Greet

The grand doors to the duchess's estate opened wide like the petals of a blooming flower, Rosalee stepped forward, Ben Bell's steady hand at his back as they are guided towards the grand garden, the heart of the party. The long hall beyond shimmered with golden candlelight that flickered off crystal chandeliers, casting delicate prisms onto the polished marble floors.

Once outside, the entire scene was a symphony of floral elegance—wisteria garlands draped from trellises, bouquets of peonies and lilacs nestled in delicate porcelain vases, and tiny white blossoms fluttering in the light breeze like whispered secrets.

Sunlight danced through the canopy of ivory parasols, each delicately adorned with hand-painted violets and lilies and trimmed in scalloped lace. Beneath them, the grand garden of the Aqualar estate unfurled like a fairytale tableau: marble fountains bubbled with rosewater, and beds of violets, chrysanthemums, and blood-red peonies formed an intricate floral maze. The air was fragrant with a thousand blossoms—the delicate perfume of roses, jasmine, and lavender swirling in the gentle breeze. Beneath an ornate wrought-iron gazebo draped with climbing wisteria and pale pink peonies, a long table groaned beneath a feast of sumptuous treats.

Finely embroidered tablecloths in cream and lilac covered the polished mahogany. Crystal glasses caught the light, filled with sparkling elderflower cordial and delicate rosewater tea and other selections of various wines. Silver trays bore tiered stacks of dainty finger sandwiches—cucumber with dill, smoked salmon on rye, egg salad flecked with chives—each bite meticulously prepared and adorned with edible flowers.

Next to them, platters of pastries beckoned: lavender macarons dusted with shimmering sugar, lemon tarts crowned with candied violet petals, and buttery scones steaming beside bowls of clotted cream and berry preserves. Rich chocolate éclairs, pale pistachio financiers, and soft almond madeleines completed the display, each a miniature masterpiece.

It was a celebration of nature's beauty, an ode to femininity wrapped in petals and silk.

A quartet played in the distance, their strings weaving a whimsical tune through the laughter and hum of polite conversation.

Then, a shift.

All eyes turned as the estate's back doors opened and two guest made their appearance.

As the door swung open, Ben Bell stepped out first, his chestnut-brown hair gleaming in the sunlight, his pale green eyes scanning the gathering with sharp precision.

And from the doorway, Rosalee Florenzia—formerly Lollipop—stepped into the sun.

His heels clicked softly against the stone steps, the hem of his rose-pink gown fluttering as he moved with grace—shimmering like the petals of a crimson rose. Red hair, curled just so, framed a face painted to porcelain perfection. He held his chin high, lips glossed a subtle pink, his eyes burning red like twin rubies in the sunlight.

Ben offered his arm, and Rosalee took it with practiced grace.

They strolled together past the parted crowd, whispers blooming like weeds in their wake.

"Is that really Lady Rosalee?"

"Did she get work done?"

"She looks... confident. That's not right."

The women clustered in elegant silks and laces turned toward him with thinly veiled mockery. Their smiles were sharp-edged, eyes gleaming with petty spite and curiosity. Some faces flickered with recognition, pulled from Rosalee's dim memories of stolen whispers and backstabbing salons. Others matched portraits he'd glimpsed on the fan wiki—minor nobility and aspiring socialites who had once dismissed Rosalee as inconsequential.

Rosalee didn't flinch.

He did not bow or shy away.

Instead, he lifted his chin and moved forward, heels clicking softly on the stone path, as cool as a winter rose.

The scent of blooming roses clung to him, and he reveled in the subtle heat rising in the gaze of a few male servants who flushed at his passing—proof, perhaps, that his careful makeup and this body's allure were working in tandem.

He'd dealt with worse than gossip and side-eyes. He wasn't here for their validation—he was hungry.

The scent of custard and sugar pulled him toward the dessert table like a magnet. He let go of Ben's arm and glided to the spread with focused intent.

With all eyes reluctantly tracking him, Rosalee's hands moved confidently, gathering plates at the dessert table. He piled his plate high with macarons, lemon tarts, and a flaky chocolate éclair, the sweet aroma mixing with the summer air.

