Zhuxen was drowning.
Not in water. Not in sorrow. But in boredom.
She sat at the grand dining table of her family's estate, trapped in another painfully tedious suitor banquet. Across from her, Lord Gregory Van Der Whatever—the latest fool competing for her attention—was dramatically reciting a poem he had written just for her.
Lord Gregory Van Der Whatever was a walking tragedy in human form.
He had the face of a poet—which was unfortunate, because poetry was not his strength. His nose was slightly too big for his face, his eyes were always half-lidded like a man lost in a permanent daydream, and his golden curls looked as if a bird had nested in them and forgotten to leave.
He wore a ridiculously frilly cravat that looked less like a fashion statement and more like he had been attacked by an aggressive lace factory. His coat was embroidered with far too many roses, giving him the unfortunate appearance of a walking flower shop.
And, most importantly—his voice.
Oh, his voice.
It was the kind of voice that could make milk curdle and flowers wilt. Deep and dramatic, yet cracking at the worst moments, as if his vocal cords were going through puberty in slow motion.
And yet, he thought himself a romantic genius.
He was not.
"Your beauty rivals the moon," he dramatically intoned, "your eyes outshine the sea—"
Zhuxen slowly blinked.
"Outshine the sea, my ass," she muttered under her breath. "My eyes aren't even blue."
She reached for her wine glass, contemplating whether smashing it over her head would be more entertaining than listening to this nonsense.
This was her life.
Every day, men tripped over themselves to impress her. Princes, heirs, business moguls—all desperate to win her heart. And yet, none of them stood a chance.
Because Zhuxen had already given her heart away.
To a man she had never met.
To a man from a story.
Her grandmother's story.
Zhuxen had been eight years old when her grandmother first told her the tale.
"Once, I fell in love with a man, Xen," her grandmother had said, staring wistfully at the fire. "A man who came to me when I was at death's door. He was dark as the night, yet his presence felt strangely warm. And his eyes—oh, his eyes—were like the endless void of the universe itself."
Even at that young age, Zhuxen had been intrigued.
"Who was he, Grandmother?" she had asked.
"Death itself," her grandmother whispered. "Thanatos. The Grim Reaper."
And that was it. That was the moment Zhuxen's love life was doomed forever.
How could she possibly fall for some boring mortal when she had already set her heart on the literal personification of death?
No living man could compete.
Not the prince who composed a love ballad for her. His voice cracked halfway.
Not the scholar who painted her face on a hundred canvases. They all looked nothing like her.
And certainly not this idiot in front of her, comparing her brown eyes to the ocean.
She sighed dramatically and leaned on her palm.
"Lord Gregory," she interrupted.
He gasped, placing a hand over his heart as if touched by an angel. "Yes, my lady?"
"Have you ever considered… poetry is not for you?"
Silence.
The other nobles at the table coughed awkwardly. Someone dropped a spoon. In the distance, the chef sneezed.
Lord Gregory turned pale. "M-my lady… surely you jest—"
"I do not," Zhuxen deadpanned. "In fact, if poetry were a crime, you'd be sentenced to life without parole."
Lord Gregory made a strangled sound, like a dying goat. Zhuxen almost felt bad. Almost.
Her father, Lord Ling, cleared his throat loudly. "Zhuxen, be polite."
Zhuxen took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Fine." She turned back to Lord Gregory. "Your poem was…" painful—"uh… unique."
Lord Gregory brightened. "So you liked it?"
"No."
Lord Ling pinched the bridge of his nose. "Zhuxen—"
"Father, I'm simply being honest. Isn't honesty a virtue?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then you should be proud of me!" Zhuxen beamed. "I'm practically an example of morality."
Lord Ling looked like he was seriously considering disowning her.
Before he could respond, Zhuxen rose to her feet. "If you'll excuse me, I have something important to do."
"Like what?"
Zhuxen paused. She hadn't thought that far ahead.
