Time To Act

The cool evening breeze teased the loose strands of Eleanor's ginger hair as she sat on the balcony, her gaze locked on the horizon where the sun dipped low, painting the sky in soft hues of orange and pink.

This had become her ritual—the one place where she could steal a quiet moment, away from the suffocating walls of the Gwendolyn estate and the prying eyes that now seemed to follow her every step.

She sighed, letting her chin rest on her hand.

The sky was clear and beautiful, the air crisp and refreshing with every breath she took, and small animals occasionally visited her balcony. It was a picturesque yet unfamiliar scene—one that could never exist in her real world.

This beautiful world, she thought, watching the sun slowly disappear, is nothing like the one I left behind.

But it wasn't just the world that felt foreign—it was the people, the relationships, the overwhelming affection that clung to her like an ill-fitted cloak.

Before the accident, Eleanor Gwendolyn was known as "Lady Untouchable." Reserved, distant, and perfectly content with the boundaries she'd built. Her family had respected her space, careful not to intrude. They'd kept their distance, offering polite nods and formalities, nothing more. And in the novel, that had made sense. It fits with the character her brother had written.

But now… everything had changed.

Since the fall—her fall—the Gwendolyn family had become something else entirely. The once cautious, emotionally distant household had turned into a suffocating web of concern and unsolicited affection.

The Marquess's stern glances had softened into constant, worried looks. The Marchioness, once gracefully reserved, now hovered like a protective mother hen, fussing over her health at every turn. Even Alger Gwendolyn, who used to speak in clipped, disinterested tones, had become an unshakable presence at her side, his protective instincts bordering on overbearing.

It's like they've all flipped a switch, Eleanor mused, her fingers absently tracing the wrought iron of the balcony railing.

Eleanor knew it wasn't really her family's fault for being distant. The Gwendolyns had always been thoughtful, giving her space because they understood Eleanor Gwendolyn didn't like being disturbed or having her comfort zone invaded.

But now, their sudden change felt too extreme.

Eleanor couldn't help but wonder if this was even the same world her younger brother had written. Their names were the same, but their behavior was completely different.

Since her accident, her family had become openly affectionate, showering her with care and attention they'd never shown before. It felt strange and unfamiliar, making Eleanor question everything she thought she knew.

All it took was almost dying to get their attention, Eleanor thought bitterly, her lips curling into a faint, ironic smile.

Eleanor would even wager that her younger brother—the very author of this world—would be utterly shocked if he discovered the changes that had taken place within the Gwendolyns, no, within everyone residing in the House Gwendolyn.

She should've been annoyed. And she was, to some extent. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. In the novel, the House Gwendolyn maintained their dignified distance, respecting Eleanor's desire for solitude. They were polite, and supportive from afar, but never intrusive.

But now?

Now, their affection wrapped around her like chains, pulling her into a version of the story she hadn't prepared for.

And yet… as much as it irritated her, Eleanor couldn't bring herself to hate it.

Because deep down, in the quiet corners of her heart, she missed this. She missed them—the parents she'd lost in that plane crash back in the real world. She missed the warmth of a family's love, the simple comfort of knowing someone cared if she was okay, if she'd eaten, if she was tired.

It was a cruel contradiction. The affection she'd never wanted was the same affection she'd silently craved for years.

I shouldn't get used to this, she reminded herself, shaking her head. It's not real. It's just guilt from the accident. They'll go back to how they were eventually.

Moreover, all of this attention rightfully belongs to the real Eleanor Gwendolyn, not to me—a mere possessor and the older sister of the author of this world.

Yet, even as she reasoned with herself, Eleanor knew it wasn't entirely true. The fear quietly stirring inside her wasn't just about losing the affection they now showed—it was the unsettling desire to believe that their love was genuinely meant for her.

It felt ridiculous and childish, especially considering she was already in her thirties, still yearning for the attention of parents who weren't even her own. But what could she do? In the end, she could only blame her younger brother for dragging her into this absurd situation in the first place.

She exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment as the cool wind brushed against her skin.

Focus, she told herself. You've got bigger things to worry about.

Like Eiser Gwendolyn.

Her eldest brother was still an unpredictable variable in her carefully laid plans. While Alger's overprotectiveness could be used to her advantage, Eiser's easy charm and close ties to the Crown Prince were a different story. She needed to figure out where he stood—whether he'd be a thorn in her side or an unexpected ally.

