I died at twenty-four, reading a trashy romance novel in bed.
The memory is vivid even now, seventeen years later. Rain against the windows. The glow of my phone screen. My eyes growing heavy as I reached the final chapter—the one where Duke Kael Draeven, the villain of the story, was dragged to the execution platform in chains.
"The Tyrant of the North falls today," the Crown Prince had declared in the novel, golden and righteous before the cheering crowds. "Justice for his crimes. Justice for the kingdom."
I remember thinking, even as my vision blurred, that it was a shit ending. Kael Draeven wasn't evil—he was broken. Manipulated. A man so consumed by grief over his mother's murder that he'd been easy prey for those who wanted him destroyed.
But readers didn't care about tragic backstories. They wanted the hero to win. They wanted the villain to die.
I'd barely finished the last page when my heart stopped.
Then I opened my eyes as a five-year-old child in a world that shouldn't exist.
The carriage lurches over another rut in the road, jolting me from my thoughts. I steady myself against the worn velvet seat, watching the countryside roll past through the small window. Seventeen years. That's how long I've been Seraphina Ashford, illegitimate daughter of a duke who couldn't care less whether I lived or died.
Seventeen years of preparation for this exact moment.
Because I know what's coming. I know the story. I know that in less than a year, Duke Kael Draeven—the most feared man in the Valtheris Empire—will be framed for treason. I know he'll kill the Crown Prince in revenge. I know the kingdom will descend into civil war, and Kael will die alone on the executioner's block, broken and betrayed.
I know all of it.
And I'm going to change it.
"My lady." The maid sitting across from me—a nervous girl barely older than I am—clutches her hands in her lap. "Are you... are you certain about this? Going to the capital, I mean. Your father, he..."
"He what?" I don't look at her. The fields outside are giving way to denser forest now. We're getting close. "He didn't give me a choice, Margaret. Neither did Duke Draeven."
The summons had arrived three days ago. Curt. Formal. Your presence is required at the Ashford estate in the capital. Duke Kael Draeven has made a request. Your father has agreed.
I'd known it was coming. In the original novel, this was the inciting incident—the moment the villain, desperate for political cover, sought a contract bride. Someone unimportant enough to discard later. Someone noble enough to satisfy society's expectations.
In the novel, he'd chosen some nameless background character. A girl who appeared for three chapters and was never mentioned again.
But I'm not a background character anymore.
I am Seraphina Ashford, and I spent seventeen years making sure I'd be exactly where I needed to be when this moment came.
Margaret twists her hands harder. "But Duke Draeven is... they say he's a monster, my lady. They say his shadow magic has driven him mad. That he killed his own father. That he—"
"They say a lot of things." I finally turn to look at her, and she flinches at whatever she sees in my face. "Most of them are lies."
Not all. Kael Draeven did kill his father—or at least, that's what the novel strongly implied. But Duke Aldric Draeven had been a brutal, abusive man who'd blamed his son for his wife's murder. If Kael had killed him, it was self-defense.
The rest—the madness, the cruelty, the monstrousness—that's propaganda. Lies spread by the Crown Prince and his supporters, softening public opinion for when they finally move against him.
Six months. In the original timeline, they framed him for murder in six months.
I have that long to save him.
"Besides," I add, settling back against the seat, "monsters are made, not born. Remember that."
Margaret doesn't look convinced, but she falls silent.
Good. I need to think.
The capital city of Eridell rises before us as the sun begins its descent—a sprawling mass of stone and iron, all pointed spires and narrow streets that wind like serpents through the heart of the empire. It's beautiful in a cold, austere way. Victorian London meets medieval fantasy, all Gothic architecture and gas lamps that are just beginning to flicker to life.
I've seen it before, of course. In my memories of the novel. But this is different. This is real. The cobblestones are uneven beneath the carriage wheels. The air smells of coal smoke and baking bread. There are people everywhere—merchants closing their shops, nobles in fine carriages, beggars huddled in doorways.
This world is real, and that means the people in it are real.
That means Kael Draeven is real.
And if he's real, he can be saved.
The carriage slows as we enter the noble district, and my stomach tightens. The Ashford estate looms ahead—a massive stone mansion that screams old money and older grudges. My father's ancestral home, where I've never been welcome.
