The voice haunted her for hours.
"You are not Lila Hart."
Emma kept hearing it—echoing in the silence, crawling up the walls of her skull like ivy made of ice. But no one else had reacted. Not Marah. Not the steward who bowed stiffly when she appeared in the parlor for tea. Not even the ancient butler whose face looked like it had been carved from old parchment.
It was only in her head.
But it wasn't hers.
She didn't know what it meant. She only knew one thing:
Whoever or whatever had spoken, it knew the truth.
And that meant she had to be more careful.
Much more careful.
The Hart Estate was modest compared to the other noble homes in Elarion. The manor had once been stately, but now its walls bore the wear of decades without renovation. The paintings lining the halls were faded. The carpets were fraying at the edges. Even the roses in the garden drooped like they were tired of trying to bloom.
It was a house that belonged to nobility with just enough money to keep up appearances but not enough to matter.
Emma sipped lukewarm tea from a delicate porcelain cup as she sat in the drawing room, pretending to admire a tapestry of a griffin mid-flight. In truth, her mind was racing.
All right, she thought. I need a plan.
Step one: survive.
Step two: stay invisible.
Step three: figure out why I'm here and how to get home.
And step four… if she was still alive… maybe find out what that voice was.
She already knew what not to do: don't get involved with the Crown Prince. Don't get dragged into court politics. Don't befriend the heroine, Princess Seraphina, even though she loved the girl dearly while reading the book. And under no circumstances—none should she meet the Duke of Blackwood.
Because in the original story, that man was a death sentence for everyone around him.
Which means, she thought grimly, I'm probably going to bump into him tomorrow.
She nearly laughed. It was a bitter sound, half hysteria, half amusement. For a background character, Lila had somehow landed in a very precarious position. The moment Emma woke up in her body, the script had already started unraveling.
There was a rustle of silk.
She turned to see a tall man entering the drawing room, his long coat lined with gold trim, a signet ring gleaming on his hand. His face was stern, lined with stress. His dark hair had begun to gray at the temples.
Baron Frederick Hart. Lila's father.
Emma stood carefully and curtsied. Not too low—Lila wasn't a servant—but respectful.
"Father," she said, testing the word.
He paused. His eyes swept over her as if trying to gauge her sincerity.
"You're awake," he said, voice clipped. "You gave the household quite a scare."
"I apologize," she replied smoothly. "It must have been the heat."
He snorted. "Or the news." He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a drink—it was barely past noon. "The royal tax commission has increased our burden again. Your late mother's dowry is gone. And your brother—still sending letters asking for funding as if the Empire's pockets are lined with gold."
Emma stayed silent. It was strange hearing this all out loud—she had read it before, but now it was real. Her father wasn't cruel, just... exhausted. Bitter. A man playing a losing game.
"We'll have to make... arrangements," he continued, staring into his glass. "I'm speaking with Lord Rennick tomorrow."
Emma's heart stopped.
Lord Rennick. Fat, sixty, and infamous for collecting young wives like trophies.
In the original novel, Lila was offered to Rennick after her death, but the man withdrew his offer when he learned the girl had no dowry. Now, it seemed Baron Hart wanted to act faster.
Not happening.
"I'm grateful for your care, Father," Emma said sweetly. "But I'm afraid Lord Rennick has recently been accused of scandalous behavior. Wouldn't aligning with him damage our family's already fragile reputation?"
Baron Hart turned to stare at her.
She kept her face blank, innocent. Inside, her heart thundered.
He narrowed his eyes. "Where did you hear that?"
You'll read it in a gossip column two chapters from now, she thought. "It was a whisper at the last charity tea. You know how these things spread."
The Baron frowned deeply. He didn't like being questioned but he also didn't want another stain on their name.
"I'll reconsider," he said finally. "But only because we can't afford another mistake."
Emma smiled. It was small, polite, and just sharp enough to sting.
Later that day, as the sun dipped low over the city, Marah helped her dress for her walk through the gardens. The gown was simple but elegant— pale lavender silk with tight sleeves and pearl buttons. Emma turned slowly in the mirror, adjusting the high collar.
"I never expected you to recover so quickly," Marah murmured, tying her sash.
"I heal fast," Emma replied.
"Do you... remember the dream you had?" the maid asked hesitantly.
Emma stilled. "Dream?"
"You said something in your sleep. Several times. About stars. And something watching you."
Emma's skin prickled.
She turned slowly. "What else did I say?"
Marah bit her lip. "I don't know. Just... strange words. I thought maybe they were part of a prayer. Or a curse."
Emma's smile didn't reach her eyes. "It was just a dream."
But her mind was spinning again.
Stars.
Watching.
The voice.
Something wasn't right about this world—not just the plot unraveling or her appearance in Lila's body. Something deeper. Like the story itself had been waiting. Watching. Shifting to make room for her.
As she stepped into the garden, the cool air brushing against her cheeks, Emma lifted her chin and looked up at the sky.
Two suns hovered above the horizon. One gold. One crimson.
That detail hadn't been in the book.
And suddenly, she had the terrible feeling that this version of Velmaria was not the same one she had read.
It was darker.
And the story had already begun writing itself anew.