Lily The Vicious Villainess

Chapter 1: The Saint of Thorns

They called her the Saint of Thorns.

Lily Valmont stood at the center of the Eternal Temple, a vision in white silk and silver lace. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, painting her golden hair with hues of flame. She looked every inch the holy lady the people worshipped—divine, distant, untouchable.

But behind her violet eyes lived a woman made of ice.

At twenty-three, Lily ruled the court with the precision of a sharpened blade. Rumors of poison in teacups and exiled nobles followed her like perfume. She never denied them. Power, after all, was easier to hold when people feared what you might do.

She clutched the ceremonial cross against her chest as the High Priest droned ancient words. His voice echoed in the vaulted chamber, but Lily heard none of it. Her thoughts were elsewhere—on the silence that awaited her at the Ashmoor estate, the allies who smiled too easily, and the man who once looked at her with love but now only with hate.

She had everything, and yet she was utterly alone.

When the final hymn ended, she descended the altar steps with practiced grace. A servant bowed as she passed, holding out the ornate basin of offerings. Coins, flowers, and folded slips of prayer paper filled it to the brim.

And something else.

Her fingers brushed cold stone—smooth and black, veined with gold like lightning frozen in crystal. A pendant.

The moment her skin touched it, the world shifted.

The temple blurred. The sounds of the choir became a distant hum. The air crackled like lightning before a storm.

“Lily Valmont,” a voice whispered, old and velvet-smooth. “Do you wish you could undo it all?”

Her breath caught.

Undo what? The betrayals? The walls she built around her heart? The love she buried?

“…Yes,” she whispered.

The pendant pulsed once in her hand—and the world shattered.

Darkness. Then light. Blinding, soft light.

When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in the temple. She was standing in a familiar room—the bedroom of her youth. Everything was exactly as it had been years ago. Her childhood books. The ivory curtains. The little glass bird on her writing desk.

And in the mirror, her reflection stared back. Younger. Softer. Unscarred.

She wasn’t twenty-three anymore. She was seventeen.

The door creaked open behind her.

And there he stood.

Ashen hair, storm-gray eyes, and a smile that hadn't yet learned how to lie. His name was Lucien Everhart. The boy she once loved. The man she would one day destroy.

“Lily,” he said gently, “you’re awake early.”

She couldn’t speak. Her lips parted, but no words came.

Time had given her a second chance.

But the question was—would she rewrite her fate, or repeat it?

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Flashes of memory—warm hands, laughter, a betrayal. A man with kind eyes. A younger Lily, laughing in sunlight. A dagger hidden in roses. A kiss stolen in the rain.

Then—light.

She gasped, lungs seizing as air flooded back in. The pendant was gone. The temple was gone.

She stood in the center of her childhood bedroom.

The same rosewood vanity. The same ivory sheets. The same scent of lavender and ink.

But the mirror showed a younger face. Softer. Hopeful. Untouched by blood and betrayal.

Lily stumbled back, breath caught in her throat. Her reflection stared back with wide violet eyes—full of life.

“No,” she whispered. “This can’t be…”

The door creaked open.

And there he stood.

Not the man she’d destroyed. Not yet.

The man who would one day break her heart.

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