The Villainess Wants to Resign From Love

I woke up this morning with a battle plan.

Step 1: Avoid Duke Ronan.
Step 2: Maintain composure.
Step 3: Do not melt if he smiles.

By mid-morning, I'd already failed Step 1.

Millie burst into my office like a messenger in a war movie.
"Enemy sighted approaching from the east wing! Carrying pastries and affection!"

I dropped my quill. "He's bringing food now? That's emotional warfare!"

"Deploy countermeasures!" she yelled, saluting. "Pretend to be busy! Fake paperwork!"

I grabbed the nearest parchment and began scribbling nonsense. "Yes, totally reviewing... uh... the national inventory of bandages."

The door opened.

And there he was. Ronan Ardent. Walking serotonin hazard.

"Good morning," he said, setting a tray of pastries on my desk. "You missed breakfast."

Enemy uses nourishment attack. Critical hit.

"I—uh—thank you," I muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

He leaned against the desk. "You've been avoiding me."

"What? Me? No, no, I'm just extremely busy with... uh... medical bureaucracy."

"Medical bureaucracy?" he repeated, amused. "Does that involve doodling tiny hearts in the margins?"

I looked down. Betrayed by my own pen.

Millie popped her head through the doorway, whisper-shouting, "Retreat! RETREAT!"

Ronan chuckled. "She's not very subtle, is she?"

"She's a liability," I hissed. "An adorable one, but still."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You really don't have to run from me, Viera."

"Oh, I'm not running. I'm strategically repositioning."

"That sounds like running."

"It's science, Ronan."

He smiled—that soft, devastating curve of his mouth that made my internal organs stage a coup.

Okay, regroup, I told myself. Focus. Objectivity. Professionalism.

Then he reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from my face.

Abort mission.

My brain: this is fine, totally fine, just mild cardiac arrest.

"You look tired," he murmured. "You should rest more."

"Rest is for the weak," I said, voice cracking like a broken violin.

He laughed quietly. "You're impossible."

"I prefer 'medically unmanageable,' thank you."

Millie re-appeared like an overly excited sports commentator. "And there it is, folks! Emotional defense line collapsing! The Duke scores another point!"

"Millie, I swear—"

She vanished again, clearly delighted with her field report.

Ronan tilted his head. "You really do keep score?"

"It's called accountability," I said, crossing my arms.

"Then what's the current score?"

I paused. "...You're winning."

He grinned. "Good. I like winning."

We ended up walking together through the gardens after lunch—purely coincidental, obviously.

"I heard you were improving the palace infirmary," he said.

"Yes," I replied quickly. "Fewer fainting nobles that way."

"Do you include me in that category?"

I glanced at him. "You? Fainting? Unlikely. Though scientifically speaking, your smugness could cause oxygen deprivation."

He laughed, the sound warm enough to melt snow.

My brain: Danger. Emotional overload imminent. Seek shelter.

Then, without warning, he stopped walking.

"Viera," he said quietly. "You know I mean what I said before, right? About you changing everything."

The air went still. For one second, it was too real—no jokes, no banter, just his eyes locked on mine.

I swallowed. "I—yes. I know."

"Good," he said softly, smiling again. "Because I'm not stopping."

I blinked, dazed. "...Stopping what?"

"Trying to make you fall for me."

My brain short-circuited. System error: feelings.exe has stopped responding.

Millie popped up from behind a rosebush like a goblin. "Mission failed! Heroine emotionally compromised!"

"Millie!" I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

Ronan chuckled. "She's not wrong."

I peeked at him through my fingers. "You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

"You're infuriating."

"And you're blushing," he said, delight in his voice.

I turned away. "That's just... pollen reaction."

He stepped closer. "Then maybe I should test that hypothesis."

"Don't you dare—"

He brushed a light kiss against my cheek, smug and gentle at the same time.

I froze. Critical emotional damage sustained.

He drew back slightly. "Experiment successful," he murmured.

My voice came out half a squeak. "Unethical research practices! Immediate review required!"

He laughed, full and bright. "Then I'll file an appeal—with you."

I threw my hands up. "This is war."

He smiled. "Then surrender, Doctor."

I glared at him, cheeks burning. "Never."

But my heart, traitorous organ that it was, whispered: You already did.

Millie scribbled furiously in her notebook. "Phase Eleven complete. Diagnosis: terminally in love."

I groaned. "Delete that report."

She smirked. "Never."

And as Ronan's laughter filled the courtyard and I felt my pulse racing again, I had to admit:

Maybe losing this particular war wasn't so bad after all.