Think, Zhuxen. Think.
Then, she had a brilliant idea.
"I'm going to… uh… go admire the moon?"
A noblewoman gasped. "How poetic!"
Another nobleman nodded in approval. "A woman of deep thought!"
Lord Gregory looked inspired. "I shall write a poem about this moment!"
Zhuxen's eye twitched. She turned and fled before he could start another tragic recital. Zhuxen rushed to the balcony and took a deep breath of the cool night air.
She needed to get out of here.
Then, a ridiculous, reckless, incredibly stupid idea formed in her head.
If Thanatos only appeared when people were about to die…
Then she just had to almost die.
Zhuxen's eyes gleamed with newfound determination.
Yes. This was it.
The perfect plan! The perfect love story! Except for one tiny problem.
How does one almost die without actually dying?
Zhuxen tapped her chin.
She could throw herself into the lake. Classic, dramatic, effective! But then she remembered she couldn't swim.
Okay. Scratch that.
She could drink just a little poison. Just enough to almost die, but not enough to actually die.
But what if Thanatos took too long? What if she actually died-died instead of almost-died?
Okay, no poison.
She could climb the tallest tree in the estate and fall at just the right angle—enough to be unconscious, but not dead.
That could work!
Zhuxen grinned. Yes, that was perfect.
Now, all she had to do was—
"Lady Zhuxen?"
Zhuxen jumped and spun around to find her maid, Lian, staring at her suspiciously.
"Why are you standing on the balcony railing?" Lian asked, hands on her hips.
Zhuxen froze. Oops.
"Uhh…" Think fast. "Just, you know… enjoying the breeze?"
"In that position?"
Zhuxen smiled innocently. "It's a… new meditation technique?"
Lian did not look convinced. "You're trying to escape another suitor banquet, aren't you?"
"That's ridiculous!" Zhuxen scoffed. "I'm simply appreciating the night sky!"
Lian crossed her arms. "If you jump, I swear I will personally drag your unconscious body back inside."
Zhuxen sighed dramatically. "Fine. You caught me."
Lian shook her head. "Lady Zhuxen, what am I going to do with you?"
"Admire my brilliance and support my dreams?"
"No."
"Harsh."
Lian huffed. "Please don't get yourself killed."
Zhuxen grinned. "Oh, don't worry. I won't die-die. Just… almost die."
Lian paled. "That is not better."
But Zhuxen wasn't listening. She had a plan.
When Lian saw Zhuxen's grin, she cringed so hard she nearly dislocated her soul.
"What kind of face is that, my lady?" she asked, eyeing Zhuxen like she had just declared her love for a cockroach.
Zhuxen, still grinning like a cat that had successfully committed tax fraud, did not respond.
Lian grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her away from the balcony railings with the force of a mother dragging a misbehaving toddler out of a toy store. "I swear, I'm going to expose you to your father. One more attempt! Just one more and I'll tell him everything!"
Zhuxen huffed, dramatically flipping the long sleeves of her gown as if she were a fallen queen who had been betrayed by her most trusted advisor.
Her dress—a ridiculous pink monstrosity of ethereal floral embroidery—dragged behind her as she allowed herself to be pulled. The silk shimmered in the moonlight, making her look like she had stolen the entire essence of spring and then tripped over it.
The layers of chiffon flounced with every step, far too delicate for a woman who was currently plotting her own near-death experience. At one point, the hem got caught under her own foot, and she nearly face-planted onto the marble floor.
Lian didn't even react. She simply sighed, long and tired, as if years of dealing with Zhuxen's nonsense had aged her five lifetimes.
"My lady," Lian groaned, "why must you wear such an impractical dress when you're always up to some form of crime?"
Zhuxen sniffed. "It's not a crime if it's romantic."
"It is absolutely a crime."
"That's just a matter of perspective!"
Lian sighed again, but this time, it was the sigh of a woman who knew she was trapped in an eternal loop of suffering.