"So you're telling me—" I shoved another grape in my mouth, "—that I literally can't leave?"
DING!
The system notification glowed that annoying blue, and I swear I could feel it wishing it had eyes just so it could roll them at me.
CORRECT. I'M GLAD YOU'VE FINALLY REACHED THIS OBVIOUS CONCLUSION AFTER MULTIPLE ESCAPE ATTEMPTS.
"Was that sarcasm? Did you just use sarcasm on me?"
A smiley face popped up on the screen in response.
"Oh, you're definitely being snarky."
It had been three days since I'd face-planted into this world as Beatrice Cruelton, and I'd realized three critical things:
First: There were no phones here. I mean, yeah, obviously—the novel was set in the 1940s—but I could practically feel my soul withering every time I remembered I'd have to live without scrolling through social media for the rest of my life. What was I supposed to do? Read books? Like some kind of peasant?
Second: I couldn't leave. Not the mansion. Not the grounds. Not even think about leaving without the system reading my mind like some kind of digital N S A agent and knocking me unconscious.
And third: I was absolutely, completely, utterly in trouble.
"But why?" I groaned, ignoring the multiple nervous glances from the maids scattered around the embroidery room. "If being the villainess is destined to get me killed, why can't I just run away and live in peace? Open a bookshop. Adopt seventeen cats. Not die."
Honestly, I didn't give a single rat's behind about Maryann and her four broad-shouldered love interests with the collective emotional intelligence of a brick.
There were only two things I cared about in this world: myself and money.
THAT WOULD BE OUT OF CHARACTER.
"Oh, shut up about the out-of-character crap!" I threw a grape at the air where the system notification floated. It passed right through. Obviously. "I need actual explanations! Are you telling me I'm in a luxurious cage?"
"Lady Cruelton."
Rose, my head maid, spoke up. Her voice was respectful, but her eyes were firm—the look of someone who'd dealt with noble tantrums before and had opinions.
I looked at her. "Yes?"
"Would you like the maids to excuse themselves?"
I glanced around the room. At least a dozen maids were scattered about, supposedly focused on their embroidery. But they kept shooting me looks—quick, nervous glances—then flinching when I made eye contact.
Right. I probably looked like a lunatic, talking to myself and gesturing at empty air.
"Oh. Yes. Good call." I smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Rose."
Then I waved at the room. "Shoo, everyone! Go do random things away from here. Polish something. Dust something. Gossip about me—I know you're going to anyway."
The room cleared in approximately 2.5 seconds.
Rose gave me a small nod and retreated to her usual spot by the window, picking up her embroidery but keeping one eye on me.
Good woman, Rose. Very sensible.
The system chimed.
BEATRICE CRUELTON IS ONE OF THE MAIN CHARACTERS OF "THE SECRET PRINCESS." YOU MUST BE A PERFECT BEATRICE CRUELTON—AT LEAST FOR THE BEGINNING OF THE STORY—OR THE ENTIRE PLOT STRUCTURE WILL COLLAPSE.
I stood up to pace, grabbing my chin like I was some kind of detective solving a murder.
"Okay, let me see if I understand this correctly. Basically, this book is super trashy—"
...
The system put out a series of ellipses. Judging me. A computer program was judging me.
I rolled my eyes. "Fine. Allegedly trashy. According to Beatrice's memories, Maryann was brought to this mansion two months ago, right?"
CORRECT.
"And if I remember correctly, we're around chapter ten, where Beatrice—future heir of the Cruelton estate—was introduced as the main villain."
CORRECT.
I remembered my first impression of Beatrice when I'd read those early chapters. I'd actually been impressed.
Most transmigration novels were painfully patriarchal. Men were soldiers, warriors, assassins. Women were maids, healers, delicate flowers who needed rescuing every five minutes. A novel set in the 1940s followed those rules even harder.
But not Beatrice Cruelton.
As the only child of doting Duke Alaric Cruelton, she was the heir to the entire Cruelton estate and legacy. A powerhouse in her own right. Educated. Sharp. Capable.
I'd understood her at first. Suddenly having a sister appear from nowhere—a sister who threatened your inheritance, who everyone bent over backward to please, who eventually stole your fiancé—couldn't be easy.
But then it went downhill fast.
"So let me guess," I said slowly. "The villainess is super important in the beginning chapters because her cruelty is the main reason the male leads meet the heroine?"
THE DIRECTION OF YOUR THINKING IS CORRECT. BEATRICE CRUELTON'S ROLE IS TO BE UNREASONABLY CRUEL TO MARYANN. WITHOUT AN EVIL PERSON, HOW WOULD THE MAIN CHARACTER BE PITIABLE ENOUGH TO EARN THE LOVE OF FOUR IMPOSSIBLY HANDSOME MEN?
"Ah. Classic trope." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "She only exists to be a punching bag generator for the protagonist."
ESSENTIALLY, YES.
"In that case, why was I the one transmigrated?" I demanded. "If we're being fair, it should be that crazy author getting a taste of their own trashy writing! I was just an honest reviewer!"
The system blinked. Didn't reply.
Awkward silence.
"Hello?"
Still nothing.
"Are you... are you ignoring me?"
ANYWAY, MOVING ON.
"Oh, you are! You're totally avoiding the question!"
The system chimed brightly, completely dodging my accusation.
PROPOSED SOLUTION: THE HATRED POINT ECONOMY.
I stopped pacing. "Oh! Yes! You mentioned that when I first woke up. What does it mean?"
EXPLANATION: ORIGINAL BEATRICE CRUELTON'S FATAL ERROR WAS UNIVERSAL LOATHING. NO ALLIES. ONLY ENEMIES. BY THE END, EVEN THE SERVANTS CELEBRATED HER DEATH.
