The Art of Getting Dumped
Question: You wake from a coma one day to discover that you have become the villainous supporting character in a novel you read in your past life. What is your immediate course of action?
Answer: You don't even get three seconds to collect your wits before being dragged in front of a vanity to cake on makeup, because your fiancé is already on his way.
Titania Sol Kite Hamastion, the sole princess of the Hamastion Empire, had plunged from her second-floor balcony three days ago and slipped into a deep coma. Only today had she finally regained consciousness—along with every vivid memory of her previous life intact.
If I had to summarize my current state of mind in a single phrase, it would be this: waking up from the brink of death only to taste a fate far worse than dying.
I'm seriously going to lose my mind.
I drew in a deep breath and stared at the mirror before me. The reflection was considerably more wretched than I had imagined. No matter how generously one looked at it, the figure staring back was an invalid who had barely crawled out of a sickbed.
A sickly, bloodless complexion, gaunt and hollow cheeks, dark circles carved beneath sunken eyes, and limbs as thin as dry kindling bound in wooden splints… A newborn fawn would look robust and vibrant compared to me. I lifted my left arm in a daze. Having it braced in a splint and wrapped mummy-tight in thick gauze in the dead of summer made me feel suffocated just looking at it.
When I gently brushed my forehead with my uninjured right hand, a sharp prick of pain flared instantly. My forehead was undoubtedly in the exact same state as my arm.
They looked at this utter wreck and seriously told me to put on cosmetics and greet my fiancé? Are they insane?
Of course, I was well aware that Titania's sole worth in the imperial palace was her title as the fiancée of the Castrein family. I also knew that every servant staffing the Rose Palace was an informant planted by someone else, and not a single soul among them genuinely cared about her well-being. Even so, this crossed a line. Have they lost their minds? Why on earth would you slap powder onto an open wound?!
"There is no need to worry, Your Imperial Highness. You are exceptionally lovely!"
Sarah, the maid tasked with my cosmetics, spewed blatant lies without batting an eye.
Instead of answering, I narrowed my eyes into slits.
Noticing my icy stare as she glanced at the thick layers of gauze swathing my body, another maid timidly spoke up. Mary was her name, if I recalled correctly, and her usual duty was styling my hair.
"Shall we summon a priest?"
Sarah chimed in at once as though seizing upon a brilliant idea. "If we ask the Second Consort, we can ensure you do not present an unsightly figure before the young duke."
Oh, listen to them perform.
When a person was rolling around in sweltering heat, breaking out in prickly heat rash under heavy bandages, they hadn't breathed a single syllable about a priest. Yet the second Young Duke Raymon was announced, they suddenly scrambled to fetch holy healing?
Their underlying motive was painfully transparent. They wanted to make sure the Castrein Duchy never caught wind of how utterly neglected Princess Titania was. It wasn't out of affection for her, of course; they simply didn't want to hand the northern duke an excuse to pick a quarrel.
And to suggest petitioning the Second Consort rather than the First Consort? I gritted my teeth behind tightly pressed lips.
You people really are cruel to Titania, aren't you?
Imperial Consort Elaine never took Titania's side. It was an open secret known to everyone in the palace. If we sent word asking for a priest, her response would undoubtedly be cold indifference: 'Summon one on your own if you wish; it is no concern of mine.'
And the young Titania would have had her heart shattered all over again.
I cut my gaze toward Natalie. As the head maid presiding over the Rose Palace, she carried herself with composed, impassive professionalism. Because of that stoic demeanor, the former Titania had looked up to her as a trustworthy elder, but…
"If you so command, I shall dispatch a messenger immediately."
That dry, detached voice belonged to none other than First Consort Cleo's loyal henchwoman.
They would go through the motions of sending someone. The Second Consort would refuse to grant a priest. And then Natalie would step forward with sweet venom, whispering that the First Consort was far more benevolent, coaxing the desperate princess to beg Lady Cleo so she could appear whole before Raymon.
Crushed by the rejection of her biological mother, Titania would have easily succumbed to Natalie's manipulation, convinced that Lady Cleo was the only person in the imperial court who cared for her. She had lived in total ignorance, kept in the dark by everyone around her so she wouldn't realize that an imperial princess possessed the royal authority to summon a palace priest on her own.
I tilted my head and smiled like an innocent, airheaded child.
They were all holding their breath, waiting for my cue. Expecting me to run crying to my birth mother only to be rebuffed, before crawling to Consort Cleo to heal this shattered body. The smug certainty in their eyes was unmistakable.
Haha. Did you really think I'd dance to your tune?
"Raymon marches off to the frozen front lines every winter, doesn't he? That means he must see plenty of wounded and sick people, right?"
The maids answered in obliging unison.
"Y-yes, certainly, Your Highness."
"Still, he has surely never seen an invalid as pretty as me, has he?"