The desserts gleamed under the sunlight like crown jewels. He picked up a tiny spoon and scooped a dollop of lemon mousse into a glass dish, then stacked macarons on another plate in neat little rainbows. He'd barely begun sampling the sponge cake when suddenly, a voice cut through the murmurs behind him.

"Hm, well, if it isn't our dear little Lady Rosalee."

The words were sharp and dripping with venom.

Rosalee turned slowly.

Standing not ten paces away, framed by the swan fountain, was Vixtia Aqualar.

Her bright violet hair was styled into two luxurious curled twintails that cascaded down her back like royal banners. Her dress was a confection of lilac tulle, glittering with silver thread and studded with amethysts. Her neon pink eyes glowed with venomous amusement, and at nearly six feet tall, she cut an imposing figure among the other ladies.

To the court's whispering spectators, it seemed a moment brimming with menace.

But to Lollipop, hardened by years of survival, it was nothing.

Lollipop had dealt with taller. Stronger. Wilder.

He'd ridden men built like siege engines and barked orders at mafia bosses with their hands around his throat.

This brat with her sugar hair and synthetic spite?

Please.

He smiled sweetly and gave a slow, elegant curtsy that made the surrounding nobles gasp.

"Lady Vixtia…"

He said warmly, rising.

"You look lovely as ever. What a delight to see you again. It's truly a relief to see your taste in fashion hasn't suffered since our last meeting."

A hush fell.

Vixtia's lips twitched, surprised. The jeer caught in her throat.

She had expected submission.

Instead, she got poise.

All around, the audience froze. They'd come expecting a bloodbath, not banter. Not grace. Not Rosalee matching Vixtia in both presence and poise.

From a distance, Duchess Gwendolyn Aqualar watched from the grand terrace, her soft violet hair cascading in waves, her pale pink eyes darting between her daughter and Rosalee with a flicker of embarrassment—her daughter's brazen attitude already a source of whispered gossip.

Beside her stood Crown Prince Roland Solarmelt observing quietly, golden hair tied back in a neat ponytail with a sapphire ribbon, gold epaulettes shining on his white military uniform. His matching golden eyes burned with a complex mixture of disdain and fascination.

He remembered Rosalee—how could he forget? The meek little shadow who'd attempt, patheticly, to flirt with him behind Vixtia's skirt and stammered like a broken wind-up doll.

Rosalee had once been the object of his loathing, dismissed as a meddlesome woman unworthy of his attention. Yet now, this transformed Rosalee was an enigma. His eyes narrowed, suspicion and something more tangled flickering within.

Because this?

This was something else entirely.

He did not trust this sudden change. He believed Rosalee was trying yet another way to ensnare him—a new mask in a long line of deceit.

But even as he frowned, the sharpness of Rosalee's presence piqued his curiosity.

He watched as Rosalee smiled again, plopping a sponge cake into his mouth, and letting Vixtia stew in silence.

Roland's fingers twitched.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

And for the first time in his life, the prince who once despised Rosalee Florenzia found himself leaning slightly forward.

Waiting to see what she'd say next.

Back in the garden, Vixtia recovered herself, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Such confidence, Lady Rosalee. I almost forgot who you really are."

Rosalee's smile sharpened.

"Oh, but I think you remember quite well."

The crowd leaned in, sensing the battle lines drawn—not with swords, but with words, wills, and whispered threats.

And beneath the beauty, beneath the laughter and clinking porcelain, the game had truly begun.

Lollipop's mind raced beneath the surface of his carefully maintained poise. Maybe it would have been wiser to continue the old Rosalee act—the quiet, docile girl who scurried about, head bowed low, voice barely a whisper. But that had never been his style. Not even in the bedroom, where clients demanded submission and obedience, where the script was written for him to follow.

Even then, Lollipop had flipped the script. Turned the tables with a smirk, a flick of his tongue, a whisper so sweet it left clients panting and desperate—begging for more, and sometimes, begging him to stop, to give them a break. He wasn't a passive player; he was the star.

And that hunger for control, for dominance—even when playing the part—had never left him.

He smirked faintly, the curve of his lips a dangerous promise only he could see. A small fish like Vixtia? He'd devour her like a snack. But politics were delicate games. And the last thing he wanted was to rouse suspicion—from the guests, from the ever-watchful Ben Bell, most of all, from the main cast.

So, with a tilt of his head and the grace of a seasoned performer, Rosalee's voice softened into a lighter, more playful tone.

