There are a few things I am beginning to recall about this awful romance novel.

Douglass Wright is Theodore's butler, and he raised the duke from childhood, sort of like a father figure.

The duke himself is cold and aloof, never surrendering to any woman, until the protagonist, Rachael Donahue—the adopted heir of Count Donahue's household—catches his eye and he becomes entirely possessed by his lust for her, which she finds attractive somehow.

I cringe as I stab my neon salad with a silver fork.

The women in this novel are shameless, and deserve better.

My mind is fuzzy, too. This feels too real to be a dream, but now I'm regretting not paying a little more attention to the contents of the book. In retrospect, I skimmed over too much. I hope it doesn't come back to bite me later.

I lift my fork and shove the bland lettuce into my mouth and chew the stuff like an animal. The greens are goopy in my mouth, almost as though made from slime.

A blonde Lady Annalise de Amour sits across from me in a canary yellow bodice and skirt with her blanched arms crossed tightly over her breasts. She doesn't look at me with her golden eyes, jutting her light pink lips out a little while scowling at the food.

In this dining room, chandeliers appraise us from above, set in arched ceilings masked with intricate murals. The woman in front of me is surely beautiful, but if she's Annalise, that means she's...

Ah. She's either the villainess, set to steal the duke's heart for her own, or she's the ditsy, big-boobed friend with ulterior motives.

I swallow the salad, grimacing at the way it slides easily down my throat, and send my fork a-clatter on the wood table.

Annalise twitches at the sound.

Leaning forward, I place my sleeved elbows on the table and steeple my long fingers together. For a second, I get lost staring at my hands—porcelain in color and texture, they're unrealistically "perfect." My actual body is olive in tone and blotchy from scars and callouses after years of playing the upright bass. Short, nubby fingers on a short, nubby Asian kid.

A part of me envies these long, starch white fingers that aren't my own.

I clear my throat, and Annalise straightens, her yellow eyes alert. I must look quite intimidating, or my reputation must precede me, for every slight movement I make seems to put her quite on edge.

"Lady Annalise," I say with a voice that's like thick chocolate. The blonde's cheeks flush as she tosses her arms to her skirts, which she balls into her fists. I smile at her, but somehow my next words come out quite harsh. "What are you doing here?"

She flinches, her eyes close and her lips tremble. Then, she braces herself as though I have the intention of hitting her.

What kind of man could bear with himself for causing such distress?

Something in me stirs, something that isn't of my own desire. A twist of hatred, like a gnarled bunch of roots entangled beneath an old oak tree, flares in my throat and pulls my eyebrows forward. From here, the words spill from my lips as though rehearsed.

"You dare drug me, then take me to bed with you? I ought to behead that pretty face from your hideous body for your trickery. Tell me, does this meal seem like a token of my forgiveness? Are you at peace with yourself?"

Each word is like poison, and I myself can't believe what's being said. Sharp and pointed, every syllable carries a serious weight that drives the young woman deeper into her chair, instilling horror in her pure eyes.

I know none of this is real, but the words are coming from my mouth, and I know better than to humiliate women like this.

The hatred is still there, though, and for some reason, it feels justified, as though I've experienced the wrongdoing firsthand.

Surely she hadn't truly meant anything she did, just for a night with me, right?

I clear my throat again, shaking the heat from my head. "I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." The words are rough, chaotic, and unnatural sounding. This is something the duke would die before ever saying to anyone (except Rachael, of course), but I'm not the duke.

Annalise looks at me, her eyes frozen on my face. She doesn't cower any lower, though, which I take as a good sign.

"Can you tell me what happened last night? My head still hurts from whatever we, uh... drank."

The woman sits upright, tilts her head at me like I'm some kind of foreign object that randomly appeared out of nowhere, then flattens her hands over her skirt.

"Of course, we didn't do anything you might be thinking of," she says in a hushed tone. Her voice is high in pitch and sweet as honey. Almost sickening to the ear. A rush of pink shades her cheeks. "We didn't get that far before you fell asleep."

My eyebrows shoot up, alarmed at how brazen she is, but I ignore the hatred that pools like acid over my tongue, enticing me to spit it out.

I remind myself that she never wronged me. I have nothing to be upset about. In fact, because nothing actually happened between the duke and this lady, there's technically no obligation for them to stay together, is there?

I shrug in an exaggerated fashion, then sigh. "You may leave. I see no reason why you should stay here, when we are not to be wed, nor have physically committed ourselves to each other."