"We're here, my lady," Margaret whispers, and I can hear the dread in her voice.
I smooth my hands over my simple traveling dress—dark green wool, practical and unremarkable—and straighten my spine. First impressions matter. Even with a family that despises you.
Especially with a family that despises you.
The carriage stops. A footman opens the door, his expression carefully blank as he offers his hand. I ignore it and step down myself, lifting my skirts just enough to clear the step.
The Ashford mansion's front door opens before I reach it.
Duke Richard Ashford stands in the entrance hall, flanked by servants. My father. I barely remember what he looks like from the novel—he was such a minor character, mentioned only in passing. But seeing him now, I understand why the author didn't bother with details.
He's utterly forgettable.
Average height. Thinning brown hair. A weak chin hidden behind an over-groomed beard. Expensive clothes that can't hide the softness of a man who's never worked a day in his life.
He looks at me the way someone might look at a stain on their carpet. Mild disgust. Vague irritation.
"Seraphina." Not daughter. Not even my child. Just my name, flat and dismissive. "You've arrived."
"As summoned." I keep my voice neutral, my expression pleasant and empty. The dutiful daughter. The obedient pawn. "I came as quickly as I could, Father."
His eye twitches at the word, but he doesn't correct me. Behind him, I can see others gathering—my half-sister Aria, blonde and beautiful and watching me with undisguised curiosity; the Duchess, my father's wife, her face a mask of cold disapproval; various servants and hangers-on, all pretending not to stare.
"Yes. Well." Richard clears his throat. "Duke Draeven requested you specifically. For reasons I cannot fathom, he seems to think you'll... suit his purposes."
Suit his purposes. I almost laugh. If only he knew.
"What purposes, Father?" I ask, playing ignorant.
"A marriage contract." Aria speaks up from behind him, her voice bright with barely concealed glee. "Duke Draeven needs a wife. Temporarily. And Father agreed to offer you."
Of course he did. What better way to dispose of his embarrassing illegitimate daughter than to marry her off to the most dangerous man in the empire?
"I see," I say calmly. "When?"
"Tonight." Richard's jaw tightens. "He's here. Now. Waiting in the drawing room. He wishes to... interview you."
Ah. Earlier than the novel. In the book, the meeting happened the next day. But that's fine. I'm ready.
I've been ready for seventeen years.
"Then I shouldn't keep him waiting." I move toward the hallway, and Richard actually steps aside, surprise flickering across his forgettable face.
"You're not going to argue? Refuse?"
I pause, glancing back at him. "Why would I? You've made it clear I have no other prospects. And Duke Draeven is, by all accounts, extremely wealthy and powerful. It seems an advantageous match."
That's not what he expected. I can see it in the way his eyes narrow, in the uncertain glance he exchanges with his wife.
Good. Let them wonder. Let them think I'm calculating and cold, willing to marry a monster for money and status.
It's easier than the truth.
The truth is that I'm about to walk into a room with a man I've watched die a thousand times in my mind. A man whose tragic end has haunted me for seventeen years. A man who deserves so much better than what fate has written for him.
The truth is that I'm terrified.
But I've never let fear stop me before.
The drawing room is at the end of a long hallway, past portraits of dead Ashfords who stare down with painted disapproval. The door is closed. A single servant stands outside, looking deeply uncomfortable.
"Announce me," I tell him.
He blinks. "My lady, perhaps you should wait for your father to—"
"Announce me. Now."
Something in my voice makes him obey. He knocks twice, opens the door, and says in a slightly strangled voice, "Lady Seraphina Ashford, my lord."
Then he steps aside.
I walk in.
The drawing room is all dark wood and darker curtains, with a fire crackling in the hearth despite the relative warmth of the evening. It's a masculine space—my father's domain—full of hunting trophies and expensive liquor and leather chairs that smell of cigars.
And standing by the window, backlit by the dying light of the sun, is Duke Kael Draeven.
He's exactly as the novel described him.
Tall. Easily six-three, maybe more. Broad shoulders beneath a perfectly tailored black coat with silver embroidery that catches the firelight. Dark hair that falls just past his collar, a few strands escaping whatever tie holds it back. Pale skin that looks like it's never seen much sun.