"Oh, Lady Vixtia…"

He said, eyes twinkling with feigned amusement.

"I was just joking."

He dipped into a shallow bow, the kind laden with politeness and subtle submission—the perfect veneer.

Vixtia blinked, taken aback, before a sly smile crept onto her lips.

"Your little joke wasn't so funny…"

She murmured, voice smooth as velvet and sharp as a knife.

"Make sure it doesn't happen again."

Rosalee's lips curled into a demure smile, a practiced tilt of the head.

"Yes, of course…"

He replied, voice soft but with a steel core beneath it.

"It won't happen again."

Vixtia's neon-pink eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she let the comment hang in the air, then made a thinly veiled jab.

"Perhaps you won't need your… help at the party. Ben, you may take your leave."

Ben's pale green eyes flickered with narrowed disdain. He inclined his head slightly to Rosalee—an unspoken warning and farewell wrapped into one—before stepping back with an effortless glide.

"I will be by the carriage when you are ready to return to the Florenzia estate, Lady Rosalee."

"That will be fine, Ben."

Rosalee replied smoothly, taking up his plate once more.

With a final glance at Vixtia, he allowed himself a quiet breath and moved toward her entourage.

The group waiting nearby was as intimidating as it was familiar.

Madeline Boykins stood tall with chestnut brown hair woven into a tight braided bun. Her yellow eyes flicked over Rosalee with a blend of boredom and veiled hostility. Her posture was rigid, an iron wall of social power and sharp intellect.

Beside her was Allison Hendrix, the pale green-haired quiet girl, her twin braids whipping slightly as she shifted. Her large purple eyes were suspicious but curious—like a cat contemplating whether to pounce or retreat.

The two regarded Rosalee with thinly veiled skepticism, their subtle snubs were the kind of social poison perfected over countless salons and whispered rivalries.

Rosalee huffed softly, though he masked it behind a polite smile and returned their greetings in a tone both courteous and tinged with quiet defiance.

"Lady Madeline, Lady Allison. How charming to see you."

He selected a lavender macaron from his plate and bit into it with delicate precision, savoring the sweetness as their eyes narrowed.

As the group began murmuring gossip—much of it thinly veiled praise for Vixtia—Rosalee simply stood, graceful and unshaken, nibbling on his treats.

The conversation fluttered around him like a storm of petals, filled with compliments to the Duchess's daughter: her beauty, her cunning, her impeccable social grace.

But Rosalee's red eyes remained cool, scanning and calculating, always measuring his footing in this delicate dance.

The afternoon sun warmed the garden, casting dappled light through the lace of leaves and blossoms, and beneath the surface of delicate tea cups and sugary pastries, an unspoken war simmered—one Rosalee was more than ready to play.

A hush came over the gathering as the soft sound of heels echoed from the marble steps leading down from the grand balcony. All heads turned.

Descending with regal poise was none other than Duchess Gwendolyn Aqualar. The sunlight danced on her soft violet waves, elegantly swaying loosely and adorned with pearlescent pins. Her dress, a twilight lavender gown with delicate lace sleeves, shimmered as she moved, commanding the attention of every guest. She looked not a day over thirty for someone in their late forties.

Behind her, a taller, golden figure emerged.

Crown Prince Roland Solarmelt.

Rosalee—Lollipop—finally got a clear look at the man he'd seen only in pixels and over-animated cutscenes. The in-game visuals hadn't done him justice.

Roland's hair was a rich, buttery gold tied back at the nape of his neck with a sapphire ribbon that gleamed under the light. Loose strands framed his chiseled face, drawing attention to his sharp cheekbones, aristocratic nose, and full lips the color of sun-warmed rosewood. His golden eyes were piercing, the kind that could freeze a room or melt through lies. He wore a pristine white military-style uniform embroidered with subtle patterns of lion sigils and stars, the insignia of his royal station. Medals caught the sun like a constellation clinging to his chest, and epaulettes shimmered with delicate chains of gold thread.

The man was handsome. Far more handsome than Ben, who stood stoic by the carriage with his chestnut hair catching the breeze and those pale green eyes forever tracking Rosalee with calculated thought.

Still, Lollipop felt—nothing.

