady!" the maid chirped, practically vibrating with energy. "It's a beautiful day! I've brought your morning tea with three sugars, just how you like it!"
Evelyn recognized her from the book's description. This was Mia, Evangeline's loyal, if somewhat dim-witted, personal maid.
"Morning," Evelyn mumbled, trying to channel the villainess. She failed, sounding more like a confused sloth.
Mia didn't seem to notice. She set the tray down on a marble-topped table and began bustling around the room, throwing open the heavy curtains.
"We must hurry, Milady! We have so much to do. The bath is being drawn, the seamstress is coming for final adjustments at ten, and the hairdresser at noon! We simply must make sure you are the jewel of the evening."
Evelyn eyed the tea suspiciously. "The evening? What's happening this evening?"
Mia stopped, blinking her large brown eyes. "Milady? Are you feeling well? It's the Grand Ball at the Royal Palace! The one celebrating the Crown Prince's return! And, of course, where you are expected to dance the opening waltz with His Grace, Duke Blackwood!"
Duke Julian Blackwood. The male lead. The man who was supposed to be Evangeline's fiancé.
Evelyn felt the blood drain from her face. In the novel, this ball was The Event. It was where Evangeline tried to force a kiss on the Duke, got brutally rejected in front of the entire nobility, and where the Duke first noticed the sweet, innocent heroine, Isabella. It was the official start of the villainess's downfall.
It was tonight.
Oh, hell no. Hard pass. Abort mission.
Evelyn's survival instincts, honed by years of avoiding social interaction and difficult boss fights, kicked into high gear. Rule number one of avoiding a bad ending: Don't go to the place where the bad ending starts.
She let out a weak, theatrical cough and slumped back onto the obscenely soft bed, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead.
"Mia," she gasped, trying to sound frail. "I… I don't think I can go."
Mia gasped, dropping a silk stocking she had just picked up. "Milady! What is wrong? Shall I call the physician?"
"No, no physician," Evelyn said quickly. Physicians in this world probably still used leeches. "It's just… a sudden onset of… extreme fatigue. And a terrible ache in my… soul. Very contagious."
Mia looked confused but concerned. "A soul ache? Oh, Milady, that sounds dreadful!"
"It is. Truly." Evelyn peeked at the maid through her lashes. "I think I just need rest. And food. Specifically, comfort food. To heal my soul."
"Of course! I shall have the chef prepare a light broth, perhaps some poached pear—"
"No!" Evelyn sat up slightly, forgetting to be frail. "Broth won't cut it. Mia, listen to me very carefully. I need you to go to the kitchen."
Mia nodded eagerly, ready to serve.
"I need… pizza."
Mia froze. "Pete… zah?"
"Yes. Pizza," Evelyn enunciated, making a large circle with her hands. "It's a flat, round bread. You cover it in a tomato sauce. Not just tomatoes, a sauce. With herbs. Then, you cover that in cheese. Lots of cheese. Melty cheese. And then, you put little circles of spicy sausage on top. Pepperoni."
Mia stared at her lady as if Evangeline had just started speaking in tongues. Her brow furrowed in deep concentration.
"Bread… with tomatoes and cheese on top? Like an open-faced sandwich, Milady? But round? And… what is this Pepper-Roni? Is it a type of exotic pheasant?"
Oh god. They don't have pizza. I'm in a medieval fantasy world, and they don't have pizza. This is worse than the nunnery. Evelyn's craving spiked from a mild want to a desperate need.
"It's not a pheasant, Mia. It's… never mind. Just tell the chef I want cheesy bread. Very cheesy. And I am too sick to go to the ball. I might perish if forced to dance." She flopped back down onto the pillows, executing a perfect dramatic swoon.
"Milady, I don't know if—"
"Evangeline!"
A booming voice cut through the room. Evelyn cracked an eye open again. Standing in the doorway was a middle-aged man with the same auburn hair as her (well, Evangeline's), a perfectly groomed mustache, and an expression of mild annoyance.
Baron de Claire. Her new father. The man who viewed his daughter primarily as a political investment.
He strode into the room, ignoring the flustered Mia who dipped into a low curtsy. He looked down at Evelyn, who was still trying to maintain her 'dying swan' pose on the bed.
"What is this nonsense I hear about you being sick?" the Baron demanded. He did not look sympathetic.
"Father," Evelyn croaked, giving another little cough. "It came on so suddenly. A terrible malaise. I fear I cannot attend the ball tonight. I would only embarrass the family by fainting on the dance floor."
The Baron raised an eyebrow. He clearly wasn't buying what she was selling.
"Embarrass the family?" he scoffed. "Do you know what would embarrass the family, Evangeline? If you fail to show up to dance with the Duke of Blackwood. Do you know how much effort I put into securing that engagement? People are already talking about how cold he is towards you. You must be there to cement your position."
"But Father, my health—" Evelyn tried, clutching her chest.
"Your health is fine. You were perfectly healthy yesterday when you ordered three new gowns." The Baron adjusted his velvet doublet. "Stop this childishness. You are going to that ball, you are going to dance with the Duke, and you are going to look happy about it."
Evelyn realized the 'sick' card had been declined. Time for a tactical retreat. "But what if I truly cannot? What if the mere sight of the Duke makes me… nauseous?"
Which is true, but because I know he's going to ruin my life, not because I'm sick.
The Baron sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew his daughter was difficult, but this was a new level of stubbornness. He decided to use the one weapon that always worked on Evangeline.
"Fine. Don't go," he said casually, turning towards the door.
Evelyn perked up. Had it worked?
"However," the Baron continued, pausing in the doorway, "if you are too 'sick' to attend the most important social event of the year, you are clearly too sick to go shopping in the capital next week. Or to host your tea parties. In fact, I think it's best if I suspend your personal allowance for the next three months. For your health, of course. You should focus on recovery, not spending gold."
The room went silent.
Evelyn's jaw dropped. No allowance?
Her entire plan for this new life revolved around one thing: being a rich, lazy noble. Being rich required money. Being lazy required paying other people to do things. And most importantly, buying snacks—or the ingredients to invent snacks—required gold.
Three months with no money? In this luxury prison?
Nope. Non-negotiable.
Evelyn shot up in bed, the lace nightgown billowing around her. The frail act vanished faster than a rogue in stealth mode. A bright, slightly manic smile plastered itself onto her face.
"It's a miracle!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "Father, your presence has cured me! The malaise has lifted! I feel rejuvenated! I can practically feel the waltz music in my veins!"
Mia looked from the Baron to Evelyn, utterly bewildered by the sudden recovery.
The Baron didn't even blink. He knew he had won. "I thought so. Be ready by six. Don't be late."
He turned and walked out, leaving Evelyn sitting in the center of the massive bed, defeated.
She looked at Mia, who was still holding the tea tray.
"Well, that backfired spectacularly," Evelyn muttered. She sighed, accepting her fate. "Fine. I'll go to the stupid ball. But Mia?"
"Yes, Milady?"
"Forget the tea. Go down to the kitchen and tell the chef I need the largest, sweetest cake he can possibly make. And bring it up here. Now."
If she was going to march to her doom, she was going to do it fueled by sugar. She had a plot to derail, a Duke to avoid, and a heroine to dodge. Her lazy life was on the line, and Evelyn was prepared to fight for her right to do absolutely nothing.