"Wow. Harsh."
YOU CANNOT CHANGE THIS NARRATIVE. IT IS TOO ENTRENCHED IN THE PLOT STRUCTURE.
"So I'm doomed to be hated?"
THEREFORE, YOU MUST LEAN INTO IT.
I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
ACCUMULATE HATRED. CONVERT IT TO CURRENCY.
"You want me to—wait, back up. Convert hatred into money?"
PRECISELY. EVERY TIME SOMEONE HATES YOU, YOU EARN HATRED POINTS. HATRED POINTS CAN BE EXCHANGED FOR VARIOUS ADVANTAGES: INFORMATION, SMALL PLOT CHANGES, DELAYS TO CRITICAL SCENES, AND EVENTUALLY—ENOUGH POINTS TO FAKE YOUR DEATH AND FLEE THE CONTINENT BEFORE THE PLOT CRUSHES YOU.
I stared at the floating notification. The system continued.
THINK OF IT AS A SPITE BASED RETIREMENT FUND.
"A spite-based—" I started laughing. I couldn't help it. "You're telling me I can monetize people hating me?"
CORRECT.
"This is the best terrible idea I've ever heard."
The system chimed cheerfully.
WITH THIS SYSTEM, THE HOST CAN ADVANCE THE PLOT ENOUGH TO ENSURE THE MAIN CHARACTER MEETS THE MALE LEADS ON SCHEDULE, THEN ESCAPE BEFORE YOUR CANONICAL DEATH IN SIX MONTHS.
I stopped laughing. "Wait. Six months?"
YOUR DEADLINE.
"I die in six months?!"
TECHNICALLY, THE ORIGINAL BEATRICE DIES IN APPROXIMATELY CHAPTER 2,547. BUT TIME COMPRESSION IN NARRATIVE STRUCTURE MEANS—
"Six months," I said flatly. "I have six months."
CORRECT. BETTER GET HATING!
I took a deep breath. Okay. Okay. Six months. I could work with six months.
"Right. So how much are we talking? How many hatred points do I need?"
TO SUCCESSFULLY FAKE YOUR DEATH AND ESTABLISH A NEW IDENTITY IN ANOTHER COUNTRY WITH ENOUGH WEALTH TO LIVE COMFORTABLY: 500,000 POUNDS.
I choked on air. "I'm sorry, how much?"
500,000 POUNDS.
"Five hundred thousand—" I couldn't finish the sentence. My brain was short-circuiting.
IN 1940s CURRENCY, YES. The system added
I almost levitated off the floor.
500,000 pounds. In the 1940s.
My hands started shaking. My heart hammered. That wasn't just money—that was generational wealth. That was "buy a castle and retire at thirty" money. That was "never work again and spend the rest of your life eating fancy cheese" money.
"Rose!" I practically shouted.
She looked up from her embroidery, startled. "Yes, Lady Cruelton?"
"How much is 500,000 pounds? Like, in terms a normal person would understand?"
Rose's eyes widened. Her normally composed mask cracked, revealing genuine shock.
"That is..." She paused, searching for words. "Lady Cruelton, that is generational wealth. Money like that can only be dreamed of amongst ordinary people. Most families would never see even a fraction of that amount in their entire lives."
The words hit me like a blessing from the heavens.
I jumped up, twirling in place, my dress flaring out.
"YES! Yes yes yes yes yes!"
Rose gave me a small, amused smile and returned to her embroidery, clearly used to my antics by now.
It was insane.
It was perfect.
I could do this. I could be so villainous, so absolutely despicable, that everyone in this godforsaken plot would hate me enough to fund my early retirement.
I cackled out loud, probably sounding unhinged.
"I'm going to be such a good villain," I announced to no one in particular. "I'm going to be so terrible that people will write legends about how awful I was. Historians will study my villainy. Children will cry at the mention of my name."
THAT'S THE SPIRIT! The system cheered.
"I'm going to make the original Beatrice look like an amateur!" I declared
Rose looked up briefly, one eyebrow raised, but said nothing.
I grinned at the system notification.
"So. How do I start earning hatred points?"
SIMPLE. BE YOURSELF.
"Rude."
BUT ALSO: BE THE PERFECT VILLAINESS. FOLLOW THE SCRIPT—FOR NOW. TORMENT MARYANN. CLASH WITH THE MALE LEADS. MAKE EVERYONE DESPISE YOU. THE MORE AUTHENTIC THE HATRED, THE MORE POINTS YOU EARN.
"And then I can escape?"
AND THEN YOU ESCAPE. SIX MONTHS. 500,000 POUNDS. ONE TICKET TO FREEDOM.
I looked out the window at the sprawling Cruelton estate. The manicured gardens. The marble halls. The life of luxury I was about to weaponize.
"Alright then." I cracked my knuckles. "Let's make everyone hate me."
Rose glanced up again. "My lady?"
"Nothing, Rose. Just planning my future."
"Very good, my lady."
I smiled. A real, genuine smile.
For the first time since landing in this ridiculous novel, I had a plan.
A terrible, spite-fueled, absolutely perfect plan.
Maryann and her harem of brooding men had no idea what was coming.
DING!
TUTORIAL COMPLETE.
WELCOME TO THE HATRED POINT ECONOMY.
CURRENT HATRED POINTS: 0
GOAL: 500,000 POUNDS (EQUIVALENT TO 500,000 HATRED POINTS)
TIME REMAINING: 6 MONTHS
GOOD LUCK! TRY NOT TO DIE! :)
That smiley face was definitely mocking me.
But I didn't care.
I had a number. I had a deadline. I had a plan.
And for the first time in three days, I felt something other than panic.
I felt motivated.
Let the games begin.