He doesn't turn immediately. Just stands there, one hand resting on the window frame, looking out at the street below.
"Close the door," he says.
His voice is deep. Cold. The kind of voice that makes servants flinch and nobles choose their words carefully.
I close the door.
Only then does he turn.
And I see his face.
The novel called him "beautiful as a fallen angel," and that wasn't artistic license. Sharp cheekbones. A strong jaw. A mouth that might be generous if it ever smiled, but currently looks carved from stone. And eyes—pale gray, like winter storms—that fix on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
There's a thin scar through his left eyebrow. The novel never mentioned that.
We stare at each other for a long moment. Him cataloging, assessing. Me trying not to show how much seeing him in person has rattled me.
"You're younger than I expected," he says finally.
"I'm twenty-two." I keep my voice steady. "Old enough for whatever you have in mind, Duke Draeven."
Something flickers in those pale eyes. Amusement? Suspicion? It's gone too quickly to tell.
"Sit."
It's not a request. But I don't move.
"I prefer to stand, thank you."
His eyebrow—the one without the scar—rises slightly. "I wasn't asking."
"Neither was I."
For a heartbeat, there's silence. Then, to my surprise, his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of something that might have been a smile, once, before he forgot how.
"They said you were meek. Forgettable." He moves away from the window, and I force myself not to step back as he approaches. "The unwanted daughter who lived in the countryside, grateful for whatever scraps her father threw her way."
"They lied."
"Clearly." He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the shadows under his eyes, the fine lines of tension around his mouth. Close enough that I can smell something faintly spiced—his cologne, probably. "Why?"
"Why did they lie? Or why am I not what they said?"
"Both."
I consider my answer carefully. This is the moment. The first real test. If I play this wrong, he'll dismiss me, find someone else, and I'll have no way to save him.
"My father finds it easier to pretend I don't exist," I say. "Acknowledging me means acknowledging his affair with a merchant's daughter. It means questions about legitimacy and inheritance. So he invented a narrative—the quiet, grateful bastard who knows her place. It's simpler that way."
"And you let him."
"I let him think that." I meet those pale eyes directly. "There's a difference."
Another flicker of something in his expression. He's intrigued. Good.
"You know why you're here." It's not a question.
"A marriage contract. Temporary, I assume. You need political cover for something, and a wife—even an illegitimate, unimportant one—provides a veneer of respectability."
"Perceptive."
"Realistic." I tilt my head slightly, studying him the way he's studying me. "The question is, what are you offering in return? Because I assume you didn't summon me here to simply demand my cooperation."
Now he definitely almost smiles. It's strange, seeing that cold face try to remember the mechanics of something approaching warmth.
"Draeven Duchy," he says. "My name. My protection. A generous allowance. Freedom to do as you please, within reason, as long as you play your part in public."
"And what part is that?"
"The dutiful wife. The civilizing influence." There's something bitter in his voice now. "Society believes I'm a monster. You'll be the beauty who tamed me."
You're not a monster, I want to say. You're a man who's been hurt so badly you don't know how to heal.
But I can't say that. Not yet. Instead, I ask, "How long?"
"One year. After that, we annul the marriage quietly. You keep the title and a substantial settlement. I get... whatever I need this for."
He doesn't say what that is. But I know. In six months, he'll be framed for the murder of Lady Isolde's romantic rival. The marriage is meant to make him look stable, trustworthy. It won't work—the Crown Prince's schemes are too well-laid—but Kael doesn't know that yet.
He doesn't know he's already doomed.
Unless I change it.
"And if I refuse?" I ask.
"Then I find someone else. Someone more... compliant." He says the word like it tastes bad. "Your father made it clear you have no prospects. No dowry. No future. This is the best offer you'll ever receive."
He's trying to intimidate me. To make me feel small and desperate and grateful.
It might have worked, if I were actually the person he thinks I am.
"You're right," I say, and watch surprise flash across his face. "I have no prospects. My father would sell me to anyone willing to take me off his hands. This is, objectively, an excellent offer."
I take a step closer. He tenses, but doesn't move back.
"But here's what you're missing, Duke Draeven. You need someone unimportant enough to discard after a year, but noble enough to satisfy society. Someone who won't cause trouble or make demands. Someone who'll play their part and disappear when it's over."
