Chapter 3: A Trashy Reputation
The news of the annulment hit the capital like a physical shockwave. By noon the next day, the “Villainess of the North” was the only topic of conversation from the high-end tea rooms to the back-alley pubs.
But while the nobility expected Seraphina to lock herself in her room and wither away in shame, she was doing something much more scandalous: Hosting a yard sale.
“Not that one, Yuna. That’s a Tier-4 Mana Ruby. It’s too heavy for a necklace and the color is garish. Put it in the ‘To Be Liquidated’ pile,” Seraphina directed, pointing a silken fan at a mountain of jewelry.
“But My Lady!” Yuna wailed, clutching a tiara. “This was a gift from the Grand Duke for your sixteenth birthday!”
“My father has terrible taste in accessories and a guilt complex for never being home. It stays in the pile,” Seraphina said firmly.
She had spent the morning auditing the Astrea vault. It was a goldmine—literally. The original Seraphina had been a hoarder of “status symbols.” If it was rare, expensive, or made other women jealous, she bought it. To Lee Seo-yun, who once spent three months saving for a mid-range air fryer, this was more than enough capital to live three lifetimes in luxury.
By mid-afternoon, the front gates of the Astrea estate were crowded with the city’s top merchants, jewelers, and even a few disguised spies from other noble houses.
Seraphina stood on the balcony, looking down at the crowd. She wore a simple, unadorned white linen dress—a “low-profile” look that, ironically, made her look more ethereal and terrifying than ever.
“Attention!” she called out. The courtyard went silent. “I am simplifying my life. Everything you see displayed on the lawn is for sale. Cash only. No credit, no ‘favors,’ and certainly no IOUs from the Imperial Court.”
The merchants scrambled. It was a feeding frenzy. Seraphina watched as three years’ worth of “obsession” was traded for stacks of cold, hard imperial credits.
“My Lady,” a voice silkier than her bedsheets drifted from behind her.
Seraphina turned. Standing there was Marquis Valerius, the kingdom’s primary information broker and a man who usually only appeared in the novel to deliver bad news. He was leaning against the doorframe, watching the chaos below with an amused glint in his eyes.
“The capital says you’ve gone mad with grief,” Valerius said, tilting his head. “They say you’re selling your belongings because the Crown Prince stripped you of your allowance.”
Seraphina let out a short, sharp laugh. “The Prince? My allowance comes from the Astrea mines, Marquis. I’m selling this ‘trash’ because I’m moving. I’ve realized that carrying around the weight of a thousand rubies makes it very hard to run.”
“Run from what?” Valerius stepped closer, his gaze searching hers.
“From boredom,” she lied smoothly.
In reality, she was running from the “Death Flags” that usually started popping up around this time. In the original book, a mysterious plague would hit the capital in two months. Seraphina was blamed for it because of a “cursed artifact” she kept in her room.
She looked at the pile of artifacts currently being haggled over by a merchant from the East. Good luck with the plague, buddy. I’m going to be in a villa eating oranges.
“You’ve changed, Lady Seraphina,” Valerius whispered, reaching out to touch a stray lock of her dark hair. “Your eyes used to be full of fire and thorns. Now… they look like a person who has already seen the end of the world and decided it wasn’t worth the overtime.”
Seraphina froze. Damn. He’s too sharp. She batted his hand away with her fan.
“I’m just tired, Marquis. Now, if you aren’t here to buy the Cursed Mirror of Reflection for ten thousand gold, please move. You’re blocking my light.”
Valerius chuckled, a low sound that vibrated in his chest. “Oh, I think I’ll stay. I have a feeling the ‘New Seraphina’ is going to be far more profitable to watch than the old one.”
As the sun set, the Astrea estate was significantly lighter, and Seraphina’s private bank account was heavy enough to sink a ship. She had successfully rebranded herself as “The Mad Duchess,” a move that ensured people would stay away from her out of fear and confusion.
“Step two complete,” she whispered to herself, checking a list she’d hidden under her pillow.
Next on the list: Find a bodyguard who won’t stab me in the back.
