By the time Clara reached the palace, the night had settled deep into its bones.
The grand halls that were usually alive with footsteps, voices, and the faint clatter of polished shoes were now hushed, draped in shadows and moonlight. Even the chandeliers seemed to dim themselves out of respect for the hour.
Clara slipped through the servants' entrance with practiced ease, quietly shutting the door behind her.
Her stomach growled. Loudly.
She froze.
"…Fantastic," she muttered under her breath, pressing a hand against her abdomen like that might silence it. "Betrayed by my own organs."
She hadn't eaten since midday.
The adrenaline of the alleyway was finally fading, replaced by the familiar, gnawing ache in Clara's stomach. She had spent her "day off" witnessing a literal boss-fight, and while her fan-girl heart was full, her belly was tragically empty.
She moved quickly, though not particularly quietly- her version of stealth was more hope no one notices than actual skill. Still, the palace was asleep. She passed darkened hallways, the faint scent of polished wood and old stone filling the air, until she reached her destination.
The kitchen.
Clara paused at the door, listening.
Nothing.
Perfect.
She slipped inside.
The kitchen was dim, lit only by a single lantern left burning low near the prep tables. The usual chaos of the day- pots, herbs, trays- had been reduced to neat order, everything gleaming softly in the dark.
Clara stepped in like she'd entered sacred ground.
Then immediately went straight for the bread.
"Oh, thank the gods," she whispered, grabbing a loaf like it was a lifeline. She tore off a piece without ceremony, chewing quickly, eyes half-closing in relief.
"This is illegal levels of good," she mumbled through a mouthful.
She moved around the kitchen with growing confidence, opening lids, sniffing pots, sampling things like a criminal with absolutely no shame. A slice of cheese here. A spoonful of something warm there.
"This is not stealing," she muttered, pointing a piece of bread at absolutely no one. "This is… redistribution."
"You're redistributing quite aggressively."
??? 0__0
Clara choked.
She spun around so fast she nearly dropped the bread.
A boy- no, a young man- stood leaning casually against the doorway she definitely checked earlier.
He stood at a height just above average, possessing the lean, functional build of someone accustomed to physical labor. His skin was deeply tanned from consistent outdoor work, marked by a dense pattern of freckles that extended across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones.
"Nice to meet you, Miss Clara."
Clara blinked, the bread halfway to her mouth.
"…You know me?"
I don't think this character appeared in the novel...
The man didn't even hesitate. If anything, there was the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips as he adjusted his glasses.
"Oh, who wouldn't?" he said lightly. "The tutor who managed to somehow keep Her Highness occupied for hours without being dismissed, exiled, or mysteriously cursed?"
Clara choked.
"I did not-"
"You did," he cut in, not unkindly. "You're practically a legend amongst the servants."
"Legend is a strong word."
"Mm. 'Gossip,' then," he corrected. "Very enthusiastic gossip."
Clara stared at him.
"…That's worse."
The man shrugged.
"Depends on your perspective. Most people last a week before they either quit or get reassigned. You?" He tilted his head slightly, studying her with quiet curiosity.
"You walk in, argue with a princess, and leave alive."
Clara opened her mouth.
Closed it.
"…When you say it like that, it sounds concerning."
"It is concerning," he said, entirely serious.
"Which is why everyone's talking about you."
She let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down her face.
"Great. I'm famous for having a death wish."
His smile this time was more obvious, though still small.
"Or," he said, "for being the first person Her Highness hasn't gotten bored of."
That-
That made her pause.
Just for a second.
Clara looked down at the piece of bread in her hand, suddenly very aware of the warmth still lingering from earlier- of sharp eyes, a cool voice, the weight of attention that never quite felt casual.
"…That's not-" she started, then stopped.
The man didn't press her further. He simply looked at her- teasing, knowing- like he was in on something she hadn't quite caught up to yet.
"My name is Keith," he said, inclining his head just slightly. "I'm the palace's gardener. I've groomed every hedge and rosebush you've passed on your way in."
Clara blinked.
"That sounds… extensive."
"It is," he agreed easily. "Though 'gardener' is just the polite title. In reality, I do a bit of everything." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Whatever the palace needs- repairs, errands… cooking, sometimes."
