Lady Vivian de Guzman, still shackled by her family’s command to abstain from the rich, fermented grape nectars of the realm, felt the hours drag like a carriage mired in mud. The Grand Ballroom’s seasonal courtly dance was still a fortnight away, and her duties as the Duke’s daughter had dwindled to dull embroidery—an occupation wholly unfit for her intellect.

To divert her focus—and to stop me from scrolling through my non-existent phone—she devised a plan: to revisit the hidden studio she once ordered restored. Her torture room.

She had no idea that, miles away, chaos brewed behind her back at St. Therese Boutique.

Helen and Mary exchanged a look that carried more dread than words ever could. Helen’s neutral scent of clean linen and soap had grown faintly acrid with worry, while Mary’s usual milk-and-bread warmth had begun to sour under stress. Both remembered the previous Vivian—the one whose whims were cruel and whose rumored “chamber of discipline” had been spoken of in hushed, horrified tones.

Vivian’s controlled presence pressed lightly through the room, like gravity itself. Her sharp, predatory smile—a genuine, if villainous, curve—did little to ease their panic.

“My Lady,” Helen began, her voice a thin reed trembling in the wind, “did… did I make a grave error in drafting your replies to the Marquess’s petition? Was my use of the third honorific misplaced?”

The more timid Mary was already beyond composure. Her milk-sweet scent soured with distress as she sobbed into her apron. “My Lady,” she choked, “did you truly order me to burn the Viscount’s letter as an excuse for punishment?”

Oh, for the love of all that is holy. Vivian rolled her eyes skyward—an expression no noble should ever make, yet one only her maids were unfortunate enough to witness.

“I merely intended for both of you to—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish.

Mary collapsed onto her knees, trembling so hard her sobs echoed across the marble. “My Lady, I beg you!” she cried. “I swore I wouldn’t betray your confidence about that night! I never told anyone! Was that why you ordered the milk? A threat? Please, My Lady, I never told a soul!”

Both Helen and Vivian were utterly stunned into silence. More than that, Vivian felt her cheeks instantly burn a furious, mortified red.

“My Lady, did something ha—” Helen began, her voice laced with cautious concern.

“Nothing happened between us that night. Nothing at all. Right, Mary?” Vivian cut in hastily, her tone firm and final — too firm.

Great. Now I sound like I’m making a desperate excuse while also threatening this poor maid not to talk. Perfect.

“I don’t want you to speak of this ever again,” she added, then paused, realizing too late where her sentence was going. “Even if I ask for a mi— milk.”

The word caught in her throat, mortifyingly awkward.

Damn it, why did that sound like I was setting up a one-night stand complete with blackmail terms?

“Yes, My Lady,” both attendants replied at once, nodding rapidly. Mary trembled so hard her apron ribbons quivered, her scent twisting between nervous sweetness and deep, dizzy relief.

Mary always overthinks everything, Helen noted inwardly, a quiet sigh ghosting through her thoughts. If only she would stop imagining punishments that never come and simply follow orders, life would be much easier for both of us.

Meanwhile, Helen stood a little too straight, hands clasped neatly at her waist, the very picture of a diligent aide. She probably thinks this is her next side quest—calm down the boss before disaster happens.

“I let you follow me here because I plan to inspect the studio,” Vivian said finally, gesturing around the dark chamber. “The restoration was completed months ago, but I’ve yet to see if my orders were followed properly.”

Helen blinked. “Do you intend to upgrade all your torture equipment, My Lady? I’ve saved the monthly brochure for it.”

Vivian nearly choked. “No! And why on earth do you even have a brochure of such things?”

Helen looked genuinely puzzled. “It is customary for noble houses, My Lady.”

Vivian stared. “Customary? For what, annual staff training?” She sighed, defeated. “Never mind. Just—no.”

Mary, who had been quiet, finally gathered enough courage to ask, “Then… what do you plan to do, My Lady?”

Vivian exhaled a slow, weary sigh. “For now, I want this room properly cleaned and purged of any remaining items—whips, handcuffs, that ridiculous pole, and especially the bed.”
She pointed at the offending furniture like they were cursed relics. “Can you find someone who can take them out without fainting halfway through?”

“I will let some footmen remove the pole and bed, My Lady,” Mary replied quickly, her soft scent of milk and bread finally settling into calm relief at the prospect of tangible, non-punishment-related work.

“Good. Get an available footman right away,” Vivian commanded, her tone crisp and authoritative. “We need those things gone before you start cleaning.”

“Right away!” Mary bowed and hurried off, her small steps echoing briskly against the stone floor.

As the sound of her footsteps faded, Helen tilted her head, scanning the corners with professional detachment. “How about your collection of nails, My Lady?” she asked after a beat, her voice perfectly calm, her scent still clean linen and soap—steady as ever.

“My what?” Vivian blinked. “Collection of—excuse me?”

She followed Helen’s gaze, and her blood ran cold.
There, displayed behind a glass cabinet like some twisted art exhibit, sat rows of neatly arranged human fingernails—filed, polished, sorted by length and color. Beneath them gleamed a golden nameplate, tastefully engraved:

Trophies of Discipline.

For a long heartbeat, Vivian could only stare. I don’t know whether to be impressed by Vivian’s dedication or horrified that she apparently ran a side business as a nail-collecting warlord.

“Are these nails… from real people?” she whispered, already regretting the question.

“Of course, My Lady,” Helen replied with serene efficiency. “You personally removed them from those you punished.”

Vivian froze. The air seemed to crack around her. For one awful second, she swore she could hear the sound of her sanity packing its bags.

Why do I feel like you’re my mom being proud of me for winning ‘Most Psychotic Noblewoman of the Year’?

