Catarina sat on the floor of her study.

Maps were spread out around her.

She had spent three hours running simulations. She had analyzed every possible move.

The results were grim.

Option A: Fight the legal battle.

The judges in the regional court were conservative. Many owed favors to Duke Thornbeck.

Victor clearly had Thornbeck's backing. No minor lord had the resources to bribe three senior advisors at once.

Thornbeck wanted a puppet in the Roselle Duchy. He wanted to prove that women couldn't rule during a crisis.

If she went to court, she would lose. The "Times of Threat" clause was vague enough to be exploited.

Option B: Fight with steel.

She could recall her army. She could arrest Victor for treason.

It would take three days for the army to return.

In that time, Victor would use his mercenaries to seize key infrastructure.

Civil war would erupt in the streets. Granaries would burn. Innocents would die.

Victor didn't care about the people. He only cared about the title.

But Catarina cared.

If she destroyed the duchy to save her rule, she proved his point. She would be the villain.

Option C: Marriage.

She could find a husband in a week.

There were plenty of second sons who would jump at the chance to be Duke Consort.

But it would be a surrender.

It would admit that she wasn't enough. It would shackle her to a stranger.

Victor would win the ideological war. He would prove that a woman needed a man to validate her power.

She pushed a map away.

"Checkmate," she whispered.

She pulled her knees to her chest.

For four years, she had been perfect.

She had worked eighteen-hour days.

She had memorized every trade tariff.

She had sacrificed her social life, her hobbies, her sleep.

She had tried to be so competent that her gender wouldn't matter.

It wasn't enough.

It would never be enough for men like Victor. Men like Thornbeck.

They didn't hate her because she was bad at the job. They hated her because she was in the chair.

She needed an ally.

She needed someone who wasn't part of this rigged game.

She needed someone who saw the board differently.

Her gaze fell on the drawer of her desk. The locked drawer.

Inside was a stack of letters.

They were not official correspondence. They were discussions about literature.

About philosophy. About the burden of expectation.

Marcus.

She remembered his visit.

He had found her secret library. He hadn't laughed.

He had critiqued the plot structures.

He had told her she was allowed to be human.

Marcus Aldridge looked at problems and saw the people behind them.

He didn't care about tradition. He cared about what worked. And what was right.

Catarina stood up.

She walked to her desk. She took out a fresh sheet of parchment.

She dipped her pen in ink.

Her hand hovered over the paper.

Asking for help felt like failure. It felt like admitting weakness.

Being strong doesn't mean being invincible.

She remembered him saying that. Or writing it.

She took a breath. She began to write.

Lord Aldridge,

I hope this letter finds you well.

The situation in the Duchy has become complex. A legal challenge has been issued regarding the succession.

She paused. She crossed out "complex." She wrote "critical."

My cousin Victor has invoked ancient statutes to contest my seat. He is supported by significant external resources.

She detailed the facts. She listed the troop movements. She explained the legal trap.

Then she stopped. The official report was done.

But she needed more than a strategist. She needed a friend.

She switched to a simpler tone.

I am surrounded by people who see a Duchess. They do not see the person trying to keep her home from burning.

I find myself in need of counsel from someone who sees solutions others miss. Your perspective during our previous correspondence proved valuable.

I would welcome your insight. And perhaps, your company.

I am fighting a war on a chessboard I do not like. I think you might know how to flip the board.

Yours,

Catarina.

She sanded the ink and folded the letter.

She sealed it with her personal wax—not the official ducal seal, but the smaller, private one. The rose.

She rang the bell.

A young courier entered. He was new. He hadn't been bought yet.

"Take this to the capital," she ordered. "Ride fast. Change horses at every station."

She handed him a heavy pouch of gold.

"Do not stop for anything. Deliver this only to the hand of Lord Marcus Aldridge."

"Yes, Your Grace," the boy said. He looked terrified and determined.

He ran out.

Catarina watched him go from the window.

She had made her move.

Now she just had to survive until the cavalry arrived.

And the cavalry was a man who couldn't even use a sword.

She smiled, just a little.

It was the most hopeful she had felt all day.

✧✧✧

Marcus Aldridge was trying to interpret a prophecy and it was giving him a headache.

The ancient text was dense. The translation was ambiguous.

The Child of Destiny shall bind the hearts of the divided.

Did "bind" mean marriage? Did it mean friendship? Did it mean magical enslavement?

The author of the webnovel had definitely meant harem marriage. But the author was a hack.

Marcus rubbed his temples.