His gaze dipped, deliberate, to the piece of bread still in Clara's hand.
Clara stiffened.
"Oh- I'm- I'm sorry," she said quickly, lifting it like evidence. "I didn't know it was- I mean, I wasn't stealing, I was just-"
"Hungry?" Keith supplied.
"…Yes."
He huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head.
"No, no. It's fine." His tone softened, something warmer settling beneath the teasing ease. "Honestly, it's a bit of a relief."
Clara frowned. "A relief?"
"Mhm." He leaned back against the counter, folding his arms loosely. "We've all been wondering when you'd actually stop long enough to eat."
She stared at him.
"…What?"
Keith glanced at her again, that same knowing look flickering through his eyes.
"You've been doing a remarkable job managing Her Highness."
"I am not managing her-"
"Mm."
"That sounds like I'm handling a wild animal."
Another small pause.
"…I didn't say it wasn't accurate."
"Keith."
He held up a hand, conceding- barely.
"My point," he continued, calmer now, "is that it's not an easy position. Most people don't last. You have."
His gaze flickered once more to the bread, then back to her face.
"So if you're taking a moment to eat in the middle of all that…" he said lightly, "I'd say it's well deserved."
Clara hesitated.
The apology sitting at the edge of her tongue softened into something quieter.
"…Still feels like I got caught," she muttered.
Keith smiled- small, but genuine.
"Then I'll pretend I didn't see anything."
The curly-haired man nudged his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.
"And I have a feeling," he added, tone turning almost conspiratorial, "that if Her Highness found out her… treasured tutor was wandering the palace hungry, she'd have half the staff lined up by morning and demand a full banquet in apology."
Clara choked.
"You're exaggerating- Veroni-" She stopped abruptly, heat rushing to her face. "-I mean, Her Highness wouldn't-"
Her voice trailed off.
Because-
Wait.
Treasure?
Banquet?
Punish the staff?
That sounded-
Her thoughts snagged, uncomfortably.
That sounded like something reserved for…
Nikolai.
The male lead.
The one people bent rules for. The one the narrative itself seemed to favor.
Clara frowned slightly, her grip tightening around the bread.
…Why am I even thinking that?
A quiet, incredulous thought slipped in before she could stop it.
Since when am I putting myself in the same category as Nikolai?
That was-
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
She wasn't the male lead.
She wasn't even supposed to be important.
And yet-
Her mind betrayed her with a flash of sharp eyes, a cool voice, the weight of attention that never quite felt casual-
Argh what am I even thinking?!
Clara shook her head slightly, like she could dislodge the thought entirely.
"You're definitely exaggerating," she repeated, more firmly this time, though it came out just a little too quick to be convincing.
Keith only hummed, unconvinced, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary-
-as if he could see straight through the denial she was trying so hard to hold onto.
Clara brushed the crumbs from her fingers, glancing down at what remained of the bread.
"…I should probably go before I actually get caught," she muttered.
Keith tilted his head, like he was considering something.
"Probably," he agreed. "You've pushed your luck enough for one night."
She huffed lightly.
"I was hungry."
"And now you're fed," he said simply.
A small pause settled between them- not awkward, just… unfinished.
Clara shifted her weight.
"…Thanks. For not-" She gestured vaguely.
"-turning this into a whole incident."
Keith shook his head.
"Told you. I didn't see anything."
His gaze flickered to her again, a little sharper this time- like he was committing something to memory.
"Though," he added, "next time, try coming earlier. The good dishes are gone by now."
Clara let out a quiet laugh.
"Noted."
She turned toward the door, hand hovering over the handle-
Then paused.
"…Keith."
He looked up.
"If anyone asks," she said, glancing back over her shoulder, a small, conspiratorial smile tugging at her lips, "I was never here."
He smiled back-easy, familiar, like they'd known each other longer than a single night.
"Of course, Miss Clara."
A beat.
Then, softer-
"Try not to skip meals again."
"…I'll try."
***
Morning came too gently for Clara's liking.