“We need to throw them away,” Vivian said flatly, forcing the words out.

“That would be a waste, My Lady,” Helen replied, still in the same gentle tone one might use to discuss thread colors.

Vivian blinked, horrified. “A waste?”

“Yes,” Helen continued without missing a beat. “You could put them up for auction.”

Vivian blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Helen’s tone gained a faint, businesslike brightness. “Such a collection—one with historical provenance and belonging to the Lady de Guzman herself—would be highly sought after. There are collectors, scholars, perhaps even the Museum of Noble Artifacts, who would pay generously.”

Vivian could only gape. Who in their right mind would buy this? That’s insanity!
Unless there’s some creep in this world with a fingernail fetish or a magical curse that runs on keratin, this is— She stopped herself mid-thought, groaning inwardly. Wait. Magic does exist here. Oh no. Someone would absolutely buy this.

“Surely, you jest,” she said aloud, raising a perfectly sculpted brow.

“I am not, My Lady,” Helen replied smoothly, her professional composure unshaken. “Shall I prepare the paperwork for the auction so you may review it yourself?”

Vivian’s jaw dropped. Helen’s faint scent of clean linen and soap hadn’t wavered once—perfectly neutral in the face of moral insanity.

Great, Vivian thought bitterly. My maid just became my marketing manager for serial-killer memorabilia.

Before she could respond to Helen’s absurdly businesslike proposal, the door creaked open. Mary returned, breathless but composed, with two footmen in tow.

The men—dressed in the black-and-silver livery of household staff—hesitated on the threshold, their polished boots squeaking faintly against the marble. It was immediately clear that neither had ever been permitted entry into this forbidden wing before.

Their eyes darted from the newly polished walls to the gleaming iron pole someone had inexplicably left bolted to the floor, then to the glass case of… trophies.

The color drained from their faces as realization dawned. One man’s throat bobbed; the other took a reflexive half-step back. The air grew taut with the mingled scent of fear and polished metal—as though the room itself remembered every scream it had ever heard.

Oh, fantastic, Vivian thought grimly. Now I’ve traumatized the cleaning crew, too.

It was nearing dinner time when the last of the relics—including the horrifying nail collection, which Helen had carefully boxed for the alleged “auction”—were finally removed. The footmen, visibly relieved to be leaving the suffocatingly tense atmosphere of the newly cleaned room, bowed hastily and departed, their steps brisk and eager.

The butler, an elderly man whose faint scent carried the dry mustiness of parchment and old ink, appeared at the doorway to inform Vivian that her father, the Duke, had summoned her to the dining hall.

Vivian dismissed her two maids, telling them they could rest for an hour before returning. A wave of genuine delight washed over Mary, whose scent briefly brightened into pure, comforting milk. Helen simply bowed, her neutral scent of clean linen and soap steady and composed—grateful for the rare, unexpected mercy.

Oh, great. A dinner summons. This would be her first meal with the Duke since waking up in this world—and she already dreaded it. The original Vivian had always eaten alone in her room, probably plotting something villainous while stabbing a baked potato. What kind of sermon am I in for this time?

The Duke’s table was as grand as it was oppressive. The silence that hung over it was suffocating—thick with unspoken judgment, distant authority, and the careful clink of silverware. Vivian tried to think of anything safe to say: perhaps a comment on the recent Imperial decree, or a mild question about the manor’s winter stores. But the Duke’s presence—his refined, commanding air—pressed down on her like a wall.

By the time the main course ended, the servants moved with silent precision to clear the plates, and she still hadn’t spoken a single word.

When the after-dinner tea was finally poured, Vivian’s restraint cracked. Why do nobles drink tea for everything? she groaned inwardly. It’s not that I hate it, but these delicate, grassy, floral flavors every single day are torture. I want coffee, for Pete’s sake. A huge, bitter, piping-hot cup of black coffee that tastes like pure ambition and bad decisions—not this sad, fancy flower water.

“Vivi,” the Duke finally broke the silence, his voice a low rumble across the polished mahogany table. “I heard you are planning to attend social gatherings this season.”

His scent—controlled and steady, a sharp blend of leather and tobacco—barely shifted. It wasn’t a question. It was a report, verified and sealed by his ever-efficient staff.

Oh, I bet you did, old man, Vivian thought sourly. Or maybe you just had my mail intercepted before it even left the estate. Classic.

“Yes, Father,” Vivian replied evenly, folding her hands in her lap like the obedient daughter she was pretending to be.

The Duke took a deliberate sip of his after-dinner tea, the porcelain cup looking almost laughably small in his large, gloved hand. After a silence heavy enough to drown in, he continued, “I merely wish to remind you to act according to your position. You still have a pending hearing in the court regarding… physical misconduct and misuse of authority. We managed to dismiss it due to insufficient evidence, but do not let your guard down.”

Wait—hold up. I just got this body, and OG Vivian left me a parting gift of pending lawsuits? What kind of villainess starter pack is this?

“May I know more about the case, Father? Who did I offend?” she asked, her tone careful—concerned, but not too concerned.

“There were several complaints from those you allegedly mistreated,” he said, tone clipped, as if discussing an inventory shortage. “But they were easily disproven. Petty barons and fallen nobles grasping for coin. Do not trouble yourself.”

No, sir. Your daughter absolutely tortured them. I literally found their fingernails—in a frame—in her torture room, no less. Exhibit A: villainess décor.

“I will be cautious, Father,” Vivian said smoothly, dipping her head. The sandalwood-and-citrus of her suppressant scent remained steady—controlled, elegant. She even managed a polite smile.

Should I put them to auction so I can get rid of them? she mused dryly. Helen’s idea might not be so crazy after all. It’s certainly better than the police finding them.