Today was the day the head of the family returned after a long overseas trip. The house had been bustling with energy since dawn, every corner polished and spotless, every staff member on edge to ensure nothing went wrong. Even I, despite my unease and the lingering questions about my strange existence here, couldn't escape the tension that filled the air.

From what I had gathered over the past few days, there were three residents in this massive estate: the master, his wife, and the previous lady of the house—his mother. I had never seen any of them, not yet, but their presence loomed large in every conversation and instruction. The way the staff spoke of them, they felt less like people and more like myths.

As I worked in the kitchen, chopping vegetables alongside Sally and Taylor, the two maids who had taken me under their wing, I couldn't help but overhear the gossip brewing nearby. The words floated over like smoke, impossible to ignore.

"He was overseas with his ex-girlfriend," one of the maids whispered, her voice low but urgent, as if she couldn't keep the information to herself any longer.

The other maids gasped, a mix of shock and intrigue flickering across their faces. "Is that true? Poor lady... she doesn't deserve this."

"She's devoted her entire life to him," another chimed in. "She left her career behind to be the perfect wife."

"That's because it was an arranged marriage," Sally added, rolling her eyes as she carefully wiped a tray. "Everyone knows he never wanted it. He was in love with someone else before he was forced into this."

The maids nodded in agreement, their sympathy for the lady apparent in their hushed voices. But there was an edge of judgment too—against the master for being indifferent and against the situation for being, as Sally put it, "a total mess."

I couldn't help but scoff silently. "Crazy," I thought to myself. It all sounded like something pulled straight from the pages of a cliché romance novel. My sister used to shove those kinds of stories at me as they were her favorites, insisting I read them to awaken my romantic sense, but I'd always brushed them off. Still, there was something oddly familiar about the way they spoke about this marriage—like I'd heard it before, somewhere distant yet close.

I pushed the thought away and focused on my task, dicing carrots into neat, uniform pieces. The house was alive with preparations for the master's return, and the kitchen was no exception. Pots simmered on the stove, the air thick with the scent of roasting meats and freshly baked bread. Even though I had no memory of how to cook, my hands seemed to move on their own, guided by instincts that weren't mine. It was unsettling how easily I had adjusted to this life—this body.

Then, she walked in.

And for a second, I forgot how to breathe.

It was the first time I'd seen her since waking up in this body. The lady of the house. The wife everyone pitied.

But holy hell—she was nothing like I expected.

She wasn't just beautiful—she was stunning in a way that made time slow for a second. The kind of beauty that didn't need effort, didn't need makeup or fancy dresses to make people stare. It was just there. Natural. Effortless. Unfair.

Her dark hair fell in loose waves, framing high cheekbones and a jawline that looked like it belonged in a damn painting. Her skin had this warm glow, smooth and untouched, like she carried soft light with her wherever she went.

But it was her eyes that got me.

Big, expressive—too much emotion packed into one glance. She didn't even have to speak for me to feel it. The weight she carried, the quiet strength underneath it all.

And if I weren't stuck in this body? If I were still someone I used to be. I'd be on my knees.

"Is everything ready?" Her voice was calm, yet it carried authority. She was speaking to the head chef, who nodded quickly, rattling off the dishes being prepared.

"We've got everything, ma'am," he assured her. "Your husband's favorites, as you requested."

She smiled then, and it was the kind of smile that could break hearts and mend them in the same breath. It struck me that this woman, for all her grace and beauty, must carry so much pain. The maids' gossip came rushing back—about her devotion, about his indifference. How could anyone be indifferent to her? It didn't seem possible.

I tore my gaze away and returned to my chopping, my thoughts spiraling. How had I ended up here, in this woman's home, in this strange reality? What had happened to the life I knew? My family, my mother—was she worried about me? Did she even know I was gone? My throat tightened as I thought of her. She'd always scolded me for not helping around the house, for spending too much time on my phone or hanging out with friends. And now, here I was, doing kitchen work like I'd been born to it.

The thought clawed at me. What if I'd died in my old life? What if this wasn't some strange dream or a twisted joke, but something far worse? The idea chilled me, but I shoved it aside. I couldn't think about that now. I had to focus on surviving here, on playing my part until I figured out what was going on.

For now, I would be Lena, the maid. And I would watch, and listen, and try to make sense of this strange, impossible world.

The house was in a frenzy by the time evening rolled around. Every corner gleamed with perfection, the scent of polished wood and faint floral arrangements wafting through the air. The staff hurried about, double-checking everything before the master—the man of the house—arrived home. It was my first time witnessing the heightened energy his return caused, and even though I didn't fully understand the dynamics, the tension in the air was impossible to ignore.

