Dam I just woke up from a a Reality I Cannot Escape.

I wake up gasping for air, my lungs burning as though I had just surfaced from drowning. My body jerks forward, hands clutching my chest, expecting pain, blood, the cold steel of a blade piercing me.

But there is nothing.

No wound. No executioner. No screaming crowd.

Only silence.

I blink rapidly, my vision swimming. Where am I? This isn’t the courtroom. I’m not in chains, not bound on a platform before the royal family.

Instead, a soft glow filters through lace curtains, casting warm light across an unfamiliar room. The air smells of roses and lavender, a stark contrast to the scent of blood and iron I was expecting. The bed beneath me is impossibly soft, the silk sheets cool against my skin.

I lift my hands, fingers trembling. They’re smaller. The weight of my limbs is different, lighter.

Something is very wrong.

I throw the covers off and stumble out of bed, my legs weaker and shorter than I remember. The moment my feet hit the cold marble floor, I freeze.

This room—it’s too lavish, too large. The walls are decorated with golden embroidery, oil paintings of noble ancestors hanging like watchful ghosts.

Then, a door swings open.

"My lady, you are awake!"

A girl dressed in a black-and-white maid’s uniform rushes toward me. Her hazel eyes widen with relief, her hands clasped together like she’s praying.

I part my lips to demand answers,

"Who are you?”

I freeze.

That isn’t my voice.

It’s softer, higher—childlike.

I take a step back, my breath unsteady. "What’s going on?"

Even the way my voice wavers sounds wrong.

"My lady, are you feeling unwell?" The maid watches me carefully, concern etching into her features.

Stay calm. Think.

I cannot afford to panic right now.

I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of a nearby dresser. What’s the last thing I remember?

The execution.

The pain.

The blade slicing through my chest.

And then… darkness.

---

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Ignoring the maid’s worried expression, I push myself toward the massive mirror near the wardrobe.

Each step feels heavy; as if my body already knows the truth my mind refuses to accept.

Then, I see her.

A young girl stares back at me from the reflection.

Not the sixteen-year-old villainess standing on the execution platform. Or the order me from earth

What was that was it a dream or was it real.

Is this even real, shit I don’t even know what is real or fake.

I look at the woman on the mirror.

Not a grown woman. It’s a thirteen-year-old child.

Dark curls frame her delicate, doll-like face, her emerald-green eyes wide with disbelief. Her lips part slightly, mirroring my own trembling breath.

I raise a hand—so does she.

I touch my face, my arms, my stomach.

Then, with shaking fingers, I press my palm against my chest.

Nothing.

No wound. No pain. No scar from the blade that killed me.

My chest is smooth, untouched.

This body has never died.

My breath shudders. So this isn’t execution day.

This is like three years before it death of media,

-----------

The maid is still hovering nearby, looking anxious.

"My lady, should I call for a doctor?"

"No," I answer quickly. I hesitate, and then force my tone to soften. "No, I just… had a strange dream."

She nods understandingly. "That would explain why you slept so long. We were beginning to worry."

I pause.

How long have I been unconscious?

"What day is it?" I ask.

She blinks, and then answers without hesitation. "The ninth day of the Month of Lumina, year 920, my lady."

My stomach twists.

So if she’s telling the truth then it is three years before my execution.

I grip the edge of the dresser, I pinch myself. Dam this is real.

I am alive again.

So then that means.

I am Media Eastward.

And what does the future hold for me.

---

The Grand Estate of Duke Eastward

I leave my room an hour later, my steps slow and cautious.

The Eastward estate is grander than I thought. Maybe it’s just that I got used to leaving in my tiny apartment.

Or maybe perhaps, it just feels so real; everything looks so grand and magnificent

The marble floors gleam under the candlelight, each step echoing through the halls. Large paintings of past dukes line the walls, their painted eyes cold and judgmental.

This house belongs to one of the most powerful noble families in Brightwood.

And yet, despite its wealth, despite its influence…

House Eastward will never hold more power than the royal family.

And I—Media Eastward—am nothing more than a pawn in my father’s political game.

As I pass a row of maids and other servants carrying porcelain dishes, I hear their hushed whispers.

"Did you hear? Young mistress woke up weird today."

"Something important must be happening soon."

"I just hope Lady Media doesn’t cause trouble again..."

I stop walking.

Again?

Even as a child, media as had a bad reputation.

A spoiled noble girl. A villainess of hearts and diamonds

How do you change a fate that everyone expects?

---

Dinner is silent and heavy.

The long dining table stretches before me, the golden chandelier above casting a warm glow over the fine china. The air is thick with expectation.

My father, Duke Edric Eastward, sits at the head of the table. He is a towering figure, his presence alone commanding respect. His dark green eyes flick to me the moment I settle into my seat.

"Media." His voice is deep and unwavering.

I straighten my posture. "Yes, Father?"

"You should be preparing for the coming weeks. The prince will be arriving soon, and you must make a strong impression."

I grip my fork tightly.

A strong impression?

It doesn’t matter how perfect I act. No matter how much etiquette I master, no matter how gracefully I carry myself—John Brightwood will never love me.

But my father doesn’t care about love.

"Your engagement is an alliance between House Eastward and the royal family," he continues. "You must ensure the prince sees your value. This is not about feelings—this is about securing power."

The room is silent.

I swallow. This is how the world sees me.

Not as a person, but as a political tool.

I force my voice to remain steady. "I understand, Father."

He nods approvingly. "Good."

Across the table, my stepmother sips her wine delicately, watching me with a curious glint in her eyes.

"You seem quieter than usual, dear," she muses. "I expected more excitement from you about your engagement."

I offer a small, polite smile. "I am simply tired from today."

She hums, unconvinced.

Even here, even in my own home, I feel the pressure to be someone I’m not.

This is the role the world has given me.

A villainess, not by choice—but by design.