The Heroine Smiles Sweetest When She’s Lying

The kiss still burned on her lips.

Not from passion. Not even from desire. From defiance.

A declaration against fate. A match struck in the dark. With one bold act, Seraphine cracked the story’s spine.

She left the greenhouse without a word, letting the heavy doors seal behind her. No guilt. No fluttering heart. Only a low heat under her ribs—the quiet hum of rebellion.

As she returned to the ballroom through the servant corridors, the music returned to her ears: polished waltzes, laughter that sounded too sharp, too clean. The air was thick with wine and honeyed poison.

She caught a glimpse of herself in a pane of glass. Hair is still immaculate. Lips slightly smudged. Eyes calm.

The perfect villainess.

The same woman they always destroyed.

Except now, the script was unravelling. And Seraphine held the thread.

She stepped back into the ballroom just in time to hear the heroine laugh.

Celestine Aria, radiant as ever, stood under a golden arch, dressed in pearl-trimmed white like a lamb led to applause. She floated from guest to guest, fluttering lashes and dropping compliments like petals. She had the nobles eating from her hands—just like always.

Seraphine paused at the edge of the crowd, watching.

So gentle. So harmless.

So fake.

Celestine had played the role of perfection in every lifetime. The sweet girl. The misunderstood saint. Everyone believed her tears. No one saw the knives.

Not until it was too late.

The heroine’s eyes slid across the room—and landed on Seraphine.

There. A flicker.

A hitch in her smile. Barely noticeable.

You see me, Seraphine thought. And you know I’m not following the script.

Celestine recovered quickly. Her mouth curved again, this time brighter, more practised.

“Seraphine!” she called out, her voice warm and gentle enough to melt steel. “You disappeared! We were worried.”

Liar.

She crossed the floor with perfect grace, her white skirts whispering behind her. Her hand found Seraphine’s, fingers cool and delicate.

“You’re not unwell, are you?” she asked, blinking those wide, doe-like eyes.

“No,” Seraphine said, voice smooth. “Just needed some air. The stench of roses was a bit much.”

Celestine laughed as if the jab didn’t land. “You always were so sensitive to smells. Remember that summer in Avemont, when the garden made you faint? Oh, how we worried!”

The crowd around them chuckled politely.

But Seraphine wasn’t listening anymore.

Because Celestine’s words had dragged up something old. Something buried.

It's a different summer. A different garden. And a different kind of betrayal.

flashbacks,

Seraphine had only been seventeen, then,naïve, loyal, enchanted by the brightness that was Celestine. They’d been inseparable. Two girls in a cruel world, clinging to each other like sisters.

Until the scandal.

A broken vase. A ruined document. A noble’s son crying slander. Something petty,small enough to vanish in a day.

But someone had to take the fall.

Celestine had cried in private. Clutched Seraphine’s hands and said, “They’ll exile me. They’ll disown me. Please.”

And Seraphine, ever loyal, ever blind, had stepped forward.

“I’ll say it was me.”

She remembered the trial. The cold looks. The loss of title. Being cast from the capital in disgrace.

She remembered turning back once at the gates, just once, hoping for Celestine.

She never came.

Seraphine blinked. The ballroom snapped back into focus.

Celestine was still smiling.

“I do hope we can talk later,” she said, squeezing her hand lightly. “I miss our little moments.”

“Of course,” Seraphine replied, voice like a blade wrapped in silk. “We have so much to… unpack.”

Then she pulled her hand away.

Not abruptly. Not rudely. But deliberately. Enough for the crowd to feel it.

Celestine tilted her head. “You’re different today.”

“I get that a lot lately.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

As the party continued, Seraphine retreated to the shadows, wine in hand, mind sharp. She needed to think. The kiss with Cael had already disrupted the sequence. If the world was reacting to that—how long before it corrected itself?

Before the Plotkeepers tried to push her back on track?

Adrien appeared across the hall, the young master himself. Broad-shouldered, regal, still wearing the same polished smile he'd used when he stabbed her in Life Three.

She looked away. Not out of fear. Out of disgust.

She’d loved that man once. Truly. Completely.

And he had repaid her with betrayal dressed as duty.

A presence stepped beside her. Not Cael. A servant.

“Message for you, my lady,” the boy whispered.

She took the slip of paper, unfolding it slowly.

If you’re truly off-script, meet me tonight at the west courtyard. Midnight. No guards. No tricks. I’ll know if you lie.

Cael? No. He’d speak to her directly.

Celestine?

Or worse… a Plotkeeper?

She folded the message carefully and tucked it into her glove.

The world was shifting around her now. She could feel it. The script was unravelling. The players were stirring.