Sally and Taylor, my closest allies in this strange, unfamiliar life, kept me in the loop. Apparently, he'd been overseas for quite some time, and tonight was the big homecoming. The head housekeeper gathered the upper staff to the front of the estate, ready to greet him—the head chef, the butler, and, of course, the ladies of the house. As lower-ranked staff, Sally, Taylor, and I weren't allowed to join them, but that didn't stop me from sneaking a peek from the kitchen door.

I craned my neck, watching through the small crack as the grand front door opened. The old lady—the previous mistress of the house—stood tall and composed, her posture regal.

I saw the lady of the house, I noticed something fragile in her posture—a quiet vulnerability that contrasted with her outward grace. The older woman placed a comforting hand on her back, stroking it gently, her affection evident in the small, reassuring gesture. It was clear that the man's mother cared deeply for the lady, a stark contrast to the way her son treated his wife.

The older woman's fondness the lady was unmistakable, a quiet act of defiance against her son's indifference. For that, I felt a small sense of relief. At least she wasn't entirely alone in this household. If nothing else, she had an ally in her mother-in-law, someone who understood her value even if her husband did not.

Then he walked in.

The room fell silent. Even from my spot in the kitchen, I could feel the shift in the air. The master—the man—had returned.

The lady was the first to speak. Her voice was calm and composed, though I could detect the slight tremor beneath the surface. "Welcome home," she said.

He didn't reply.

I watched as he strode past her without so much as a glance, his attention focused solely on the older woman. He leaned down, placing a kiss on her cheek, before moving toward the living room with her at his side. His coat was handed off to the butler, and he disappeared from sight, leaving the younger woman standing there, frozen.

Her hands clenched at her sides, and I saw her blink rapidly, as if willing herself not to cry. After a moment, she followed him into the living room, her movements stiff but determined.

"You don't say anything to your wife, Michael?" the older woman chided gently as she seated herself near him.

Michael—so that was his name—looked at her but said nothing.

The lady, his wife, stepped forward. Her voice was softer now, almost tentative. "I prepared dinner for you," she said. "Your favorites."

His response was curt. "I already ate before I got here." Without another word, he stood and headed upstairs, leaving his wife and mother behind.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then the older woman stood and wrapped her arms around the lady. I could see her murmuring something—a single word I couldn't hear—before she too left the room.

The lady remained, sitting alone on the edge of a chair. Her shoulders trembled, her head bowed as if trying to hold herself together. It was painful to watch, the sight of someone breaking in silence.

I turned away, my chest tight with emotions I couldn't quite name.

Back in the kitchen, the head chef scoffed as he took a sip of tea. "What a waste," he muttered, gesturing toward the untouched meal laid out on the table.

My stomach growled. "Can I have it?" I asked impulsively, surprising even myself.

The chef gave me a bemused look but eventually shrugged. "Why not?"

Carrying the plate upstairs to the servants' quarters, I found Sally and Taylor chatting in our shared room. Their eyes lit up at the sight of the food, and I invited them to join me.

As we ate, I couldn't help but recount the scene I'd just witnessed. "I can't believe her husband did that," I said, my voice tinged with frustration. "If he didn't want to be married to her, he shouldn't have gone through with it. And her... she just stood there, letting him walk all over her." I shook my head. "If it were me, I'd have left the house on the very first day."

Sally sighed, poking at her food. "It's not that simple. Their marriage was arranged, remember?"

Taylor nodded. "And this isn't just any family. She gave up everything to be here—her career, her freedom. Where would she go?"

"Still," I muttered, "I don't get it. Who even are they? What's her name?"

Both of them turned to me, their expressions puzzled.

"Are you feeling okay?" Sally asked. "It's Lady Amelia Valemont."

Amelia Valemont.

The name hit me like a bolt of lightning. My mind raced, dredging up memories I hadn't thought about in weeks.

Valemont. Michael Valemont. Amelia Valemont.

My eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place. I remembered now—this was a story I'd once read, a web novel my sister had begged me to try. Ballad of the Broken. The arranged marriage. The cold husband. The devoted wife.

And her death.

My stomach churned. In the novel, if I'm not mistaken Amelia died within a year after Michael returned from oversea. The ending was a tragedy.

Was that why I was here?

I laughed bitterly, startling Sally and Taylor. "I... I was just thinking," I said quickly, brushing it off.

But my mind was racing. If the story was supposed to end with Amelia's death, what would happen next? What would happen to me? Would I be stuck in this body forever? I didn't know. But one thing was clear—I needed a purpose. And maybe, saving Amelia was the key to returning to my real life. If that was the case, then I'd do whatever it took.