As Gabriella stumbled through the post-wedding revelry like a sleep-deprived sloth at a ball, her mind resembled a foggy bog of confusion and residual shock from Asher's unexpected smooch. She bobbed her head and flashed smiles as mechanical as a malfunctioning robot, greeting the nobles with all the enthusiasm of a deflating balloon.
After a while, back at the Rothchester castle, as her handmaids scrubbed away the remnants of ceremony and stress, Gabriella felt like a sacrificial lamb being prepped for the royal roast. The warm water was supposed to be comforting, but all it did was serve as a grim reminder of her impending doom—err, fate.
And just when she thought the evening couldn't get any more absurd, in walked the healer—sent by her dear old father to perform a little cosmetic magic and erase all evidence of her less-than-charmed existence. Because apparently, in the kingdom of Rassec, if you can't see the scars, they don't exist. Talk about your literal cover-ups!
Gabriella couldn't help but snort at the irony of it all. 'Oh sure,' she mused, 'let's just slap on a Band-Aid and call it a day. Who needs therapy when you have magic healers at your beck and call? Next, they'll be prescribing unicorn tears and pixie dust!'
But as the healer went to work, their hands dancing across her skin like some bizarre form of interpretive dance, Gabriella couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was a stark reminder that in this world of pomp and pretense, the truth was a commodity best kept hidden away in the darkest corners of the castle. Or under layers of enchanted makeup, apparently.
And so, as she emerged from her bath, fresh-faced and unblemished once more, Gabriella couldn't help but feel like a fraud—a walking, talking illusion wrapped in a pretty package, waiting for someone to tear off the bow and expose the ugly truth lurking beneath. 'Just call me the Duchess of Deception,' she thought wryly, eyeing her reflection with a mixture of amusement and resignation.
Left alone in the couple's room, Gabriella found herself clad in a flimsy lace dress that left little to the imagination. It was like wearing a whisper, delicate and insubstantial, clinging to her skin like a secret she couldn't quite bear to share.
As she glanced at her reflection in the ornate mirror, she couldn't help but marvel at Gabriella's beauty. Long, wavy red locks cascaded down her back like molten lava, framing a face that could launch a thousand ships—or sink them, depending on her mood.
'Well, would you look at that,' Gabriella mused, eyeing her reflection with a mixture of amusement and begrudging admiration. 'I may be stuck in someone else's body, but at least I've got the looks to match.'
Gabriella's green eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief, their sharpness softened by an air of mystery that made her all the more captivating. And while she may have had a resting bitch face that could rival even the most seasoned diva, there was no denying the undeniable allure of her flawless features.
Her body, too, was a testament to Rassec's strict standards of beauty—a perfect canvas sculpted by years of deprivation and discipline. Sure, she may have been on the petite side, but every curve was in just the right place, a testament to the lengths she'd go to maintain her facade of perfection.
'Ah, the sacrifices we make for beauty,' Gabriella thought wryly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the absurdity of it all. But even as she poked fun at herself, there was a part of her that couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness—a reminder of the girl she used to be, before she was swept away into this twisted fairytale.
But as the laughter bubbled up inside her, threatening to spill over into tears, Gabriella pushed aside her doubts and fears. For in this world of make-believe and masquerades, sometimes all you can do is laugh—laugh until the tears dry up, and all that's left is the echo of your own laughter, ringing through the empty halls of your soul.
As Gabriella settled onto the bed, the thin lace of her dress fluttering around her like a ghostly whisper, she couldn't help but feel a wave of nostalgia wash over her. The memories of the novel she used to devour on her daily bus rides flooded back, like old friends dropping by uninvited.
'Ah, Golden Flower,' she thought, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 'The epitome of melodrama and mayhem.'
In the world of Golden Flower, love was a battlefield, and no one knew this better than Gabriella, the poster child for insecurity and jealousy. Her hatred for the saintess, Camilla Roxana, knew no bounds, fueled by a toxic cocktail of envy and resentment.
'Camilla,' she chuckled darkly, 'the symbol of perfection and Gabriella's eternal nemesis.'
In the twisted tale of their narrative, Gabriella's insecurities became her Achilles' heel, driving a wedge between her and the two men vying for Camilla's affections—Asher Von Rothchester, the Duke of the cold north, and Ignatius Clementele Agripha, the Crown Prince of the empire.
As her husband grew increasingly enamored with Camilla, Gabriella's jealousy festered like a wound that refused to heal.
But it wasn't just Camilla who stoked Gabriella's ire—it was the saintess's very existence, a constant reminder of everything Gabriella could never be. And so, fueled by her own bitterness and desperation, Gabriella embarked on a campaign of harassment and manipulation, determined to rid herself of her rival once and for all.
Of course, things didn't quite go according to plan. As Gabriella's schemes grew more and more elaborate, the Duke found himself drawn to Camilla's side, his disdain for Gabriella deepening with each passing day.
"Oh, the irony," Gabriella mused, a bitter laugh escaping her lips like a rogue balloon. "The more she tried to get the duke, the further he ran."
In a fit of rage and despair, Gabriella's jealousy consumed her, leading her down a path of darkness and destruction. In the end, she paid the ultimate price for her sins, her life snuffed out in a blaze of fury and betrayal.
"Well, isn't that just poetic?" Gabriella thought, a grim smile playing at her lips like a kid who found broccoli in their ice cream. "The villain meets her end, and the hero rides off into the sunset with his precious saintess. While the second male lead just watched from a distance, probably snacking on popcorn and rooting for Team Camilla while wiping his tears."
As she pondered the complexities of their tangled relationships, Gabriella couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her literary counterpart. After all, she knew all too well the pain of unrequited love and the sting of jealousy gnawing at her insides like a rabid squirrel. But unlike the Gabriella of Golden Flower, she had no intention of succumbing to the darkness lurking within her heart.
"Let's just live quietly and don't mingle with anyone…" She said as she lay flat on the bed, contemplating her newfound role as the Duchess of Doing Absolutely Nothing.