"Never mind," she murmured under her breath. "I'll deal with him—and the Crown Prince—when I can't avoid joining that cursed Crown Princess Selection."

But one problem had remained, festering in the back of her mind since the moment she arrived in this world.

John Burbom.

The name alone made her grind her teeth.

That lowly baron's son, she thought, her hands clenching into fists on her lap.

He was Eleanor's fiancé—her fiancé, technically—but he was nothing more than an opportunist, clawing his way up the social ladder. Being betrothed to the Marquess Gwendolyn's daughter had given him a taste of power and privilege, but it wasn't enough for him. He wanted more. And when he realized Eleanor wouldn't inherit a title, he'd set his sights on someone else.

Cecillia Emmeline, she thought darkly, the name burning in her mind. Eleanor's childhood friend. The Duke Emmeline's only daughter. A far more advantageous match than Eleanor Gwendolyn.

Eleanor struggled to find a better way to describe Cecillia, the heroine of the novel her younger brother had written, beyond calling her a naive, foolish girl with a head full of flowers who only cared about herself.

With an irritated snort, Eleanor pushed thoughts of the heroine aside for now, choosing instead to focus on the more pressing issue—John Burbom, her fiancé.

"I should just expose him," Eleanor muttered under her breath, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

But even as the idea formed, she knew it wasn't that simple. Reporting John's betrayal before it even happened could backfire. The Marquess might not believe her, and without evidence, it would only make her look paranoid—or worse, unstable from her injury.

And if they think I'm unstable, that's the end of it. They'll dismiss everything I say.

She sighed, tapping her fingers against the armrest of her chair. Confronting John directly wasn't an option either. If she threatened him, he might grow cautious, changing his plans in ways she couldn't predict. The novel had given her a roadmap, but if he veered off course, she'd be navigating blind.

Damned if I do, damned if I don't, she thought, frustrated.

Part of her wanted to burn the entire plot to the ground, to tear apart the story her younger brother had written before he mysteriously disappeared. Maybe, just maybe, he was here too—somewhere in this world. But what if meddling too much ruined her only chance of finding him?

I can't risk it, she decided, exhaling slowly. Not yet.

Instead, she'd take the safer route. Find a new fiancé in secret, someone suitable enough to sever ties with John without causing suspicion. At the same time, she'd try to subtly steer John away from his treacherous path.

Hopefully, he hasn't fallen too deep into his greed yet.

The sun had fully dipped below the horizon by the time she finished sorting through her thoughts. The sky was painted in deep purples and blues, the first stars beginning to twinkle in the distance.

Eleanor's mind drifted to Alger, her second older brother. His words from earlier echoed in her head: "If you need anything, just call."

Well, she thought, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

I do need something.

She turned slightly, glancing toward the corner of the terrace where Tina, her maid, stood quietly, giving her space as usual.

"Tina," Eleanor called softly.

The young maid immediately straightened and approached. "Yes, my lady?"

"I need to speak with Brother Alger," Eleanor said, her tone firm but calm. "Before dinner, if possible."

Tina bowed her head. "I will arrange it right away, my lady."

When Tina disappeared from her chamber, Eleanor leaned back in her chair, staring at the darkening sky.

Let's see what Alger can dig up. I can't sit here playing the fragile, injured girl forever.

Moments later, Tina returned, her expression slightly hesitant.

"My lady," she began carefully, "Second Young Master is currently in his study with a guest. However, he instructed me to tell you not to worry. He'll come to your chambers as soon as he is free."

Eleanor nodded calmly, though she secretly let out a sigh of relief.

Although she didn't know who the guest was, at least it gave her time to consider which questions she could—and couldn't—ask Alger.

"Very well," she said softly. "Let's head back."

As Tina helped her inside, Eleanor's mind was already racing with the next steps.

For over a week, even with her serious injuries, Eleanor hadn't made a single move since realizing she had taken over Eleanor Gwendolyn's body. Though she knew the tragic future that awaited her, she stayed calm and obediently followed her parents' wishes, weighed down by the guilt of hiding the truth—that the real Eleanor was already gone.

But now, after a week of resting and indulging in the luxuries of being a cherished noble daughter, Eleanor felt it had been long enough.

It was time to act.