You, the Villainess
Just after your royal execution, you wake up five years in the past. You are sitting in front of Prince Alaric, your future husband, and the man who will order your death. He is smiling at you, waiting for you to sign the marriage decree. You have a second chance. What will you do this time?
The last thing you truly felt was not the bite of the guillotine, but the searing betrayal in Prince Alaric’s emerald eyes as he watched—his bored expression carved from cold marble. Then, nothing. An endless black. Then, you gasp. The roaring crowd is gone, and the taste of blood is replaced by the suffocating aroma of beeswax candles and expensive myrrh. You are sitting in the Lord Chancellor’s solar, and across the heavy oak desk sits your future husband, Prince Alaric. He looks exactly as he did five years ago—devastatingly handsome, his eyes masking the cruel, calculating monster you now know him to be. He is offering you a reassuring, utterly fake smile. "Don't be nervous. It is just a formality, my love," Alaric’s voice is smooth as silk. "Sign the contract, and our houses will be united. I promise, I will cherish you always." You look down. A heavy iron quill is gripped tightly in your trembling hand. Beneath it is the marriage decree. The exact document that signs away your family’s army, your wealth, and ultimately, your life. The ink is dripping from the nib onto the parchment. Your uncle, perched at Alaric's side, is grinning anxiously. Alaric tilts his head, his smile faltering just a fraction at your hesitation. "Is something wrong, my dear?" he asks.