The maid—Isla vaguely remembered her name as "Martha" from the novel—hovered nervously as Isla sat stiffly on the edge of the canopied bed. Her mind raced, her thoughts a jumbled mess of disbelief and panic. She wasn't Isla Tang anymore. She was Evangeline Marlowe, the villainess doomed to humiliation, heartbreak, and eventually death.
"Lady Evangeline, are you feeling unwell?" Martha asked, wringing her hands. "Should I call for the physician?"
"No!" Isla blurted, her voice sharper than she intended. Martha flinched, and Isla immediately softened her tone. "I mean, no. That won't be necessary. I'm... fine."
Fine? She was anything but fine. She was stuck in a fictional world, wearing the face of a woman universally despised by both the characters and the readers of *Scarlet Promises*.
Martha hesitated, her brow furrowed. "My lady, the duke requested your presence in the parlor. The crown prince is expected to arrive shortly. Shall I prepare your gown?"
The crown prince. Isla's stomach churned. In the novel, Evangeline was betrothed to the crown prince, Prince Louis. Their engagement was a political arrangement, but Evangeline had clung to the hope that it would turn into love. Instead, Louis fell for Rosaline, the sweet, innocent heroine. Evangeline's jealousy and possessiveness led to her downfall.
Isla took a deep breath. "Yes, prepare the gown," she said, forcing a calm she didn't feel.
"Right away, my lady." Martha curtsied and scurried out of the room .
The moment the door closed, Isla buried her face in her hands. "What am I supposed to do?" she whispered. She couldn't play Evangeline the way the novel had written her. Scheming, manipulative, cruel—that wasn't her. But if she didn't act the part, she risked exposing herself as an imposter. And worse, she risked changing the story in ways she couldn't predict.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Martha returned, carrying a stunning crimson gown embellished with gold embroidery. Isla's breath caught. The dress was beautiful, but it also screamed "villainess."
"My lady, let me help you dress," Martha said, her voice tinged with urgency.
Isla stood reluctantly, allowing the maid to lace her into the gown. As Martha tightened the corset, Isla winced. "How did women breathe in these things?" she muttered under her breath.
Dressed and coiffed, Isla made her way to the parlor. She felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Every step echoed in the grand hallway, her heels clicking against the polished marble floors.
When she reached the parlor, the doors were already open, and a tall, imposing man stood waiting inside. The Duke of Marlowe—Evangeline's father.
"Ah, Evangeline," the duke said, his voice cool and measured. His piercing gray eyes studied her as if searching for a flaw. "You're late."
"My apologies, Father," Isla said, lowering her gaze. She remembered from the novel that the duke was a cold, ruthless man who valued power above all else. He saw Evangeline as a tool to secure the Marlowe family's influence, not as his daughter.
"See that it doesn't happen again" the duke said curtly. "The prince will be here any moment. Remember your role, Evangeline. You are to represent the dignity of the Marlowe name."
"Of course," Isla said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.
Moments later, Prince Louis arrived. He was every bit as handsome as Isla remembered from the novel—tall, golden-haired, with a charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Isla curtsied gracefully, her heart pounding.
"Lady Evangeline," Louis said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His tone was polite, but distant. He didn't love her. He never would.
"Your Highness," Isla said, forcing a smile.
As the formalities continued, Isla's mind raced. She was walking a tightrope, trying to balance between playing Evangeline's role and staying true to herself. One wrong move, and she could unravel everything.
For now, she would have to survive one interaction at a time.