People like to think of themselves as ethical—moral. They like to believe that they are altruistic.

No one is altruistic.

People are selfish.

And that isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Selfishness stems from our inherent desire to survive, and I am not above using any means to ensure my survival. Morals have no place in Iris Orzo's vocabulary.

When I said any means, did I truly mean it?

Apparently, yes.

Because I have sold my dignity to the devil and have damned my soul and pride in the process.

Survival. Yes.

That's what I kept reminding myself.

But this is flat-out embarrassing.

Today, I found myself on the floor of Duke Orzo's office, coloring squiggles on (probably) important documents and playing cute. I spent the morning desperately speaking with an exaggerated lisp and in baby talk.

 Well, the ruined pages looked to have been some type of report, but they didn't contain any useful information to me. And my mayhem made me feel a wave of elation and glee.

Thanks to my incredible mother, I became an early reader. My mother read to me every night, helping me with my letters, phonics, and all the elementary school skills one needs. So it wasn't that I had no idea of what was or wasn't important paperwork; I just didn't really care.

Besides, magic exists in this world. 

I'm sure someone could retrieve these corrupted files for the duke if he desperately needed them. At least then, the mage would have something useful to do rather than being Sienna's henchman.

The only redeeming part of today's humiliation was the maid pacing back and forth before me.

She looked frantic. Her neat brown hair was frazzled in the morning glow like the light was static electricity pulling the strands from her bun. It was getting annoying watching her dark shoes tread back and forth between the sofa and double doors.

She'd spent the first fifteen minutes trying to pry the pen from my hand, only to spill the ink across the duke's desk and herself. And now she was helplessly stressed, bitting the stained nail of her right thumb, the other arm across her chest. She muttered to herself, periodically glaring at me, spitting venom from her eyes, and tired insults from her mouth.

Honestly, that part was the most amusing.

Her words evaporated my willingness to practice empathy; she deserved everything coming for her. The maid wasn't even worthy of any saint's sympathy or the petty gods' empathy.

In the novel, Iris's personal maid is the worst of all the servants when it comes to the abuse Iris suffers. Many servants kept their heads low, ignoring Iris as no-name concubine #1 did. They treated Iris as if she had never existed. It's a painful way to live, but I'm sure Iris found that preferable to the ones that acknowledged her existence.

Iris's personal maid was so cruel to her that the novel gave her a name. I'm pretty confident it was because the author got tired of calling her "Iris's personal maid," "the evil maid," "Sienna's lap dog," "abusive sicko that should be burnt at the stake." Because this seemingly unimportant side character made Iris's entire life a living hell, she made Iris so miserable that the novel named an unimportant side character and gave her a role.

"Mawwy! Look!"

I gave a wide-eyed grin and triumphantly displayed my handiwork to the flustered and angry maid framed by the wide arch of the doors. I watched the clock hands tick above her head like a crowned halo around her increasingly disheveled hair. The angrier she became, the more I threw my dignity into the wind.

"Mary" looked livid as her hands balled into fists, swinging by her side like the opening door. I could see steam blowing from her ears, and I swear I heard a tea kettle scream with each heavy stomp toward my grinning face. Pride filled me and leaked into my cheeks and eyes.

It wasn't just pride over my masterpiece (#20 in my Office Inked Series; Piccaso doesn't stand a chance against me) but for something far, far more satisfying.

"You little— How stupid could you be? I've told you over and over that my name is Marian. You filthy commoner. You're a stupid brat that no one wants. If it wasn't for your eyes, no one would want you," Marian straightened up, towering over me, glowering down at me.

As if degrading a five-year-old child made her powerful. It was pitiful—truly. 

How miserable and insecure did one have to be to diminish a toddler to feel powerful? Was it because of my station in life? The fact I was born a blue blood and she wasn't? Or was it because I spent the first five years of my life a commoner and became a Cinderella overnight? Did her hatred stem from envy?

Whatever the reason, I don't feel sorry for her.

The room turned cold the moment Marian's arms reached for me. As if the trauma was etched into my body, I instinctively scrunched my eyes closed and cowered. 

It was unexpected.

I'd never been struck in this life—not even once, but this body anticipated Marian's hand like it knew what was coming. 

And I wish it didn't. 

I wish my body didn't cower, that it didn't shake in fear. I wish such a reflex didn't exist in this body, but I suppose there are some things one never unlearns.

With each percussive syllable, I watched the crystals blossom against the walls, molding themselves into the ornate carvings along the ceiling and enveloping the shelves of tomes into frozen tombs.

Relieving Marian of her head was the reason I woke up early and ran into the duke's office this morning like a raging bull after a matador, with Marian searching for the escapee (me) in a frenzy under the early morning glow. It was also why I threw my dignity out of the frozen window today.

The duke never showed Iris any affection. He simply is incapable of loving anyone or anything, but there is something the duke never overlooks:

He was a stereotypical trash dad who didn't care about his kid and only cared about his honor and image, so if I couldn't make him fall in love with me and have him become an obsessed and doting father, I'd have to take advantage of his hubris and watch the giant fall.

He may not care about me, but he cares about how he looks in front of others and how the Orzo name is perceived. After declaring me heir and child of the duchy, there's no way the duke would let a mere maid bully and abuse me.

Cue waterworks.

"Papa," I wailed and ran past a stunned Marian. Her terrified and shocked face was my favorite masterpiece from this lovely morning.

Marian was completely taken aback. Her eyes were wide with fear, her mouth slightly open in a gasp, her torso turning towards the office entrance, completely frozen into place.

It was then the duke and his entourage turned to become frozen and speechless.

I ran with tears streaking down my reddened face, arms reaching for my father as the ribbons in my messy braids trailed behind me. I made sure to wail as loud and for as long as my lungs allowed, screaming, "Mawwy. Mawwy," each time.

"Daddy! Mawwwwwwey was mean to me." Part of me cringed, and another part of me cowered. I was unsure how the duke would react. 

In the book, Iris was timid as a small child who feared her domineering and larger-than-life father. Iris would hide and make herself small around the duke. As she grew older, Iris was then taught to remain silent when the duke was around, and so she grew up fearing an absent father like a bedtime ghost story until she became a petulant and defiant adolescent.

But I am not that Iris, and I have no morals and (apparently) no dignity.

I think the atoms in the air froze this time with the collective gasp from the butler and the duke's personal aide. And me. I think I froze, too.

It wasn't part of the plan, and I suppose it isn't a bad thing, but...

I was too stunned to struggle or cry when the duke picked me up from my wide-stretched arms after his momentary look of confusion. It looked like a natural, smooth, flawless response like he'd done it a hundred times before. The duke suddenly looked like a real father when he picked me up and cradled my head against his shoulder, stroking my wild hair to soothe my sobbing. I didn't need to see to know that the entourage's eyes were as wide as mine.

Crazy.

When I tried to lift my head, I almost asked him if he'd eaten something bad for breakfast, but the duke's firm hand trapped my face against him.

My body began to shiver uncontrollably as the temperature continued to drop in the room. It's then I remembered the whole reason for my charade.

I needed Marian beheaded.

I began crying in earnest again as my small frame shook. I could feel every fiber in the duke tighten the longer I cried, so I naturally cried even louder. I wasn't sure why he was having such a strong response, but I would use it to my full advantage.

Today, I have no pride, no dignity and no morals.

"Are you not going to answer me? I asked, 'What the hell do. you. think. you're. doing?'"