This sentiment seems to have embarrassed her further, however.

Something comes over me, making my body lean heavily over the table and reach for her hand, bringing her skinny fingers to my mouth for a kiss.

Idiot, what the hell are you doing?

"As the duke's lips brushed over lady Я̷̢̛͍̝̤͎̥̦̘̝̱̖̱̲̗͚̞̦̮͍̖̦̖͐̃̀̽͛̍̋̄͒́̀̿̈̾̒͝͝͠ɒ̵̱͉̝̝̝͇̞̝͕̱͉͓͔̠̰̮̠̰̘̖̺̇̐̎͗̀͊͋̇̈́̈̔͐̀́̍̀̐̔͂͜͝͠ͅɔ̸̺͔͓͇̹͙͔͈͈̣̫̦͖̠̹̗̥̠̺̠̖̑̈́̈́͌̑̌̍̈̋̎̔̈́͋́̆̅̉͋́̐͜͜ͅʜ̷̢̳͔̠̣͖͕͈͔̩̲̣͇̙̼̳͚̪̮̹̑̊̎́̄͑͒̄̾̏̏̂̄͛̆̕̚̕͜͝͝ɒ̶̡̡̨̢̛͚̩̝̪̝̜̟̝̖̹͇̗̹̯͔̗̯̆̀̍̋͌̊̇͋͒͋̓̏̅̌̑̅͂̏͂͗͗͝͝ͅǝ̸̢̨̛̛͕̝͚̹̣̩̭̱̱̳̙̪̻̻̜̪̲͎̦̱͎̹͂̄̃͗̿̀̃̆̌́̍͊͗̌̈́͑͐̏̀̄͑͝l̸̨̧̡͍͖̻͚͎͉̣͙͎̼̣̮̯͖͓̼̫̃́́̈̅́͑̎̈́̉̃̾̊̿̀̀̈́̀͆͘͘͜͝͠ 's

fingers, a spark lit in her heart, and she knew from

that moment that even a duke as cold and uncaring

as Theodore could express kindness."

The words echo in my head like the recitation of a curse; they're the narrator's line when the female protagonist falls for the duke. But her name is a jumble of sounds, like a demonic burp rather than the smooth, regal name of the Count's daughter.

I shudder at the words, then pull away from Lady Annalise, my thoughts scattered.

There's no time to brace for her sudden slap.

It burns across my face like a bucket of boiling water, similar to how one might awaken after a drunken night at a frat party. (Not that I've ever had that happen, of course...)

For a moment, I am frozen, my head stuck angled at the floor. Then, I slowly lift my hand to my face, feeling the heat from her blow.

"What's gotten into you, Theo?" the blonde asks, flustered. Her cheeks have brightened to a pasty tomato-like red. "K-kissing my hand like that is... what are you implying?!"

Clearly that wasn't the polite thing to do.

"A-Annalise," is all I am able to say. Honestly, I've never been slapped before; I don't know how to feel. Should I feel... proud? No, getting slapped clearly isn't an accomplishment. I'm sure my measely attempt at trying to call her will also not work. I'm not used to these kinds of things! I don't get into fights, I don't... talk to girls! None of that! "Uh, I—"

"No, don't speak. Something is clearly wrong with you. Why are you suddenly..." The expression on her face morphs from one of disgust to one of confusion, then she stands with a shaky sigh and flattens out her skirts. She faces me, a wicked glint appearing in her eyes. "I like you better when you don't care so much."

I blink at her. Then, before I get the chance for a reproach, she just... leaves.

I remain at the table, speechless.

So... she likes to be mistreated? Are all the female characters like this? There's no way... Can such a heartless duke truly be that appealing to these women?

I stand, my hand resting instinctively over the still-hot print on my cheek, as I walk around the table. Something bright catches my eye; a white square-shaped piece of cloth neatly folded in the chair where Annalise had been sitting.

I lean down, then grab it between my fingers.

It smells of rose, and is soft to the touch. When I flip it over, something is embroidered into the cloth in an expert fashion.

It's.... it's my name.

Not Theo's. Mine.

Sewed in tiny letters that cover the entire back of the handkerchief.

𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉
𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉 𝕯𝒶𝖛𝒾𝖉

I drop it like a hot potato and stagger back, nearly tripping over myself. The thing flutters to the ground, but the black thread stands out, flipping toward me and landing so the letters stare up at me.

I don't remember any "David" characters in the book, and I'm in Theodore's body. How the hell does she know my real name?!