Another step. We're close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"You need someone forgettable. But you also need someone who won't crumble the first time society's harpies start circling. Someone who can hold their own at court functions and noble gatherings without embarrassing you."
His eyes narrow. "Your point?"
"My point is that I'm perfect for this. Not because I'm desperate—though I am. Not because I have no other options—though I don't. But because I understand exactly what you need, and I can give it to you. No drama. No complications. One year of perfect cooperation, then we part ways."
I hold out my hand.
"Do we have a deal?"
For a long moment, he just stares at me. I can see him thinking, calculating, trying to figure out what game I'm playing.
He'll never guess. How could he? The truth is too impossible.
Finally, he takes my hand. His palm is warm, calloused—a warrior's hand, not a soft nobleman's. His grip is firm but not crushing.
"One year," he says. "Starting from the wedding."
"Agreed. When is the wedding?"
"Three days. I've already made the arrangements."
Three days. In the novel, it was a week. The timeline is compressing. Why?
It doesn't matter. I can adapt.
"Three days," I repeat. "I'll need appropriate clothing. A lady's maid. Access to—"
"You'll have whatever you need." He releases my hand, and I feel the absence of his warmth like a physical thing. "My secretary will handle the details. For now, you'll stay here. I'll send word when the arrangements are complete."
He moves toward the door, and I realize our meeting is over. He's already dismissing me, already moving on to whatever comes next in his carefully ordered world.
I should let him go. I should play my part—the grateful, compliant bride-to-be.
But I've never been good at playing it safe.
"Duke Draeven." He pauses at the door, looking back. "May I ask you something?"
"You may ask. I may not answer."
"Fair enough." I choose my words carefully. "Why me? Specifically. My father has a legitimate daughter—younger, beautiful, unblemished reputation. Why not choose her?"
For the first time since I entered the room, I see real emotion cross his face. Something dark and sharp and deeply, fundamentally tired.
"Because," he says quietly, "your sister would cry the first time someone called her the Tyrant's whore. You won't."
Then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand alone in the drawing room, my hand still tingling where he touched it, my heart pounding against my ribs.
Your sister would cry. You won't.
He's right, of course. Aria would be destroyed by the vitriol that comes with being associated with Kael Draeven. She's too soft, too used to being loved and admired.
But me? I've been called worse than "the Tyrant's whore." I've been called nothing. Invisible. Less than.
I can handle society's hatred.
What I can't handle is watching Kael Draeven walk to his death, knowing I could have stopped it.
I move to the window where he stood earlier, looking out at the darkening streets. Somewhere out there, Crown Prince Lucian is already plotting. Countess Isolde is already spinning her webs. The machinery of Kael's destruction is already in motion.
But they don't know about me.
They don't know that I've read the story. That I know every move, every scheme, every betrayal.
They don't know that I have seventeen years of preparation, seventeen years of learning everything I could about politics and court intrigue and how to survive in a world that wants to crush you.
They don't know that I am going to rewrite this ending.
I press my palm against the cold glass, watching my breath fog the surface.
"I saved you once already," I whisper to the darkness. "In my first life, I couldn't do anything but watch you die. This time, I'm standing between you and fate itself."
A knock at the door makes me turn. A servant enters, looking nervous.
"My lady? Your father requests your presence for dinner."
"Tell him I'll be there shortly."
The servant bows and disappears. I take one last look at the city—at the gas lamps flickering to life, at the shadows lengthening between the buildings.
Somewhere out there, Kael Draeven is returning to his dark castle, thinking this marriage is just a temporary political move. A tool to be used and discarded.
He has no idea that I'm about to become the most important piece on the board.
In three days, I'll be the Duchess of Draeven.
In six months, I'll prevent a murder.
In one year, I'll save a villain from his fate.
And somewhere along the way—though I don't know it yet, won't admit it to myself for months to come—I'm going to fall hopelessly, catastrophically in love with the man I'm trying to save.
But that's a problem for future Seraphina.
Right now, I have a dinner to survive, a wedding to prepare for, and a story to rewrite.
I smooth my skirts, check my reflection in the darkened window—auburn hair still neat, green eyes bright with determination—and head for the door.
The game has begun.
And this time, the villain isn't going to lose.