Pain radiated through her skull, sharp and unrelenting, as if someone had taken a hammer to her head. The world around her felt distant, blurred by the throbbing ache. Blinking against the sunlight streaming through ornate, floor-to-ceiling windows, she struggled to sit up. Her surroundings came into focus—a lavish room adorned with gilded furniture, intricate tapestries, and an overwhelming air of opulence. This was not her room. The sterile white walls of her tiny apartment were a far cry from the gilded golds and deep crimson that surrounded her now.
Where was she? Panic clawed at her chest as she tried to piece together her fragmented memories. The last thing she remembered was curling up with a mug of tea and her favorite novel, The Crown's Shadow, its pages an escape from the monotony of her life. Her hands froze mid-motion as she caught sight of the intricate lace sleeves adorning her arms. These weren't her clothes. Her breath hitched, heart pounding like a drum in her chest.
Her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room confirmed her worst fear: the sharp, haughty features of Lady Anastasia Valemont stared back at her. The realization struck like lightning—she had transmigrated into the body of the villainess.
Anastasia Valemont. The infamous antagonist of The Crown's Shadow. The one whose name was synonymous with betrayal, cruelty, and tragedy. According to the plot, Anastasia would spend the next three years enduring public scorn, familial betrayal, and heartbreak, only to meet her fiery demise during a grand ball. Her adopted sister, Elena, the protagonist, would rise from the ashes, adored by all. Except now, Anastasia wasn't Anastasia anymore.
"This can't be happening," she whispered, gripping the edge of the bed so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her voice—sharp, regal, and entirely unfamiliar—sent a shiver down her spine. "Why her? Of all people?"
She took a tentative step toward the mirror, her silk slippers muffling her movement across the cold marble floor. Every detail was as described in the book: the cold beauty, the stormy blue eyes, and the air of detached arrogance. She pressed a trembling hand to her face, as though willing the reflection to change. But it didn't. The stranger in the mirror stared back, an unwelcome reminder of her new reality.
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts. The grand oak doors creaked open, revealing a tall man dressed in an immaculate black suit. His icy blue eyes, identical to hers, regarded her with a mix of suspicion and concern.
"You're awake, Ana," he said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it that made her stomach twist. "It's unusual for you to miss breakfast. Are you feeling unwell?"
Her breath caught. This was Alexander Valemont, Anastasia's eldest brother. In the novel, he was cold and distant, always siding with Elena over his own sister. But right now, his gaze seemed…gentle? Or was she imagining it?
"I…" she faltered, searching for an excuse. "I just needed some rest, Alexander. That's all."
His frown deepened, his piercing gaze scrutinizing her as if trying to unravel a mystery. "If you're sure. You should eat something. Mother and Father are waiting in the dining hall."
Mother and Father. The very people who, in the story, abandoned Anastasia emotionally the moment Elena entered their lives. Her stomach twisted at the thought of facing them.
"I'll be there shortly," she managed to say, forcing a semblance of composure.
Alexander hesitated, his expression unreadable, before nodding and leaving the room. As the door clicked shut, she exhaled shakily, her grip on the bedpost tightening. The enormity of her situation weighed heavily on her shoulders.
"Alright," she muttered to herself, pacing the length of the room. "Think. If the story starts three years before Anastasia's death, there's still time to change things."
The key to survival was simple: avoid conflict with Elena. Play the part of a reformed villainess, lay low, and maybe—just maybe—she could escape the fiery ending written for her.
The dining hall was a grand affair, with crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over a table laden with fine china and silverware. Seated at the head of the table were Duke and Duchess Valemont, the picture of nobility. Elena sat beside them, her golden curls and doe-like eyes giving her an ethereal quality. Her presence was a reminder of why the Valemonts' favor had shifted away from Anastasia in the original story.
"Good morning, Anastasia," the Duchess greeted, her tone clipped. In the novel, this was the beginning of the frostiness that would later turn into outright disdain.
"Good morning, Mother," Anastasia replied, lowering her gaze slightly in what she hoped came across as humility.
Surprise flickered across the Duchess's face.
Elena, however, was less subtle. "Oh, sister," she said sweetly, her voice dripping with saccharine kindness. "You must be so tired. It's unlike you to be late. Were you having bad dreams again?"
A calculated remark. In the book, Anastasia's nightmares were a source of ridicule among her siblings. But this time, she smiled softly.
"Thank you for your concern, Elena. But no, I'm perfectly fine."
Alexander's fork clattered against his plate. "Why do you always talk to her like she's a child?" he snapped, his icy gaze fixed on Elena.
Elena blinked, clearly caught off guard. "I didn't mean anything by it," she said, her voice trembling slightly.
The Duchess intervened before the conversation could escalate further. "Enough. Let's eat."
Anastasia's mind raced as she picked at her food. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. In the novel, Alexander always defended Elena, yet here he was, taking her side instead. Was it possible that her presence—her actions—were already altering the course of events?
Later that evening, as she stood in the garden under the fading twilight, she replayed the day's events in her mind. The subtle shifts in dynamics, the hints of unease. Every moment felt like a test, and she couldn't afford to fail.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a shadow emerging from behind the rose bushes. Her heart leapt into her throat as the figure stepped closer, revealing the sharp, chiseled features of Cedric Lancaster—her fiancé.
"Anastasia," he called out, his voice low and urgent. "I… I wanted to apologize for my behavior lately. I realize I've been distant, and it's unfair to you."
She stared at him, dumbfounded. In the novel, Cedric's love for Elena had been so overpowering that he'd all but ignored Anastasia until their engagement was formally dissolved. But here he was, apologizing?
"You don't need to apologize," she said carefully. "I understand you've been busy."
He shook his head. "No. I want to do better. For you."
As he reached for her hand, she felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, the script wasn't set in stone.