A breath goes sharply down my throat as I desperately hold in my panic.

"Theo, my friend," a male voice chimes from the arched doorway.

I nearly jolt out of my skin, my heart going electric in my chest. My eyes flicker to the cloth, and then I realize that whoever this guy is, he probably shouldn't see it.

My knees buckle beneath me and I collapse to the floor, roll over thrice, then I reach for the cloth.

It's just... barely... too far... away—

A leather shoe gently pins a corner of the kerchief to the ground, then the guest bends to pick it up with long, gloved fingers.

Well shit, he's going to see it.

I toss a glare up at him as my heartbeat throttles.

"David?" the brunet asks, furrowing his full eyebrows. His face is chiseled and pale (why is everyone white?!) and one of his eyes is brown, while the other is blue. If I'm remembering correctly, he is Theodore's best friend and the royal prince, Escobar Monologgin, who also happens to be the second male lead in the novel. (Please don't ask me how I remember that.)

I scramble to my feet, then hold out my hand and grunt. When he raises an eyebrow at me, I nod my head to the cloth.

"Give me... that," I say through my teeth.

Prince Escobar lifts the thing in the air and sniffs it, then his mouth twists up in an amused smirk. "Annalise finally got you, did she?"

My shoulders tense. "No, she left that behind, for David," I correct him, my ears beginning to burn.

Escobar clicks his tongue, then spins the handkerchief to me on his finger.

I take it quickly, shoving it into the back pocket of my trousers.

"Do women normally..." I can't bring myself to say the words.

His brown hair falls into his eyes and while he leans toward me, his eyes blink slowly. I can't resist shuddering at his calculated movements, so clearly meant to be alluring to the female characters in the novel.

"Love you so deeply?" he says with a chuckle. "Of course, my liege. You are the most popular suitor in all of Wafful. And the only duke. No need to be ashamed of a handkerchief, as I'm sure you get plenty."

I ignore his sweaty compliments and ask the real question on my mind. "And if... I was to start treating the women with respect? Would my status remain?"

"Respect, my liege?"

I nod.

The prince opens his mouth, then clamps it shut. Her purses his lips to hide a smile.

"You mean, would you remain Duke of Wafful if you started being nice?" The mockery in his tone is very present, but it doesn't really bother me. I probably sound absolutely asinine.

"No, I want to know if I'd still be popular if I... you know. If I started treating people right."

We stare at each other for a moment, and I can tell he's searching me for something. Perhaps he thinks this is a joke.

Escobar raises his hand to his mouth, then bursts with gurgled laughter. His other hand goes to his stomach for balance.

He laughs far too long, and I genuinely start to get annoyed.

"Hey, I'm being serious," I say, though I probably don't sound it at all.

He blows out a few breaths, then places a hand on my shoulder with swagger. "Theo, Theo, Theo," he says, his voice still in its nasally range from laughing. I can tell that he's holding back from keeling over.

Then, his dual-colored eyes lock with mine. His eyebrows are like fuzzy logs over chocolate marbles.

"You're not supposed to be nice," he says thoughtfully. "It's not in your... character."

Turning away, he walks to the door, and with a quick glance back, he laughs once more before leaving me to deal with a cursed handkerchief and half-eaten salad.

I collapse in my chair and take my head in my hands. My cursed blond hair is soft and silky. Foreign. Not mine.

This house? Not mine.

Escobar isn't my friend, and Douglass is not my butler.

This isn't my life.

I'm not going to start acting like it is.

Characters

Lady Annalise de Amour ~
Baron de Amour's Daughter

Role: V̶̱͉̲̤͎̔͑̈́̂̕i̷̛̼̻̰̦̙͛̑̾̚l̴̹̘̫̩̱̅̓́̑̀l̸̨̮͎̬͇̾͆̓̈́̓ɒ̷̢͕͉͎̱͆͌̊̈́̓í̶̙̠̤͎̜̀̔͑̕n̷̛͕̩̲͍͇̅́̆̚ǝ̴̬̭̭̫̦͑͒̈́͗ƨ̵̡͍̦̩́̿̑̋̄ƨ̶͍̣̤̹̉̔̑̈́̚͜

♥

Escobar Monologgin ~
Prince of Wafful
Role: second male lead

Thank you for reading. I would love to hear your thoughts on this story so far. It's literally so foreign to me that I don't even know where to begin (lol). I'd love any feedback you may have.

See you in the next one 👀