The Unwritten Duchess

Death by Prologue

When I opened my eyes, I was already late to die.

Sunlight poured through velvet curtains like judgment, blinding me with gold I hadn’t earned. The bed I lay on smelled faintly of rosewater and something older—like memory, or guilt. My skull felt cracked open, my body heavy and unfamiliar. I blinked at the ceiling for several seconds before I dared to move.

Then the pain hit.

It wasn’t the pain of injury—though there was some of that, too—but of disorientation so deep I almost wished I’d stayed unconscious. I knew something was wrong before I even sat up. The room was too perfect. Too symmetrical. The kind of place no one in my apartment-ridden modern life could ever afford. Crown moldings. A chaise lounge. A dressing table the size of my old car.

And then there were the hands. My hands.

Pale. Slender. Uncalloused. The nails buffed, shaped, and polished to a ridiculous shine. Definitely not mine.

“Oh, hell,” I muttered, in a voice that was also not mine. Higher. A touch British. Definitely spoiled.

That’s when I knew.

This wasn’t a dream. Or if it was, it was a very specific, genre-conscious, morally-questionable one.

I had died. And I had woken up in the body of Vivian Ashcombe—the villainess of a romance novel I read during a wine-fueled hate binge two years ago.

The girl who was supposed to die in chapter twelve.

A knock at the door interrupted my spiral. I turned my head—delicately, because my neck protested—and saw a maid standing hesitantly in the doorway, her hands twisted in her apron. Her eyes widened when she saw me looking.

“My Lady? You’re awake!” she gasped, as though I’d just come back from the grave. Which, to be fair, I had.

She rushed to my side, all panicked etiquette and soft shoes, calling for a doctor and a priest and—somewhat alarmingly—a dressmaker.

I groaned. "Please tell me I haven’t missed the part where I’m engaged to the crown prince."

The maid blinked. "You mean His Highness Leonard?"

I threw my head back against the pillow and let out a muffled scream.

Welcome to chapter one, I thought grimly. Let’s see how far I can rewrite the plot before someone kills me for real this time.

The maid scurried off, leaving me alone with my panic. I tried to sit up again, swinging my legs over the side of the absurdly soft bed. My balance was... questionable. It felt like walking through someone else’s dream in heels that didn’t belong to me.

I managed a slow stagger toward the mirror.

That’s when I saw her—me—Vivian. Dark hair in soft waves, porcelain skin that looked like it had never seen sun or consequence, and a pair of startling ice-blue eyes. I leaned in closer. The expression staring back wasn’t villainous—it was just tired. Or maybe that was me bleeding through.

There was a small noise behind me. I spun too quickly and nearly fell over. A second maid, this one younger and red-cheeked, had appeared holding a silver tray with tea and something called 'restorative biscuits.' Whatever those were, they tasted like sawdust and privilege.

“I—I’ll prepare your bath,” she stammered, bowing and fleeing as fast as dignity would allow.

I glanced down at the teacup, then out the tall window. Somewhere out there was a palace. A prince. And a public fate that involved execution or exile, depending on the chapter.

I took another sip of the tea. Too sweet. I’d have to learn to fix that.

"Alright," I said aloud to no one in particular. "Let’s try not to die again before lunch."

Then, as if summoned by sarcasm, a heavy knock rumbled against the doorframe. A new voice called through—male, formal, and bored.

"Lady Vivian? The Duke requests your presence in the red salon."

Ah. The Duke. My father, apparently. In the book, he was a cold, calculating man who saw his daughters as chess pieces—useful, expendable, and better silent. I swallowed the sudden tightness in my throat and glanced back at the mirror.

"Game on," I whispered to my reflection.

The walk to the red salon was a lesson in theatrical architecture. Hallways of ancestral portraits glared down at me, every ancestor apparently born with the same arched brows and look of judgmental constipation. Maids and footmen bowed and curtseyed as I passed, their eyes tracking me a moment too long.

When I stepped into the salon, the Duke barely looked up. He was seated in a crimson wingback chair, his fingers steepled in front of him like he was waiting to decide whether I was worth keeping or tossing out a window.

"You’re awake," he said flatly.

"So I’ve been told."

His eyes flicked toward me, appraising. "Try not to make a spectacle of yourself at luncheon. His Highness may visit."

I smiled sweetly, teeth and all. "Can’t wait."

He didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t.

I was beginning to remember why I hated this book."

He returned to his papers, dismissing me without a word. I stood there a moment longer than was proper, just to make a point, then turned and left before I was tempted to set something on fire.

Outside the salon, the air felt colder. Maybe it was the house. Maybe it was me. I wandered the hallways, the heels of my borrowed shoes clicking on marble. I needed a plan. A real one. Something that didn’t involve sarcastic grins and pretending I wasn’t about to get royally steamrolled.

Halfway back to my rooms, I passed a pair of maids gossiping in the alcove by the ivy window. They froze when they saw me, curtsied quickly, and tried to flee.

"You there," I called, catching one with a tone I didn't know I had. She turned, trembling slightly. "What's the fashion today? Do we still pretend headaches are fatal or has that trend passed?"

She stared at me, confused.

"Never mind," I muttered. "You're excused."

This was going to be harder than I thought. I had information, yes—but from a novel. Novels never tell you how much everything itches, or how much pressure there is in smiling through a ten-course breakfast while nobles dissect your expression like it's a riddle.

I finally reached my chambers again. A gown had already been laid out for luncheon. Lavender silk, with more lace than structural integrity. I sighed, running a finger over the embroidered bodice.

"Guess we’re playing princess today," I muttered. "Fine. But I’m doing it on my terms."

And somewhere, far off in the palace, Prince Leonard was probably thinking about what color cravat to wear.

Poor i***t.