The plan was simple.
Be boring.
Not villainess-boring. Not “throw champagne and cause a scandal” boring. I mean genuinely, soul-crushingly, please-stop-talking boring.
I would transform myself into the most vapid, shallow, unbearable noble lady Theodore Ashford had ever had the misfortune of dining with. I would giggle at nothing. I would discuss the weather with the passion of someone describing paint drying. I would obsess over fashion, lace patterns, and the exact shade of ribbon that matched my gloves. I would be so relentlessly, aggressively superficial that Theodore would lose all interest within the first course.
No more uncomfortable observations about my behavior. No more unsettling questions about my motivations. No more calculating stares that made me feel like a specimen under glass.
Just blessed, merciful disinterest.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, practicing my vapid expression. Eyes wide and empty. Smile pleasant but devoid of actual thought. The perfect mask of aristocratic nothingness.
“This will work,” I told my reflection confidently. “He’s looking for depth, mystery, intelligence. I’ll give him none of those things. He’ll be so bored he’ll forget I exist.”
The System chimed unhelpfully:
{SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
Quest Reminder: Survive Dinner with Theodore Ashford
Time Remaining: 14 hours
Current Strategy Assessment: …interesting choice
Survival Probability: fifty eight point three percent}
Interesting choice? What was that supposed to mean?
I ignored it. The System was just being dramatic. This plan was foolproof.
Tomorrow night, I would be the most forgettable woman Theodore Ashford had ever met.
The Next Evening: Ashford Estate
The Ashford carriage—sent specifically to fetch me, because apparently my own family carriage wasn’t good enough—pulled up to the estate just as the sun began its descent toward the horizon.
I’d arrived deliberately early. Unfashionably early. The kind of early that screamed “I have no social awareness and don’t understand timing.”
Perfect.
Mr. Pemberton’s creation—a pale blue gown with entirely too many ruffles and an aggressive amount of lace—rustled as I stepped down from the carriage. I looked like a decorated cake. It was perfect for tonight’s performance.
The Ashford estate loomed before me, all elegant stone and manicured gardens and old money seeping from every perfectly maintained brick. Lanterns were already being lit along the pathways, casting everything in a warm, romantic glow.
Ugh. Even the lighting was trying too hard.
I marched up the steps to the main entrance, chin high, ready to launch Phase One of Operation: Be Insufferable.
The door opened before I could knock, revealing a woman in an elegant evening gown, dark green silk that looked like it cost a fortune and her hair arranged in a sophisticated style that took actual effort.
She was maybe in her early twenties, beautiful in that effortless way that made you want to hate her on principle, with sharp eyes that suggested she didn’t miss much.
Definitely not a maid.
But I was committed to the bit.
“Finally,” I said, already shrugging out of my coat. “Here, take this.”
I thrust the coat directly at her.
There were actual maids standing nearby—I could see them in the periphery, hands already reaching out to assist. But I ignored them completely, maintaining aggressive eye contact with the woman in the expensive dress.
Internally, I waited for:
Gasps.
Outrage.
Beautiful, beautiful hatred points flooding in.
The woman took my coat without breaking eye contact.
Then she raised one perfect eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth that could only be described as amused.
“Welcome to Ashford House, Lady Cruelton,” she said smoothly, handing my coat off to an actual maid without looking. “I’m Elizabeth Ashford,” she said pleasantly. “Theodore’s younger sister.”
Oh.
Of course she was.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Elizabeth continued, that amused smile growing wider. “The champagne incident was particularly… inspired.”
No outrage. No scandal. Just amusement.
This was not going according to plan.
“Lady Cruelton.”
The temperature in the entrance hall dropped approximately ten degrees.
Duchess Ashford appeared from an adjoining hallway, Theodore at her side, and her expression could have frozen lava. She looked like she’d swallowed something sour and was trying very hard to maintain her composure for the sake of propriety.
“Your Grace.” I dropped into a curtsy.
Duchess Ashford’s frown deepened, her eyes flicking between me and her daughter. “Elizabeth, dear, perhaps you should—”
“Mother.” Theodore’s voice was gentle but firm.
He stepped forward, placing a calming hand on his mother’s arm. “Lady Cruelton is our guest,” Theodore said calmly, but his eyes flicked to mine. “Let’s make her feel welcome.”
Duchess Ashford looked at her son like he’d just announced he was joining the circus. Concern radiated from her—the kind of maternal worry reserved for children who’ve clearly lost their minds.
Theodore met her gaze steadily, his expression patient and kind.
Kind.
That was the word that kept coming up with him. Uncomfortably, inexplicably kind.
