IHYWRM l CH 09

Chapter 9

Tap, tap. Charlotte’s thin room shoes scraped sharply on the hard floor.

Sunlight beat down on her head. As her mind cleared and her senses sharpened, doubt crept in.

Could she really build a dream with this much detail? Was this even a dream?

Enduring the delayed sting spreading through her body, Charlotte looked around.

Bright, clear weather. Maids hauling heavy laundry. Knights training in the distance.

People moved freely around the Duke’s mansion, each busy with their own task.

It was a scene as familiar as what she’d seen “yesterday.” In truth, that wasn’t wrong—
in her villainess “dream,” she had lived up to June 18, Imperial Year 844.

Can all of this really be a dream…?

Once the doubt surfaced, her hands began to tremble as if that doubt had become certainty.

It felt like a wild leap—but what she was seeing felt even less realistic.

A dream where pain is real—and she lives through two days inside it?

And in that dream, she had dreamed another day in vivid detail?

It makes no sense…

Her heart raced. It really felt like reality.

Before she could sort out her confusion, she reached the Duke’s office.

The guard glanced at her and silently opened the door.

The Duke lifted his head, as if waiting.

“…Are you trying to make me feel guilty now?”

His face was twisted with disgust as he blamed her.

Charlotte stared at him. She could feel how much his mood bristled—enough to prickle her skin.

Her tangled thoughts began to line up the moment she saw his reaction.

Such raw hostility—she couldn’t have invented this, not even in a dream.

She closed her eyes hard, then opened them, to hide the confusion in them. The Duke’s expression turned odd.

Normally, by now her sharp tongue would lash out.

So why today…
No—come to think of it, she was strange yesterday too.

Did failing to marry the Grand Duke drive her mad in some other way? Like Adrian, the Duke eyed her up and down.

Meanwhile, Charlotte kept her face composed and her mind racing.

Nothing made sense—but she had to accept it for now.

Even the life of the “villainess” floating through her mind.

If all of that is real…

Even a 1% chance meant she couldn’t afford a single mistake here.

The original plot already veered. If things match the dream, then I’ve sent a marriage proposal to Noctum—and it was auto-rejected by his engagement.

If she wanted to nail the distance shut, she had to get far away.

She decided quickly and spoke.

“…You called me to talk about yesterday, I assume.”

Her voice was flat—dry as paper. The Duke’s expression shifted again.

“Ahem. Yes. Even if I was drunk, I can’t just let it slide.”

“I meant it when I said I would leave. With the Grand Duke’s engagement, there’s no chance left. I’m no longer of any use to you, am I?”

“So—you mean you’ll become a commoner?”

“Yes. For the succession later, it’s better if I’m gone. I know you plan to give the dukedom to Dana.”

“…”

Cold, clear self-appraisal. The Duke frowned, irritated by a feeling he couldn’t place.

Has she really gone mad? Tch. This actually looks more ‘sane’—I’d prefer the crazy hellcat.

A mad troublemaker at least felt human—more than an emotionless doll.

But whatever. Change or not, the nuisance was offering to leave.

“If you leave, I won’t fund you. Use whatever you already own.”

He rushed to say it first. Petty words for the head of a powerful noble faction.

Charlotte looked as if she’d never expected help anyway.

The Duke clicked his tongue softly.

“Tch. If that’s your will, so be it. A duke’s daughter choosing to become a commoner—shameful, but what won’t a father do for his child.”

His words said one thing, but his face bloomed with relief.

A small prick of discomfort—abandoning his child—poked at him, but he sliced it away.

She offered to disappear first, he told himself. So I did nothing wrong.

“Ahem. You can’t just vanish. We need a pretext.”

A reason the world would accept—so it wouldn’t look like he’d thrown her out.

And better yet, a way to use her once more before discarding her.

He racked his brains. Nothing came at once.

After wrestling with it, he said, annoyed, “Wait a little. I’ll tell you what to do soon.”

***

Charlotte left the office and drifted toward her rooms.

She stopped and covered her mouth. Her eyes were full of confusion.

“So this really is… reality?”

And all of the villainess-self from that dream, too?

She still couldn’t believe it. It felt like if she blacked out, she would wake in Noctum’s bedroom again.

But instinct said otherwise: even if she fainted now, she’d still wake here.

“But—I regressed… no, before that, Noctum…”

Her words tumbled over each other. None of it sounded right. She stood there, trying to decide where to even begin.

She walked into the garden outside her room.

Yellow roses—her hair’s same shade—filled the beds.

She found the swing deep in the garden and sat. The sun that had burned her skin now felt milder.

“Right. I reincarnated into a novel character—why couldn’t I regress, too?”

She murmured toward the sky.

If this was real, then she had gone back six years.

Noctum wasn’t dead. They weren’t married yet.

Which meant she’d been given a chance to change the future.

She had even spat out words in anger—thinking it was a dream—and the Duke had happily accepted them.

She would fade like dust, and Noctum wouldn’t marry her.

Then there’d be no heroine for her to envy, no jealous crimes, no execution. And yet—

“Why is Noctum like that…?”

What confused her most were the changes in herself—and in Noctum.

In a normal regression, both of them should be as they were before.

But she had become the “true” villainess everyone loathed—and Noctum had changed, too.

Short hair, not long.

Knight’s dress, not a mage’s robe.

A harsh scowl—aimed at her—instead of his usual gentle smile.

“This isn’t just going back in time.”

She bit her lower lip hard. It whitened, then bled.

Her thoughts spun. She could guess this was a parallel world, but no matter how she turned it over, she couldn’t see why she’d fallen into this one.

The metallic taste on her tongue snapped her back. Her lip had been bleeding for some time.

She wiped it with the back of her hand and stood.

“I can’t sit here doing nothing.”

Unsolved questions only tangle worse if you chew on them.

Besides, she had a mountain of problems to handle—starting with what her husband’s letter mentioned: the Hueril Trading Company.

“I’m not the Grand Duke now… I’ll have to ask someone else.”

A powerless lady couldn’t just dig up information on a trading company.

She thought of who might do it, then sighed.

In her current state, there was only one person she could ask.

She left the garden and told a maid to fetch a carriage at once.

Destination: the intelligence network run by Adrian Verche.

***

The carriage stopped in the capital’s busiest district. Charlotte, already in a hooded robe, stepped down.

People stared—such a fine carriage didn’t suit a commoner—but her plain clothes dulled their interest.

She walked calmly through the noisy crowd. If anything, the bustle soothed her.

Her steps quickened toward the inner streets.

After a few turns off the main square with its fountain, the scenery changed again.

Charlotte glanced coolly at a gambling house—her face utterly out of place with the greed inside.

A guard at the door half moved to block her, then, catching a glimpse of the unusually clean, pale-gold hair peeking from her hood, stepped aside fast.

She walked the cleared path. Glances stuck to her—measuring her height, build; a few looked like nobles.

At the blatant stares, she frowned and pulled her hood lower. It would be trouble if anyone recognized her.

A little farther in, a VIP room awaited. It looked like any other, but this was the door directly linked to the network.

Inside, a waiting attendant pressed a spot on the wall with practiced ease; a ripple of faint mana ran over his hand.

“You may enter.”

The wall looked unchanged, but he spoke as if it had opened. Charlotte didn’t hesitate—she strode straight at it.

In an instant, the view shifted to the first floor of the information house.

The receptionist recognized her and silently led her on.

And there, at the end, stood Adrian—showing his face openly, as if he had nothing to hide.