Or rather, not the usual flare of desire, conquest, or entertainment. He had played Roland's route too many damn times in the game. He'd chased the Crown Prince through secret libraries, palace duels, carriage accidents, even a midwinter masquerade ball. He had unlocked every hidden scene, collected every alternate ending—sweet, tragic, and even the absurdly scandalous secret path where Roland renounced the throne for love.

It felt too familiar. Like a client who wouldn't go away. One who started as a thrill and became a routine. And Lollipop hated routines.

He turned back to his lemon tart with a pleased hum and let the Crown Prince pass by without so much as a blink.

That, it seemed, did not go unnoticed.

Roland caught the slight flicker of cold detachment.

His lips tightened into a thin line, irritation flashing in his golden gaze.

'Is this part of her act?'

He wondered.

'Is she finally giving up or playing the coy, untouchable role to make me chase?'

The thought stirred a reluctant pull within him. Rosalee's disinterest only inflamed the desire to draw her back into his orbit.

From the corner of Rosalee's eye, he saw Roland pause briefly, just the faintest tightening in his jaw. The golden gaze flicked his way, sharp and assessing, and for the first time in a long while, 'Rosalee' did not chase it.

To Roland, it must have seemed like a calculated ploy. Playing hard to get. A new approach to ensnare him after past failures. The irritation in his golden gaze betrayed the thought, but beneath it, a flicker of something else.

Interest?

Curiosity?

Possession reawakening?

Lollipop didn't care.

From the grand staircase, Duchess Gwendolyn raised her hands in a graceful flourish. Her voice, like the chime of crystal, danced across the garden.

"Dear guests, it brings me great joy to welcome you to the Aqualar estate. I thank you all for gracing this lovely afternoon with your presence. I regret to inform you, as you may notice, that my dear son, Dixon, will not be joining us this afternoon. He is currently excelling at his knight's training camp, honing the skills befitting his station and sends his regards."

Rosalee stood with their plate of sweets nestled elegantly in one hand, a perfectly glazed lemon tart halfway to his mouth, when Duchess Gwendolyn's dulcet voice rang through the warm afternoon air.

"—my dear son, Dixon—remains at the knight training camp, honing the skills befitting his station—"

The name Dixon struck him like a bell. His fingers froze mid-bite, tart inches from his lips. His eyes blinked once—then again—before a slow, dawning recognition flickered across his features.

'Dixon Aqualar... ohhh.'

He swallowed the saliva that had pooled in his mouth, the tart momentarily forgotten. His vivid red eyes blinked once. Twice.

'That Dixon!'

A new string of memories snapped into place.

Of course. Dixon Aqualar. Vixtia's younger brother—and one of the more elusive love interests in the game.

'How could I forget him?'

His mind conjured the image like a pop-up from the Otomen game's memory gallery—Dixon Aqualar, tall and striking with shoulder-blade-length dark purple hair that always looked a little unkempt in that rugged, too-busy-being-awesome-to-care kind of way. His soft pink eyes, in contrast, had an oddly gentle glint, like he was constantly torn between merciless swordsman and sweet-hearted protector. At six-foot-one, he towered over most men in the game, with the build of a mercenary—thick arms, tight waist, broad shoulders, and legs that made every fan in the forums thirst after his horseback riding scenes.

He always carried a longsword on his back, a bit oversized even for him, and was almost never seen out of uniform unless in rare intimate events. Rosalee—well,Lollipop—remembered how players had to work so hard to get close to him in the game. Though he wasn't one of the easier routes, players could unlock his storyline early by taking several obscure actions and befriending a side character from the Knight Academy. Lollipop had only done it once, purely to say he had—because Dixon's path was a rare one. And intense. He'd been a fan favorite character until a patch update added another fully romanceable mystery character.

'And he's Vixtia's little brother…'

Lollipop recalled, a smirk tugging at his lip.

'You wouldn't know it from how differently they act.'

Unlike his poison-tongued sister, Dixon was the game's brooding silent type, aloof in some aspects. He barely spoke unless necessary, but when he did, his voice was a deep, surprisingly soft baritone—like velvet over steel. He was the one who pulled the Saintess out of danger in most routes, who duelled an entire platoon to protect her in one of the bad endings. He wasn't interested in politics or etiquette, not because he lacked intelligence, but because he loathed games of pretense. He was a man of action, not maneuvering.

