Celeste woke with a jolt, her heart racing. For a brief, blissful moment, she forgot where she was. The softness of the feather mattress beneath her and the heavy velvet curtains shielding her from the morning sun felt foreign, like props in a play she hadn't signed up for.
And then it hit her again.
She wasn't Maggie Warren, the 32-year-old overworked, underappreciated office drone. No, she was Celeste Varrow, a 17-year-old noblewoman with a face like a porcelain doll and a reputation as shattered as fine china dropped from a tower.
Sitting up, Celeste rubbed her temples, trying to piece together her spiraling thoughts. Her limbs felt lighter, her skin unnaturally smooth, as if her entire body had been plucked from a department store mannequin. She stumbled to the ornate mirror on the far wall, the same one she had stared into the day before.
Her reflection confirmed it. She wasn't dreaming.
The girl in the mirror looked so young, so… alive. Her skin glowed with the kind of vitality she hadn't seen in her own reflection since her mid-twenties. There wasn't a single line, no dark circles, no signs of the sleepless nights she'd spent working overtime or binge-reading web novels until the crack of dawn.
She pressed her fingers to her face, half-expecting the illusion to shatter. But it didn't.
"I'm seventeen," she murmured, the words tasting strange on her tongue.
A 32-year-old mind trapped in the body of a teenager. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Seventeen. A time she had spent cramming for exams, bingeing fast food, and awkwardly avoiding eye contact with her high school crush. Now, she was supposed to be some kind of refined aristocrat?
Her hands balled into fists. She wasn't sure what infuriated her more: the impossibility of it all or the sheer *injustice* of being hurled back into adolescence without her consent.
"Great," she muttered to herself, "not only do I get to relive the most awkward years of my life, but now I have to do it in *corsets* and with *poisoned tea* on the menu."
Her frustration simmered as she paced the room, trying to make sense of her predicament. This wasn't just some random chance. She'd read this book. She knew how it ended for Celeste. Brutally. Painfully. And far too soon.
But the system's words came back to her. 'Avoid all death flags. Achieve a happy ending.'
Happy ending. What a joke. The only "happy ending" she'd ever gotten was finding a pizza place open past midnight.
Still, she forced herself to think. She wasn't Maggie Warren anymore. Her life on Earth, her cramped apartment, her dead-end job. Hey felt like they belonged to someone else now. A distant memory. But they were her memories, and they grounded her in a way nothing else could.
She paused, staring at her reflection again. "I'm not Celeste," she said firmly. "I'm Maggie Warren. And if I survived 32 years of crushing deadlines, bad bosses, and worse coffee, I can survive this."
Her chest rose and fell as she took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. Panicking wouldn't help. If anything, it would just speed up the inevitable doom this world seemed intent on throwing her way.
"Okay," she said aloud, her voice steadier now. "Step one: Stop thinking like a jaded millennial and start thinking like a teenage aristocrat. Step two: Don't die. Step three…" She trailed off, her eyes narrowing.
"Figure out who the hell thought it was a good idea to put me in this mess."
The system chimed, interrupting her internal monologue.
「Reminder: Lady Sophia Durand will attend the tea party today. High potential for alliance-building. Recommendation: Attend.」
Right. The tea party. The social minefield. Celeste groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine," she muttered. "I'll play along, for now. But if one more person looks at me like I'm yesterday's garbage, I swear…"
Her threat hung in the air, unfinished but satisfying nonetheless. She turned to the wardrobe, pulling it open with more force than necessary. If she had to survive this, she'd do it her way. No more wallowing. No more second-guessing.
Because beneath the layers of silk and lace, beneath the fragile exterior of Celeste Varrow, she was still Maggie Warren. And Maggie didn't quit. Not when there was pizza to eat, bills to pay, or, apparently, death flags to dodge.
She chose a dress, something simple but elegant, and began getting ready.
If this world wanted her to be Lady Celeste Varrow, then so be it. But she'd do it her way. After all, she'd already survived her twenties. How hard could this be?
「Hard enough that death flags are everywhere.」
The system's dry, automated tone chimed in her head like a sassy coworker pointing out an obvious mistake.
Celeste groaned, throwing a withering glance at the empty space where the voice presumably "lived." "Oh, thanks. That's so reassuring," she muttered, tugging the corset strings of her dress tighter with the finesse of someone who had never worn one before.
Her reflection in the mirror smirked back at her, or maybe that was just her imagination. This world might have been fictional, but the exhaustion and irritation were very real.
"Everywhere, huh?" she said, yanking the strings again. "Well, if that's the case, I might as well start charging admission. 'Come see the Villainess Dance on Death's Door for Your Amusement!'" She gestured dramatically, like an old-timey carnival barker.
The system didn't respond, of course. It was too busy silently judging her from its invisible perch.
With a resigned sigh, she pulled the rest of the dress into place, smoothing out the shimmering fabric. The gown was gorgeous, an ethereal shade of lavender that looked like it had been spun from moonlight. Too bad it was wasted on a 32-year-old soul pretending to be a 17-year-old noblewoman.
And yet, she couldn't deny that something about the sight of herself like this. Graceful, poised, powerful. Made her stand a little taller. Maybe this whole thing wasn't entirely hopeless.
"Alright, let's do this," she said, squaring her shoulders.
She headed for the door but hesitated just as her hand touched the ornate brass handle. A thought nagged at her, unbidden and unwelcome.
She was in a 'teenager's' body now. A teenager with no rights, no job, no apartment, and definitely no pizza delivery service. Worse, the people around her didn't just dislike her. They actively wanted her gone.
Her grip on the handle tightened. "This isn't my life," she whispered. "This isn't who I am."
But the truth stared back at her in the polished silver of the doorknob. She was Celeste Varrow now, whether she liked it or not. And this wasn't her world, but it was her reality.
"Fine," she said under her breath, steeling herself. "If I'm stuck here, I'm making the rules. Starting with *not dying.*"
The system chimed again.
「Excellent mindset. Death flag probability reduced by 2%. Current survival probability: 18%.」
Celeste nearly dropped her hand from the door. "Eighteen percent?" she hissed. "That's the best I've got?"
The system, as always, offered no reply.
With a growl of frustration, she threw open the door and marched into the hall, muttering under her breath. "Eighteen percent. I've had better odds of getting a refund for concert tickets. But fine. Bring it on."
The polished marble floors of the estate gleamed under the morning sun.