Chapter 49
It was finally the day of the ball, which meant my time for mental preparation, tactical avoidance, or trying to convince myself I could fake a sudden illness had officially run out.
Why was I such a nervous wreck?
Because in the original novel, the royal ball was a plot twister. Royal galas were always where something happened in such novels. Although the timeline didnt match. Nothing matched at all.
According to the original script, a royal ball was held by the kingdom after Cassiane was exiled.
Rhaevan was supposed to literally kidnap Lysenne during the party because the original evil Cassiane was spiraling into complete, murderous madness.
He was supposed to drag the princess to a broken-down, dilapidated inn in the middle of a spooky forest, where Lysenne-being the perfect angel she is-was surprisingly sweet to her captor.
Personally, if a moody mage kidnapped me and threw me in a sketchy motel, I would have been screaming bloody murder.
But anyway, that was beside the point.
In the book, Lucien and half the royal army had launched a desperate manhunt for her.
Right when they were about to get caught, Rhaevan had dramatically fallen into a raging river.
And guess what? Apparently, the all-powerful High Archanist couldn't swim.
There was some tragic childhood trauma involving deep water, because every single handsome male lead in these novels seemed legally required to have a tragic backstory.
Lysenne had dove in to save him. Then she gave him mouth-to-mouth. Then they somehow transitioned into a full-blown, passionate kiss. The author had described that entire damn sequence in excruciating, painful detail.
Wait a minute. Wasn't that technically cheating on Lucien?
I paused, my brain stalling. Had they already kissed in this timeline?
Why was I even analyzing their romantic milestones right now?
I scowled at myself. Not the point, Cassiane.
The real point was that I had a deeply ominous, five-star bad feeling about tonight. It was probably just my anxious Amanda-brain overthinking things. At least, I really, really hoped so.
Cut to a few hours later, and I was still standing in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by the tragic, visible remains of my failed attempts to put on the silver gown and apply my own makeup.
At this rate, I was genuinely trying to decide whether I should make a desperate second attempt or just accept defeat and show up to the royal palace looking mildly haunted.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and Martha walked in like a seasoned general who had fully anticipated this exact cosmetic crisis.
"My lady, allow me to assist you," she said, her voice perfectly calm.
"Yeah, that's probably for the best," I admitted, letting out a defeated sigh. "Left to my own devices, I would somehow end up looking like a startled crow that just lost a street fight with a makeup shop."
Martha blinked once, entirely unfazed. Then she got straight to work.
She was efficient, precise, and completely in control of a high-stakes styling situation that I had absolutely no business managing myself.
Time passed in a weird blur that felt both painfully slow and alarmingly fast.
By the time she finally stepped back and whispered, "You may look now, my lady," I had braced myself to be mildly impressed at best.
I turned around to face the full-length mirror. Then I completely froze.
"Is that... actually me?"
The question slipped out before my brain filter could catch it.
"You look lovely, my lady," Martha said. There was a quiet, smug satisfaction in her tone, like she had expected this exact jaw-dropping reaction all along.
I stared at my reflection again. Properly this time. And for the first time since waking up in this crazy world, I didn't just see a random character. I didn't see a doomed villainess whose body I happened to be piloting. I actually saw her.
There were just enough traces of my old Amanda face mixed in to feel familiar, but let's be real-Cassiane was undeniably, fiercely prettier.
Her eyes were huge and soft, a warm shade of chocolate brown that somehow looked incredibly bright tonight.
Long, thick lashes framed them perfectly, subtly enhanced by Martha's magical blending skills.
Her lips were naturally pink and full, and her entire face carried an effortless symmetry that felt mathematically unfair to the rest of the human race.
Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft, glossy waves, styled just enough to look elegant without losing its natural texture.
And her complexion... it wasn't the kind of loud, aggressive beauty that screamed for attention the second she walked into a room.
It was much quieter than that. Warmer. The kind of look that revealed itself slowly and somehow became a hundred times more striking the longer you actually looked at it.
And her figure in that silver gown? Well. There was a reason people wrote entire poetry chapters about this sort of thing. The silver fabric hugged her waist beautifully before flowing down like molten moonlight, perfectly accented by the steth-wait, no, the necklace.
"...I didn't realize she looked like this," I muttered under my breath.
Martha very graciously chose not to respond, which I deeply appreciated.
"My lady, your carriage awaits," she said, gently snapping me out of my trance.
Right. The ball. Reality check.
I gave a firm nod and took one last lingering look at the mirror before stepping away.
I slipped into the matching silver heels that had mysteriously appeared in my wardrobe-clearly courtesy of the palace budget, because there was absolutely no way I possessed the personal wealth or the high-fashion IQ to assemble an outfit this perfectly coordinated.
As I made my way down the grand stone staircase, I kept repeating : remain composed, behave appropriately, and whatever you do, do not publicly embarrass yourself.
They were very reasonable, low-bar expectations.
Then I reached the bottom of the stairs, and I saw him.
Rhaevan was standing right by the carriage doors, waiting. Right. I forgot he was legally designated as my official escort for the evening.
For a brief, terrifying second, every single rule and boundary I had carefully rehearsed completely evaporated from my brain.
He didn't look like the grumpy, disheveled mentor I trained with at the creek every morning.
He looked... entirely different. His usual loose teaching robes had been replaced by formal black attire that fit him entirely too well.
The tailored coat was simple, dark, and refined, cutting across his frame in a way that aggressively emphasized his height and broad shoulders without looking like he was trying too hard.
It suited him with an alarming, irritating amount of ease.
His long dark hair had been left loose, falling just past his shoulders in soft waves.
A few rogue strands had escaped his styling and perfectly framed his jawline in a way that looked totally accidental but was probably calculated to destroy my sanity.
His posture was relaxed, but he carried himself with a quiet, lethal confidence tonight.
If I had to describe it simply in Cassiane language: the man looked like he belonged exclusively in royal courts and high-society paintings.
Then he turned his head. Our eyes locked.
For the first time since I'd met him, Rhaevan looked genuinely, completely caught off guard. The shocked expression lasted for only a split second, but my eyes caught it.
He softly cleared his throat, as if reminding his own brain that speech was still an option.
"You look..." he began, then abruptly trailed off. A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face, and his voice dropped to a low murmur. "You look beautiful, Cassie."
Well. There went my rock-solid composure. Rest in peace, boundaries.
I felt a violent wave of heat rush straight into my face almost immediately. Deeply inconvenient. Entirely uninvited.
"Thanks," I said, praying to the gods that my voice sounded normal and not squeaky. "You don't look half bad yourself."
One corner of his mouth hitched upward. The dimples made a grand appearance.
Oh, for the love of- Do I have some sort of tragic, incurable weakness for dimples?
This was becoming a serious survival hazard.
I straightened my spine, desperately gathering whatever pathetic crumbs remained of my dignity.
"Allow me, my lady," he said, stepping forward and extending his hand toward me.
I looked at his open palm. Then I looked up at his eyes. Then, before my anxious brain could overthink the consequences, I placed my hand in his.
His long fingers curled gently, securely around mine. And for reasons I violently chose not to examine, my heartbeat did a deeply unnecessary, chaotic little flip.
I ignored it. Naturally.
Together, we stepped into the carriage, the door clicked shut, and we set off into the journey toward the royal palace.