❝Life is a game, and power is the prize.❞
Lycoris radiata was known as the devil, the most fearsome being in the modern world. However, one fateful night, she underwent miraculous transmigration into a romantic novel, awakening within the dying body...
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Note: This was taken from the first timeline before the main events of the story. Enjoy reading, moonlits!
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The grand hall of Falaguerra's Dukedom sparkled under the chandeliers' golden glow. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, and laughter floated like delicate notes from the strings of a harp. Dressed in a gown of emerald silk that hugged her curves, Medea Falaguerra surveyed the room with piercing hazel eyes, a queen amongst her subjects.
"Ah, there she is," Lady Isolde from the Belerick Family whispered to her companion, her voice dripping with envy. "The epitome of perfection. I wonder how many hearts she's broken this week."
Medea caught snippets of conversation as she glided past, each word laced with admiration and disdain. She paused by a group of noblewomen, her smile as radiant as the gems on her tiara.
"Medea! What a lovely evening," said Lady Celeste, trying to hide her disdain beneath layers of flattery.
"Indeed," Medea replied, her voice smooth and unyielding. "Though I must admit, it's rather tedious, don't you think?"
She glanced around, her gaze settling on a distant figure. Frederick Genovia, the prince of her dreams, spoke animatedly with a woman clad in a gown of pale blue, his laughter ringing out like a melody.
"He's charming, isn't he?" Lady Isolde remarked, a hint of bitterness threading through her tone. "But look at him, completely smitten."
Medea's expression darkened, the facade cracking for just a moment. "Smitten, yes, but not with me," she snapped, her temper rising.
"What was that?" Isolde feigned innocence, a wicked glint in her eye.
Medea clenched her jaw, forcing a smile back into place. "Oh, nothing. Merely stating the obvious." She turned abruptly, her heart heavy with frustration.
It was infuriating. All her wealth, her beauty, and still he looked at her as though she was merely a stepping stone to another's affections.
"You're as radiant as the stars tonight, Your Highness," a lady cooed, batting her eyelashes in his direction.
Medea's grip on her glass tightened, a wave of bitterness washing over her. She forced a smile on her smile, trying to mask the hurt that festered beneath her polished exterior.
"Thank you, my lady," Frederick replied, his voice warm and inviting. His eyes twinkled with genuine delight, but it was not for her. It was for the woman standing beside him—Elysia Ainsley, the well-loved priestess of Genovia.
Medea's heart sank as she watched Frederick lean closer to Elara, their shared laughter dancing in the air like a cruel reminder of the love she yearned for. She turned away, seeking refuge in the shadows of the hall, where the flickering candlelight could not illuminate her growing despair.
