The Villainess Wants to Resign From Love

If life had a pause button, I'd have slammed it the moment Millie said "dinner."

But alas, fate had chosen violence.

Specifically, the "put Viera Kalin in a candlelit room with the man she just dumped through courier" variety of violence.

"I can't go," I declared dramatically, collapsing onto my bed. "I'm emotionally unstable, morally unprepared, and I think I'm allergic to awkwardness."

Millie tugged the covers off me with the merciless efficiency of a woman who's seen too much. "You have to go, my lady. The Duke personally requested your presence."

"Then personally un-request it!"

She gave me a flat stare. "He's waiting downstairs."

I froze. "Now?"

"Now."

I bolted upright. "Millie, this is an emergency. We need a strategy."

She sighed. "Like what?"

"Like how to end an engagement gently. Without dying, crying, or accidentally confessing my love in a fit of nostalgia."

"Maybe start by not mentioning the letter?" she suggested dryly.

"Good idea. I'll just... pretend it never existed." I smoothed my dress nervously. "If he brings it up, I'll faint. That always works."

Millie groaned. "You are the most dramatic lady I've ever met."

"Occupational hazard," I said, heading for the door. "Now come on, before my courage expires."

.

.

.

The dining room looked like something out of a romantic movie designed to torture me personally.

Soft golden light. Crystal goblets. Music so gentle it practically whispered, "You're doomed."

Ronan was already seated at the head of the table, his posture regal, his sword resting against the chair. His eyes flicked up as I entered — calm, unreadable, but unmistakably watching.

I curtsied stiffly. "Your Grace."

"Lady Viera," he said, his voice smooth and dangerously composed. "Please, sit."

I obeyed, trying very hard not to notice that there were only two place settings.

"You dismissed the servants?" I asked, glancing around.

He nodded. "I wished for privacy."

"Great," I muttered. "Because privacy definitely makes awkward dinners less terrifying."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing! Just... admiring the décor."

He poured wine into my glass himself. Of course he did. He probably also rescued kittens in his spare time, because the universe loved irony.

"So," I began brightly, "how was the war? Kill anyone interesting?"

Ronan blinked. "Interesting?"

"You know. Any duels with dramatic monologues? Betrayals? Epic explosions?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "None that I'd consider... entertaining conversation."

"Right, of course. Casual dinner talk. My mistake." I took a huge gulp of wine, immediately regretted it, and started coughing like a dying goose.

He rose halfway from his seat. "Are you—"

"I'm fine!" I wheezed. "Just choking on my social anxiety."