Chapter 3 Six Months to Live
Maid gone. Door locked. Deadbolt on. I dragged the heavy wooden chair over and jammed it under the handle for good measure. Finally, some peace.
I needed a reality check. In my old life, I lived by data, if I didn't have the facts, I was dead at this novel.
Six months sounds like a lot, but in corporate time?
That's two product launches, a dozen all-nighters, and a massive tax headache.
Here? It's the countdown to my head rolling off my shoulders.
I needed to know where I stood.
I tore through the room. I dumped the mahogany closet until the dresses were a mountain of silk on the floor. I ripped drawers open, shoved my hands under the bed, clawed through the vanity. Nothing. Until my fingers hit a velvet box hidden under a stash of corsets.
A leather diary and an Imperial calendar.
I sat on the carpet, ignoring the heavy emerald dress. I opened the diary. The handwriting was atrocious big, messy, full of exclamation points. It screamed "impulsive brat." I skimmed a few pages and felt a migraine forming.
'The orphan from the temple dared to look at the Prince again in the garden. Disgusting. Told Gisella to spill hot tea on her hand. Hope she learns.'
'Bribed the guards to spread the rumor that Lysandra's holy dress was paid for with temple funds. Hope she cries until her eyes swell shut.'
I rubbed my temples. This isn't sabotage. This is a temper tantrum thrown by a toddler who's actively digging her own grave. It's amateur hour. Ilse didn't think about the blowback, didn't think about the narrative. She just... did stupid shit.
I checked the calendar. Today is the 14th of the Month of the Dove. The original novel says the "Great Purge"—the one where all the villains and their cronies get the axe, is the 14th of the Month of the Wolf.
I counted on my fingers. Six months.
My stomach dropped. That execution scene I read last night? That wasn't a cliffhanger. That was a deadline.
I checked my inventory. It was depressing.
Magic? Zero. Lysandra, the protagonist, is a saint.
Ilse? Ilse gets winded walking through the garden and demands to be carried.
Reputation? Garbage. I'm a snake, a rumor-monger, a poison-whisperer.
If I start handing out bread to the poor tomorrow, people won't cheer, they'll check for arsenic.
Money? Non-existent. Viscount Varannes is broke.
Gambling debts, underground casinos, the works.
I couldn't bribe my way out of this room, let alone the border.
The only thing I had? My brain. The worker hardened, crisis-management expert brain that used to wrangle CEOs and corporate disasters.
Plan A, Keep it simple. Dump Gisella's obsession with Prince Didier before it spirals. Find a richer guy for her. And most importantly... stay the hell away from Duke d'Alen?on.
I grabbed a quill and a scrap of paper, ready to write down the first step.
brAK! brAK! brAK!
The door shook. It wasn't a knock; it was a battering ram. The chair under the handle scraped against the floor, sliding back a few inches. Dust rained down from the ceiling.
"Ilse!! Open this door right now! I know you're in there!!"
High-pitched. Piercing. Annoyingly familiar.
Gisella. The main villain. The time bomb I was supposed to defuse first.
She was already here.