Why Scheme When I Can Sleep?

Chapter 1

The Villainess Arrives Late (and Tired)

The Grand Delucian Ballroom sparkled like someone had tried to bribe God with chandeliers.

Light dripped from crystal. Music floated on velvet. The air itself smelled like polished silver and nervous ambition. Edevane's most powerful houses had assembled beneath one roof, each with an heir polished to a high shine, a smile rehearsed to lethal precision, and just enough inherited arrogance to commit a mild betrayal before dessert.

This was the official opening of the court season — the first event in a long chain of balls, soirées, performances, and scandals dressed in pearls.

But tonight, despite the music and jewels and champagne flowing like a spell, there was a tension in the room. A subtle stillness. An unease that not even the most expensive perfume could cover.

She was late.

Lady Virelle D'Argent.

The D'Argent girl.

The daughter of House D'Argent, a name spoken in noble circles like a weather warning. She was expected to make her debut tonight — and no one had seen her yet.

"She's late on purpose," hissed the Duchess of Alderney, fanning herself like the air had insulted her.

"It's a tactic," murmured Count Rellim. "It builds tension."

"She probably wants to be the last one to arrive so everyone stares," someone whispered.

Professor Gallifer Bell, etiquette scholar and self-appointed guardian of court decorum, adjusted his cravat and said, "When she enters, do not look directly at her. It's what she wants."

Near the edge of the ballroom, by the tall windows, Duke Lorian Thorne said nothing.

He stood alone, tall and perfectly unbothered, dressed in severe black — gloves, boots, cravat. His eyes, cool and unreadable, remained on the ballroom doors.

"She's coming," he said quietly.

Bell turned. "How do you know?"

The duke didn't respond. He just kept watching.

Outside, the D'Argent carriage rolled up the drive, black as a secret and silent as regret. No crest. No escort. Just polished obsidian wheels and a slightly crooked lantern.

A maid stepped down first — sharp-eyed, efficient. She brushed something off her shoulder (possibly a biscuit crumb) and opened the door.

Inside, a girl's voice muttered, "Tell me it caught fire. Tell me the ballroom collapsed."

"Get out," the maid said calmly.

The girl who emerged was not what they expected.

No firestorm. No dramatic entrance. No glittering vengeance made flesh.

Just a girl.

Tall, silver-haired, slightly wrinkled.

She blinked at the chandelier like it had personally offended her and adjusted a lopsided shawl. One glove was navy, the other was missing. Her hair was only half braided. There was a sugar stain on the edge of her sleeve.

She looked like she'd been woken from a long nap she very much wanted to return to.

Virelle D'Argent stepped into the Grand Delucian Ballroom, glanced briefly at the crowd, and said, "Too many people. Not enough chairs."

And then she turned left, walked directly past the welcoming line, ignored the orchestra, and sat down in the nearest velvet settee beneath a portrait of Emperor Daventree IV.

She did not curtsy.

She did not greet anyone.

She tucked one leg under the other, leaned back, tilted her head just so — and closed her eyes.

Silence followed.

An orchestra violin squeaked in confusion.

A chaperone dropped her fan.

Someone whispered, "Is she reclining?"

"She's asserting dominance," breathed Countess Verlein, wide-eyed. "Through inertia."

Professor Bell was scribbling furiously into a leather-bound etiquette journal. "This changes everything."

The room shifted.

Whispers spread.

Dancers faltered mid-step.

At the far end of the room, Elowyn Clare — the sweet, soft-spoken common girl with a church blessing and a perfectly pastel gown — hesitated during a curtsy, glancing at the girl on the settee.

Virelle did not glance back. She was, at that moment, entirely focused on not being awake.

Near the balcony, Duke Lorian Thorne was still watching her.

Of course she would sit. Of course she would derail everything without moving.

He watched the others try to recover. Try to adjust.

No one approached her.

No one dared.

He said nothing. But one corner of his mouth tilted upward — almost imperceptible.

Not a smile.

But the warning before one.

Lady Rhoswen D'Argent swept in fifteen minutes later, two inches off the ground with fury alone.

She took one look at her daughter and inhaled like she was about to set something on fire.

"She's lounging," she said.

"She's resting her ambition," said the maid.

"She's snoring."

"Only a little."

Somewhere near the fountain, a boy tripped over his own feet trying to look at her without being obvious.

In the back corner, a group of noble girls huddled like birds around gossip seed.

"Do you think she's pretending?"

"She's waiting. That's what it is. Like a spider."

"She's playing the long game."

And beneath the portrait of Emperor Daventree IV — the one who conquered four provinces and invented the formal fan duel — Virelle D'Argent shifted slightly, sighing into the velvet.

She was not scheming.

She was not seducing.

She was not pretending.

She was, quite simply, exhausted.

And already halfway asleep.