Chapter 2. Betty... Can I Call You That??
"......Betty?"
The two short syllables slipping from Beatrice's lips carried the coldest killing intent I'd ever heard in my entire life, including my previous one. The temperature in the office seemed to plummet below freezing.
What the hell? Was that not it?
My mind flashed white. From my memories of my past life, in anime and internet communities, shortening someone's name cutely was supposed to be a surefire way to win favor.
But the girl in front of me wasn't some shy anime character. She was the Ice Duchess who had ruled the north, staining the land with blood. Applying clumsy modern dating tricks to a tragic novel's heroine came with harsher consequences than I'd imagined.
"Is... is it not to your liking...?"
I barely managed to squeeze out the words in a trembling voice. My survival instincts were screaming. I forced strength into my shaking legs, but my focus wasn't on the black stockings I'd admired moments ago—instead, it was locked on the invisible blade aimed at my throat. Her blood-red eyes stared at me, deep in thought, and with every second of her silence, my lifespan seemed to shrink in inverse proportion. Should I beg for my life?
That's when it happened. An obnoxious pink window popped up on my retina, scattering flower patterns everywhere.
Love my ass—it's murderous impulse, you flower-brained System!
I swallowed dryly and forced my lips into a smile. If I showed fear and cowered here, I'd never survive two years in Winterfell Castle—I'd end up as a sacrificial lamb on our wedding day.
I didn't know the original story, but the ruined heroine's gaze said it all. She didn't see me as an equal human—just a tool to dispose of whenever.
"Your Highness."
Beatrice rose slowly from her seat. Each step she took squeezed my heart like a vise. She leaned in close, right to my nose. A cool rose scent wafted over me, but behind it lurked a chill like a morgue.
"What did you just say with that mouth of yours? My ears must be numb from the northern cold—I think I misheard. I'll give you one more chance to correct yourself."
"......Betty. It's my special nickname from the duchess's name. Doesn't it please you? We're to be husband and wife in two years. I figured you'd allow this much for a harmonious future marriage."
I stared straight into her blood-red eyes, steeling myself for death. Beatrice didn't reply—instead, she gazed down at me impassively for a long while, as if peering into the depths of my soul for any lie.
Finally, she let out a short snort. Mockery? Or genuine disbelief? Either way, she seemed to have shelved any immediate plans to slit my throat.
"Your lips are as glib as imperial blood deserves. Fine. Call me whatever you like—but only when we're alone like this. Otherwise, use Beatrice."
"Yes, thank you. Betty."
She flashed the same icy smile as when we'd started. "Very well, Your Highness. It's late, and you've had a long carriage ride. You should rest. I hope your stay in the north is enjoyable until the wedding."
"Yeah, thanks for thinking of me, Betty. See you tomorrow."
At my words, she rang the bell on her desk sharply. The head butler entered as if waiting.
"Escort His Highness. If the empire's prince freezes to death in the northern cold, our wedding in two years will be ruined. Make it as 'warm' as possible."
Even as I walked the corridors under the butler's dry guidance, cold sweat poured down my back at the memory. Winterfell Castle's halls were eerily long and dark. The portraits of past dukes on the walls seemed to glare at me like living things, hungry for blood.
'Here we are, Your Highness.'
The butler stopped at a lavish guest room high in the castle.
"It's late, so rest well. Call if you need anything."
The moment the door closed behind him, my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the bed. The plush bedding felt nice, but my chest was still heavy as lead.
Outside the window, the sun was dipping below the horizon. The northern sky, dyed purple, was beautiful yet chillingly still.
"Ah, right. Shall I take a peek at Betty's past?"
In an instant, a flood of images surged into my mind like a tsunami. It was her life—not just the cover illustration I'd glimpsed, but the brutal truth behind it.
In the original novel Blood Rose at Winter's End, Beatrice's fate shattered eight years ago, when she was twelve. On the way back from the imperial New Year's banquet, her parents' carriage plummeted off a cliff in an inexplicable accident amid a blizzard. The wreckage was unrecognizable, and the duke and duchess died on the spot.
No traces of assassins or plots were found—just the hollow conclusion of an 'unexplained accident.'
The girl who'd stayed behind at the ducal castle with a severe cold, missing the banquet, wasn't greeted by her parents' warm embrace but by their cold corpses.
There was no time to grieve. The twelve-year-old who loved her white bear doll discarded it that day, taking up a sharp quill and seal instead. Before her parents' bodies, shedding false tears amid power-hungry relatives, she learned to kill her emotions.
Her sole remaining goal: uncover the truth behind the accident and exact a blood price overflowing with vengeance.
"......No wonder it's a tragic novel."
The backstory of the pretty-illustrated novel I'd clicked on was far more savage than expected. But a question arose. Eight years ago, I was only four years old. I couldn't be the culprit, so why would she behead me in two years? I shouted at the air.
"Hey, status window! Isn't there more? I still can't figure out why I die!"
Hmm... Want more? Keep showing the Ice Duchess some sweet romance from here on out, and you'll find out!! 🌹💖
"Haa...... You and your damn romance... Fine, whatever."
It was frustrating. But positively, it built anticipation. Hey, on day one in this romance-fantasy novel, Betty already let me use a nickname. Isn't this a good start?
I lay on the bed, staring out the window. Darkness filled the outside, with only the crackling firewood in the room breaking the silence.
Someone asked about dinner from the door, but lounging here, with my weary body and excited heart, I didn't want anything tonight.
Meanwhile, in the office after Rian left.
Beatrice's face was frozen, emotionless as a paused screen. Her blood-red eyes fixed on the sofa where Rian had sat.
"Come out."
At her low voice, the shadows rippled, and Karin—the assassin leader of Winterfell's shadow organization—emerged.
"You called, Mistress."
"Did you hear what that prince just said?"
"Yes. Reports from the capital say Prince Rian is a cowardly, incompetent playboy...... but what we just saw doesn't match at all."
Beatrice's eyes narrowed. Thin veins bulged on the back of her hand gripping the quill.
"Exactly. Too different from the intel. Either the capital informants were negligent, or that prince is part of some grand imperial deception. Maybe he even knows the truth of the accident and came to mock us."
She issued the order coldly.
"Karin. Overhaul the entire informant network in the capital. Execute every useless one without exception. Re-investigate the prince from his childhood—every habit, no matter how trivial. Who he met, what books he read. Everything."
"Understood. Executing immediately."
"And monitor the prince yourself. Report every contact in his room, every expression when alone. If anything suspicious...... I'll cut his throat myself."
After Karin melted back into the shadows, Beatrice murmured at the blizzard outside.
"Betty, huh...... I look forward to the moment that leisure turns to terror."
Deep in her desk drawer, a broken button engraved with the imperial crest—found at the accident site eight years ago—gleamed coldly. It was her reason to hate the entire imperial family, the sole clue why Rian had to die.