And he didn't stand a chance at inheriting the dukedom.

Lollipop's gaze sharpened as he remembered why.

In this world, firstborns alone could inherit noble titles, regardless of gender. It didn't matter if you were smarter, stronger, or more capable—if you weren't born first, you were simply out of luck.

Vixtia, despite her neon personality and love for cruelty, was the eldest. Which meant Dixon—despite his power and prestige as a knight-in-training—was just a second son.

'Oof, the family drama.'

Lollipop's inner monologue simmered as he imagined Dixon training in some highland camp, sword slicing through wind, sweat clinging to his chiseled body, completely unaware that his sister was busy playing social chess at a garden party.

The image was… nice.

Lollipop popped the lemon tart into his mouth with a little purr of satisfaction.

"Mm~ he was one of my favorite routes…"

He murmured under his breath, chewing thoughtfully.

"A shame he's not here. I'd have liked to see if his voice sounds just as hot in real life."

He licked his fingertip clean of tart glaze, then rolled his eyes.

'Though knowing me, I'd still get bored of him too eventually. They're all fun until they start talking about forever.'

With the sugar dissolving blissfully on his tongue, Lollipop's thoughts returned to the present.

His thoughts on Dixon faded for now, but the knowledge was locked away. If Dixon Aqualar was in play—even if he wasn't present now—Lollipop knew he'd eventually meet him. And when that happened?

Well.

He'd see if the noble knight lived up to the legend.

Meanwhile, there were scattered murmurs of acknowledgment and a few polite claps from the news of Dixon's prior engagement.

"In his absence…"

Duchess Gwendolyn continued.

"We shall entertain ourselves as we always do. I would be delighted if our esteemed young nobles would care to showcase their magical abilities. Please, do not be shy. Let the afternoon be filled with wonder, but do take care not to damage the property or each other."

Her elegant smile never faltered, the warning wrapped in layers of refinement.

A few murmurs of excitement stirred in the crowd, nobles beginning to look toward each other in growing anticipation.

Then, with the venom of a snake dressed in violet silk, Vixtia struck.

"Oh, mother!"

She purred, turning toward Gwendolyn with a hand over her chest.

"Rosalee was just telling me how eager she was to showcase her talent today. Isn't that right, Rosalee?"

The entire party turned to stare.

Lollipop froze mid-bite, his teeth sinking halfway into a perfectly crisp macaron.

'What?'

He hadn't said a word. He'd been too busy savoring the decadent sweets to even speak.

'That bitch.'

He cursed inwardly.

Yet, beneath the irritation was a flicker of gratitude.

Magic.

Of course. Magic!

This reminded him—all the nobles in this game world were gifted with magical abilities. It was a cornerstone of their power and prestige.

He cursed inwardly.

'How could I forget?! Everyone in this world has at least a little bit of magic!'

All the noble families had bloodlines tied to distinct magical traits. The main heroine had high affinity with holy magic, hence her being called a Saintess. Even the side characters were expected to demonstrate at least minor magical skill at noble gatherings. Especially those in line to marry royalty.

Rosalee—his body—should definitely have had magic.

But Rosalee couldn't remember a single thing about his own magic.

The knowledge was hazy, buried beneath layers of forgotten memory.

His heart skipped.

'What magic do I have? What can I do?'

He scrambled mentally, trying to remember what Rosalee's affinity had been. But the game hadn't made it clear. Rosalee had barely appeared, only mentioned through dialogue and still cut scenes. Her role had never warranted a proper in-game ability description or animation sequence.

'Shit, what the hell was her magic?!'

The question hovered, unspoken, as eyes turned toward him. The expectant hush stretched into silence.

Lollipop blinked again, smiling blankly, pretending to be demure as his brain frantically raced through options.

'Fire magic? Too dangerous. Earth magic? Possibly… but too flashy if I messed it up. Maybe wind magic?'

He didn't have time to guess.

All eyes were on him.

Even Vixtia was watching with barely concealed glee.

And from the edge of the gathering, the Crown Prince had turned fully, arms crossed, waiting to see what this new 'Rosalee' would do.

Lollipop lifted his head and put on his most dazzling, serene smile.

"Of course, Lady Vixtia. I was simply waiting for the right moment."

Inside, he was screaming.