I watched this exchange, internally scoffing. Either this man is deeply stupid, or dangerously kind. And I’m not sure which would be worse.
“Of course,” Duchess Ashford said tightly, her smile so forced I thought her face might crack. “Welcome, Lady Cruelton. Shall we proceed to the dining room?”
The Dining Room
The Ashford dining room was exactly as insufferably elegant as I’d expected.
A table that could seat twenty but was set for six. Crystal chandeliers catching the candlelight. Paintings of stern ancestors judging us from the walls. The kind of old-money opulence that made you feel poor just by existing in its presence.
Already seated were two people I didn’t recognize—extended family members, probably, based on the similar bone structure and that specific brand of aristocratic boredom in their expressions.
Theodore held out my chair personally.
“I apologize for not greeting you at the door myself,” he said, his voice warm and genuinely apologetic. “If I’d known you were arriving so early, I would have been there.”
I stared at him.
He was being… sincere? Actually apologetic for not being there to greet me? After I’d thrown champagne in his face three days ago?
Time to deploy the nuclear option.
“Yeah, yeah.” I waved a dismissive hand, not even looking at him as I sat. “No one cares.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Duchess Ashford gasped.
Elizabeth made a choking sound that she quickly tried to disguise as a cough, but I could see her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
The two extended family members looked like they’d just witnessed a traffic accident and couldn’t look away.
Theodore stood frozen for a moment, his hand still on the back of my chair, his expression carefully neutral.
Then he simply moved to his own seat, as if I hadn’t just delivered the rudest response in the history of dinner parties.
The awkwardness was delicious.
{SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
Plus four hundred Hatred Points, Duchess Ashford: Maternal Fury
Plus hundred and fifty Hatred Points Extended Family: Scandalized
Current Balance: sixteen thousand four hundred and ten pounds}
The First Course
The food arrived with the kind of ceremony reserved for state dinners.
Servants in pristine uniforms placed plates before us with practiced precision. The first course was something elaborate—some kind of soup with garnishes that probably had French names I couldn’t pronounce, arranged artistically in porcelain bowls that looked older than my entire bloodline.
The smell hit me first. Rich, savory, with herbs I couldn’t identify but that made my mouth water involuntarily.
I thought about my old life. About processed foods at odd hours. About checking my bank account before buying groceries. About the way my stomach would cramp when rent was due and I had to choose between eating properly or making payments.
I could never have afforded this in my old life. This single course probably cost more than my weekly food budget.
The thought made something twist in my chest—bitter and complex and unwelcome.
I picked up my spoon.
Then I coughed dramatically.
“What,” I said slowly, “is this?”
Every conversation at the table stopped dead.
Everyone turned to look at me.
I frowned at the soup, wrinkling my nose like I’d just discovered something deeply offensive in my bowl. “What. Is. This?”
Duchess Ashford’s face went pale. “Lady Cruelton, is something wrong with the—”
“It seems,” I said loudly, clearly, making sure everyone could hear, “that the Ashfords are trying to humiliate me.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
“My dear.” Duchess Ashford’s voice was strained, her smile so painful it looked physically harmful. She was barely holding herself together, knuckles white around her spoon. “Please, tell me what is wrong. We would never harm our guest. Never. If there’s something amiss with the food—”
“Oh, the food is fine,” I interrupted, still frowning at the soup like it had personally offended me.
Relief flickered across Duchess Ashford’s face.
Then I looked up, meeting her eyes with perfect, devastating innocence.
“But if Theodore Ashford invited me to dinner,” I said sweetly, “shouldn’t he be the one cooking it himself?”
Silence. Deep, suffocating silence.
Elizabeth’s spoon clattered against her bowl.
One of the extended family members made a strangled noise.
Duchess Ashford’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish trying to understand why it was suddenly out of water.
Theodore sat perfectly still, his expression frozen somewhere between shock and something I couldn’t quite identify.
Checkmate, I thought triumphantly. There’s no way he finds me interesting after this. I’ve just torpedoed any possible romantic subplot. I’m free.
{The System chimed:
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:
CRITICAL ERROR
ROMANTIC INTEREST LEVELS: INCREASING
THIS WAS NOT THE EXPECTED OUTCOME
RECALCULATING—}
What?
Theodore leaned back in his chair, and despite everything—despite the insult, despite the absurdity, despite his mother looking ready to faint—
He smiled.
A real smile. Genuine amusement lighting up his entire face, reaching his eyes, transforming him from merely handsome to absolutely devastating.
“You know what?” he said, his voice warm with something that sounded dangerously like delight. “That’s actually a fair point.”
Oh no.