Their pupils dilated in sheer disbelief. Yes, I knew perfectly well it was absolute nonsense. Titania was undeniably a beauty, but a grimy, unwashed girl bundled up in bulky splints like a bundled sea turtle could hardly be considered breathtaking.
I gave the hem of my white, flowing nightgown a cheerful flutter and declared brightly, "So I'm going out just like this!"
"Y-Your Imperial Highness!"
Mary's voice cracked. Even the stoic facade maintained by Natalie, the head maid, wavered with a subtle twitch.
"What is it?" I asked, tilting my head innocently. My platinum-blonde hair, which usually shimmered like morning sunlight refracted through crystal, hung limp and lifeless, utterly devoid of luster. "Didn't you tell me that I'm so gorgeous Raymon could never dislike me, no matter what I do?"
"……."
Now choke on the very lies you spent years spoon-feeding this girl.
The original Titania had been an absolute, unadulterated nightmare of a brat. Denied a proper education and lacking any sensible adult to correct her, she had been surrounded exclusively by parasitic sycophants of this caliber. Remembering that fact, I beamed an angelic smile.
From this moment on, I was an unreasonable, impossible-to-manage terror. Young, entitled, and possessing imperial blood. The only brat capable of out-tantruming me in this entire palace would be the First Prince himself!
Sarah hastily cut in, flustered. "B-but Your Highness! Didn't you always insist you would never present anything less than your finest, most dignified self before him?"
"Are you saying my appearance right now is shameful?"
When I narrowed my eyes menacingly, Sarah froze, realizing her blunder, and snapped her mouth shut.
These women had made it their life's mission to drill the word 'pretty' into the young princess's ears until it was permanently branded onto her eardrums. It was a calculated tactic: be satisfied with your pretty face, never bother picking up a book, stay in your lane, and never utter anything inconvenient to the young duke.
"Or are you implying that Raymon doesn't love me?!"
Right on cue, I threw back my head and shrieked as though someone had stomped on my sorest nerve.
Seeing that reasoning was impossible, Natalie gave up and subtly signaled Mary with her eyes. Mary, cursing me internally while straining to keep a forced smile plastered on her face, stepped forward and began to brush my unkempt hair.
In truth, we were out of time. They had probably already stationed a priest in the Daisy Palace on standby. Their little scheme had been so neat: make a token show of asking the Lycoris Palace, return with the news that my birth mother refused, and then present the First Consort's priest like a miraculous gift of mercy.
Too bad for them. What good was a pre-arranged trap when the princess herself refused the priest?
Sarah cleared her throat, frantically scrambling to mend the atmosphere. "Oh, goodness me, hoho… You truly are something else, Your Highness! Heavens, no, that isn't what I meant at all! The young duke might find such rustic, unvarnished charm endearing as well! I only meant it would be a shame not to accentuate your natural beauty, that is all."
She was only saying that because she knew that if a brat who was at least tolerable to look at showed up looking like an absolute disaster, Raymon would reject her on the spot.
Well, fine by me. Being rejected was entirely acceptable. In fact, if he dumped me right here and now, I would gladly send him a thank-you fruit basket.
Submitting to the bare minimum grooming the maids reluctantly provided, I made a solemn vow in my heart.
Annulment! An absolute, unconditional annulment at all costs!
My ultimate goal was to break this engagement.
The original Titania's antics had been pathetic beyond belief. God only knew where she had procured it, but she had once attempted to slip him a love potion mixed with her own blood and strands of her hair. Whenever rumors surfaced that he had exchanged words with another noble lady, she would fly into homicidal rages, screaming that she would tear the wench limb from limb.
She had bombarded him with endless, suffocating letters, and whenever they actually met, she threw explosive tantrums, shrieking that he was treating her like dirt. She had stalked his every movement with obsessive fervor, alongside countless other atrocities I couldn't bear to articulate…
A full-fledged, textbook stalker nightmare.
Reading about it in a couple of dry sentences in a novel had been mild enough, but now that it was officially my own criminal record, I wanted to die of second-hand embarrassment.
If it were me, imperial decree be damned, I would have broken the engagement on day one.
Reflecting on that dark history with profound despair, I threw an oversized, bulky shawl over my loose nightgown—deliberately choosing one that resembled a heavy bed quilt despite the maids' frantic objections—and bundled myself up tight.
Then, with brazen confidence, I marched forward.
"His Grace, Young Duke Raymon, has arrived."
I stepped into the reception parlor and beamed with radiant enthusiasm.
"Welcome, Young Duke Raymon!"
The young man approaching had been striding forward with the perfection of a stone statue carved from granite, devoid of a single ripple of emotion. Until…
"……."
…he ground to an abrupt, dead halt, looking at me as though he had just laid eyes on an impossible, terrifying anomaly of nature.