It didn't take long—six months, to be exact—for our hero (or, perhaps more accurately, our soon-to-be-tragic hero) Lucien d'Armoire to adjust to his new life.
Why?
Because, for a modern-day salary slave who once cried over cup noodles and blackout deadlines, this was heaven.
He had everything a soul-traumatized corporate drone could ever ask for:
Looks? Check. He had cheekbones sharp enough to slice through existential dread and hair that looked like it was styled by divine intervention.
Wealth? Please. The man drank his morning juice from a golden glass so heavy it could double as a weapon.
Nobility? He was the nobility now. Baron Lucien d'Armoire, the certified Pretty Boy of the Southern Province™.
Plotline obligations? Hah! Pass.
Impending biological crises like heat and rut? …Well, not yet. (That's his future problem.)
So what did he do?
He lived.
He ate like a spoiled cat at a Michelin-star buffet every single day. He wore silk robes while pondering life like an off-brand philosopher. He even dabbled in actual baronial duties—signing things, pretending to read reports, and nodding gravely during meetings like he wasn't mentally cataloging dessert options.
He'd gotten used to his stupidly handsome face. He no longer flinched or screamed when he passed mirrors. In fact, he now winked at them. Sometimes twice.
Life was good.
Which, of course, meant something was about to go terribly wrong.
A knock came at the door.
Lucien, lounging near the window in a violently expensive robe that looked like it had personally bankrupted a silk farm, paused mid-sip of his apricot-lavender tea. "Hm?"
"My lord," came Marcel's voice. "Your guest is waiting for you in the reception room."
"Guests?" Lucien blinked slowly. "Wait, was I supposed to meet someone today?"
"Yes, my lord. Lady Seraphina—your cousin—is here to see you."
Lucien blinked.
Then blinked again, slower this time.
"…Do I have a cousin?"
There was a beat of stunned silence from Marcel's side.
"My—my lord," Marcel finally stammered, "should I… should I call the physician? Or the priest? Or—"
"STOP!" Lucien practically choked on his tea, slamming his cup down before Marcel could go full exorcism. "Stop with your calling of physicians and priests, Marcel! We are not summoning holy men every time I forget a birthday or a blood relative."
Marcel, still visibly shaken, "But my lord—"
Lucien clapped his hand. "I... I do remember her. Cousin. Right. I totally remember her now. The one with the terrifying smile and a walk like she's about to order an execution."
"That's the one," Marcel said, far too cheerfully for someone describing a woman who once allegedly stared down a wild boar into running itself off a cliff.
Lucien gave a tight, nervous smile and muttered, "I guess... I hit the nail."
"Then we must go, my lord," Marcel said, spinning elegantly on his heel. "Lady Seraphina doesn't like to wait much."
Licien sighed in relief. "Alright. Let's go."
He straightened his robe, fixed his hair with a flick that had become second nature (and a bit theatrical), and followed Marcel down the hallway with all the grace of a man walking toward the gallows.
As they approached the reception room, Lucien narrowed his eyes and muttered under his breath, "Seraphina… that name sounds familiar. Was she one of the characters in the novel?"
"HMMM?" he hummed, squinting at the floor like it held the answers to life, taxes, and bad plot twists.
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. A dramatic pause. Then—
Click.
His eyes widened. His breath caught.
Lucien stopped dead in his tracks, one foot suspended mid-air like a tragic ballet dancer mid-fall. "Oh my god. That Seraphina?!"
Marcel turned around with a puzzled look. "My lord?"
Seraphina Duclair.
Apparently, Seraphina Duclair was that side villainess. You know the type.
Daughter of a count. Dripping with money, power, and enough razor-edged jewelry to classify as a medieval weapon rack. The kind of woman who could ruin your entire reputation before breakfast and still make the society pages for "Most Elegantly Dressed While Committing Social Murder."
She was the deluxe, limited-edition side-villainess.
The kind obsessed with the male lead—the tall, emotionally constipated Alpha with abandonment issues and the personality of a thunderstorm in denial.
She threw red wine on the heroine's white dress. Twice. At the heroine's wedding. Even after getting caught the first time. Like, full-on sequel energy.
She plotted like a C-list soap opera star gunning for an Emmy. She sneered with enough force to ruin crops. She tried to frame the heroine for theft, sabotage, arson, and blasphemy—all in the same arc.
And she failed.
Every. Single. Time.
With Oscar-worthy flair.
Lucien stared blankly at the wall like it owed him money. "…I see," he whispered, his tone dripping with the resignation of a man who just found out his bloodline came with downloadable drama DLC. "The side-villainess is my cousin."
Marcel tilted his head, concern blooming. "Something wrong, my lord?"
Lucien exhaled a sigh so dramatic it nearly shattered the crystal chandelier. "No. Not really. Let's just get this over with."
Because honestly? He couldn't be bothered.
She was a distant cousin. Distant enough that he could legally ignore her birthday, emotionally detach from her scandals, and spiritually yeet himself out of any shared family tree nonsense.
So, whatever serpentine side-plots Lady Seraphina Duclair was slithering through? Not. His. Business.
And they entered the reception room.
And there she was.
Lady Seraphina Duclair.
Brown hair, sleek and gleaming like polished mahogany. Green eyes, cool and sharp like emeralds dunked in judgment. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, back straight, spine regal, sipping her tea from porcelain so thin it probably screamed when touched. Her aura? Immaculate. Cold. Sophisticated.
Lucien blinked. Huh, he thought, maybe she's not as bad as I rea—
"I see," Seraphina said without looking up, her voice smooth and laced with disapproval, "you don't even greet your family anymore."
Lucien kept his fakest smile. There it is.
"Yep," he muttered under his breath. "Totally a villainess vibe."
She finally glanced up at him, her gaze sharp enough to qualify as a weaponized fanfic trope.
Lucien gave a stiff little bow and plastered on his most diplomatic smile. "Greetings to you, my lady," he said with all the grace of a court jester pretending to be a diplomat.
Seraphina raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Woah... how fakel-y formal."
Lucien flopped into the seat across from her. "Yeah, well, I'm trying my best."
She sipped her tea, pinky raised like a menace. "I see you've changed, my dear brother. You used to be pathetic in a more tolerable way."
Lucien blinked at her. "Was that… a compliment?"
Seraphina smiled, all teeth. "Obviously."
He sighed dramatically, like his soul just leaked out of his body. "So? What brings you here?"
"I want you to join me at an event."
Lucien narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "An event?"
Seraphina gave a regal nod. "Yes. They're hosting a masquerade at the Imperial Palace. And I want you to come with me."
Lucien opened his mouth to deploy Excuse #12b: Mysterious Illness. "I see, but I think I caught the—"
The air dropped ten degrees.
Her spoon stopped stirring.
Seraphina's gaze locked on his with unblinking intensity. "YOU ARE COMING WITH ME."
Lucien blinked.
Then blinked again.
"...So I don't have a choice?"
Seraphina leaned back with the smugness of someone who just declared war and won. "Yup."
"...."
Lucien sighed. "Alright, fine."
He agreed, thinking it was no big deal. Just accompanying a cousin to a fancy event. Mingling. Masked dancing. Probably free champagne. What could possibly go wrong?
After all, he wasn't the protagonist. He wasn't even a character in the plot. Just a baron with cheekbones and zero responsibilities.
He could chill.
...Or so he thought.