He was sitting in his lodgings in Luminaris.

It had been two days since Seraphina had almost confessed.

He was still walking on eggshells. He jumped every time someone knocked on the door.

He was terrified Seraphina would pop out of a cupboard and demand a date.

"You look terrible," a voice said.

Marcus didn't jump. He was used to Damien Blackthorn breaking into his house.

Damien sat in the armchair. He was eating an apple he had stolen from Marcus's kitchen.

"Thank you, Damien," Marcus said dryly. "Your support sustains me."

"It's the stress," Damien said. He took a bite. "Being a harem protagonist is hard work. Even an accidental one."

"I am not a harem protagonist," Marcus muttered. "I am a chaotic variable."

"Same thing," Damien said.

A sharp knock echoed from the front door.

Marcus flinched. "Is that Seraphina? Tell her I died."

"Relax," Damien said. "It's a courier. I saw the horse outside. It looks like it ran here from the moon."

The housekeeper entered a moment later.

"Lord Marcus," she said. "A delivery. Urgent. From the Roselle Duchy."

She handed him a letter.

Marcus saw the wax seal. A rose.

Catarina.

His stomach dropped. Catarina didn't send urgent couriers for book club recommendations.

He broke the seal. He unfolded the parchment.

He read quickly.

His face grew serious. The headache vanished, replaced by cold focus.

"What is it?" Damien asked. The humor was gone from his voice.

"Coup," Marcus said.

He handed the letter to Damien.

Damien scanned it. He whistled low.

"Victor Roselle," Damien said. "I remember him from the novel's backstory. He was a minor villain. A gambler. He tried to sell duchy secrets to the demons."

"He's challenging the succession," Marcus said. "Using the 'Times of Threat' clause."

"Clever," Damien admitted. "Evil, but clever. He's claiming she can't lead because she's a woman during wartime."

"He has backing," Marcus noted. "Significant resources. Bribed advisors."

"Thornbeck," Damien said immediately.

"Thornbeck," Marcus agreed. "This is a proxy war. If Catarina falls, the Progressive faction loses its biggest military asset. And Thornbeck proves that female leaders are liabilities."

Marcus stood up. He began to pace.

"She's cornered," he said. "Her army is away. Her staff is compromised. She has a week."

"She's asking for you," Damien pointed out. He tapped the letter. "Specifically you."

"She needs a strategist," Marcus said. "Someone outside the system."

"She needs you," Damien corrected. "She trusts you."

Damien looked at Marcus. He gave him a significant look.

"You know what this means, right?"

"What?"

"If you go there," Damien said, "and you save her? You are locking in that route. Hard."

He tossed the apple core into the fireplace.

"Saving a damsel in distress from a political marriage? That is peak romance trope, Marcus. You are basically proposing to her."

Marcus stopped pacing.

He looked at the letter.

He thought about Catarina.

He thought about the Perfect Duchess who hid romance novels in her floorboards because she wasn't allowed to have feelings.

He thought about her exhausted eyes.

He thought about her sitting alone in that massive palace, waiting for men to take everything she had built.

"I know," Marcus said quietly.

"It ruins your plan," Damien said. "Operation: Redirect 2.0 becomes impossible."

"I know."

"She will fall in love with you. If she hasn't already."

"I know."

Marcus walked to the bell pull. He yanked it.

"Prepare my travel trunk," he told the housekeeper when she appeared. "And a horse. I leave in an hour."

He turned back to Damien.

"My plan was stupid anyway," Marcus said.

He picked up the letter. He folded it carefully.

"She's my friend, Damien. She's being attacked by misogynistic vultures who want her to fail."

Marcus's eyes were dark.

The SSS-Rank Emotional Intelligence wasn't just for therapy anymore. It was weaponizing.

"I'm not going to let them win," Marcus said. "I'm going to ruin Victor Roselle's whole career."

Damien grinned. It was a sharp, dangerous grin.

"Now that," Damien said, "is a plot twist I can support."

"Are you coming?" Marcus asked.

"Can't," Damien said. "I have to cover for you here. If both transmigrators leave town, the plot might implode. I'll run interference with Seraphina and my mother."

"Good luck with that," Marcus said.

"Good luck with the coup," Damien countered.

Marcus walked to his desk. He grabbed a blank sheet of paper.

He wrote a single line.

I'm coming. Hold the line.

He sealed it.

"I'm not just going to hold the line," Marcus muttered to himself.

"I'm going to rewrite the rules of the game."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.