Sunlight slipped through the tall palace windows in thin, golden lines, settling across her sheets like it had every right to be there. Somewhere beyond the glass, the capital was already awake- distant carriage wheels, faint voices, the soft rhythm of a world continuing exactly as it should.
Clara, however, lay very still.
Staring at the ceiling.
"…Something feels off."
A beat.
Her brows slowly furrowed.
No- not off.
Wrong.
She pushed herself up, the sheets pooling at her waist as her thoughts began to turn- slow at first, then faster, sharper, like something long ignored finally demanding attention.
Yesterday.
Seraphel Avenue.
Leanne meeting Nikolai.
That had gone-
Clara paused.
"…That actually went according to the novel."
The alley. The fight. The first encounter.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
And yet-
Her stomach twisted faintly.
Because everything after that-
Her mind flickered.
The palace.
The quiet corridors.
The kitchen.
Keith.
And-
Veronica.
Clara froze.
A cold realization slipped in, quiet and precise.
"…Wait."
She sat up straighter.
"My plan."
The words felt foreign in her mouth.
Distant.
Like something she had known instead of something she was actively doing.
Clara pressed a hand to her temple.
I knew the script.
Not vaguely.
Not partially.
She knew it perfectly.
In the original novel, Clara Valeria-
A disposable side character.
The jealous older sister.
The pawn.
The one who poisoned the heroine at the Princess's command.
And in the end-
Clara swallowed.
Executed.
Publicly.
Cleanly.
Inevitable.
"…Right," she whispered.
That was the whole reason she was here.
The reason she had chosen this path in the first place.
Avoid her death.
Protect Leanne.
Change the story.
She had made a plan.
A good plan.
A careful, calculated, absolutely-not-going-to-get-her-killed plan.
Step one:
Get close to Princess Veronica.
Step two:
Redirect her obsession.
Step three:
Find her a different love interest-
Someone who wasn't the Duke.
Someone who wouldn't trigger that chain of jealousy that ended in blood.
Simple.
Logical.
Survivable.
Clara stared blankly ahead.
"…So why," she said slowly, "am I not doing any of that?"
Silence answered her.
Because instead-
Instead of subtly guiding Veronica toward another love interest-
Instead of creating distance-
Instead of maintaining professional boundaries like a sane person-
Clara had-
Her face heated.
"…Been eating meals with her."
Not part of the plan.
"Arguing with her."
Definitely not part of the plan.
"Letting her-" Clara stopped, then groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "-look at me like that."
Absolutely not part of the plan.
Her heart gave an unhelpful, traitorous thump.
Clara flopped back onto the bed.
"This is bad."
This was really bad.
Because the Veronica in the novel-
The beautiful, distant, traditionalist Princess Veronica von Aethelgard-
Was madly obsessed with the Duke.
Hard.
Painfully.
Destructively.
And Clara's job-
Her entire purpose-
Was to make sure that she would survive.
Efficiently.
Without collateral damage.
Instead-
Clara pressed a hand over her face.
"…She's looking at me."
And worse-
Clara's chest tightened faintly.
"…I'm letting her."
Silence filled the room.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
This… this wasn't just a deviation.
Clara exhaled slowly.
"…Then the story changes."
And changing the story was the goal.
So why did this feel-
Not like progress.
But like she was stepping into something far more unpredictable?
Her gaze drifted toward the window, sunlight catching in her honey-brown eyes.
"…Okay," she said quietly.
Reset.
She needed to reset.
Re-center.
Get back on track.
"New plan," Clara murmured, more firmly this time.
Step one:
Re-establish boundaries.
Step two:
Stop-
She hesitated.
"…Stop letting things get weird."
A pause.
Then, under her breath-
"…Stop noticing things."
Like the way Veronica's voice softened when it was just the two of them.
Or how her gaze lingered a second too long.
Or how-
Clara shook her head sharply.
"Nope. Not relevant."
Not useful.
Not safe.
Because this wasn't a romance.
This wasn't her story.
This was survival.
And she had almost-
Almost-
Forgotten that.
Clara swung her legs off the bed, determination settling in her chest, fragile but present.
"Alright," she said, standing.
"Back to the plan."
Even if-
For reasons she didn't want to examine too closely-
It suddenly felt a lot harder than it had before.