A pair of maids yanks the thick duvet from my bare legs and I shiver even though the room is strangely hot.

I let loose a shriek worthy of Jurassic Park dinosaur voice actors (if those are a thing) and the two black-and-white clad ladies cower behind the blanket.

"S-Sir, your bath is ready," one squeaks. They both look identical, probably because they're unimportant to the Duke. God forbid even non-main characters have unique traits about them.

I sigh. My head feels heavy, like I've slept for several days.

"You," I groan, wincing at the sudden sweltering pain in my left temple. My finger lifts to point directly between the girls, and they both nod their attention. "What day is it?"

"Saturday, milord," they say in unison.

I blink, then spin out of the bed.

I slept for four days?

Because the Duke can't handle pooping?!

I rake a hand through my too-soft blond hair and turn to view the maids. Their faces have deepened to a shade of bashful pink.

Ah, I am naked.

I clear my throat but my voice still cracks as I speak. "I'll go in a sECond."

At that, they spin around and leave the room. I sink back onto the doughy mattress and lean my head into my long fingers.

A ball. To meet Rachael and hopefully start the plot of this strange book. None of these odd situations happened before (that I can remember), so there must be a key to unlocking the story. Strangely, it feels like this whole world is a game—some sick, twisted alternate reality where I have to play by the author's rules in order to obtain normalcy.

"Douglass," I call. The mustached butler practically warps in front of me, bowing at a seventy degree angle. (How I know that, I haven't the slightest idea).

"Yes, Sire?"

"Have you prepared everything for the ball tonight?"

I look up at him, at his blank expression. Disappointment sits dully in his gray eyes.

After a moment of silence, he sighs. "Yes, my liege. Your bath is ready, and lunch awaits you in the dining room. I have your suit assembled and courtesans have been informed of the time they should arrive. Anything else, Sire?"

His tone is flat and respectful. I wonder what kind of crap he had to put up with while I was comatose. Or maybe the only crap he had to deal with was the actual, literal crap that someone had to clean off me.

"No, that will do. As long as Rachael is in attendance," I mutter with a wave of my hand. Somehow, despite my embarrassment, I easily manage to feign confidence.

"About that—"

"Theodore," a shrill voice calls from across the room. I flick my head in the woman's direction, a yawn half-stuck on my face. The old woman is wearing black and white like the maids, but her hair is pulled tightly back in gray, and her face is all wrinkly. "This is unlike you, sleeping like this. Enter the bath at once. What if your father knew of this behavior?"

I raise my brows at her. "I was... sick?" It comes out more like a question, and I bite my tongue.

Her face bloats, furious. "You don't get sick, Sire. We made sure of that."

My eyebrows stay raised, but Douglass grumbles as though she hasn't just admitted something quite peculiar. He reaches for my bare elbows and lifts me from the bed, then pushes my gangly body to the heavy-set maid.

After I get manhandled by fussy servants, scorched with sudsy bathwater and then thoroughly doused with a pink, pearly oil, I am shoved into a tight pair of navy pants, a blue and gold embellished waistcoat, and pointy black shoes. The older maid snaps her fingers and a strangely feminine man (or maybe he's a woman—er, she's a woman) appears in front of me, hair cropped and pink over the left eye.

"This is Stanley. He'll be doing your hair," the old maid says through clenched teeth. Her eyes are wild. "Your previous hairdresser, as many before, quit."

I glance quickly at Douglass, who's squished in a chair, reading a book and sipping a porcelain mug of tea, paying hardly any attention to us. I suppose being treated this way by the maid is... normal for the Duke, somehow. I don't remember her in the story at all, so maybe she isn't obligated to be so careful around me.

It's... kind of refreshing.

After Stanley molds my hair into an absolutely inappropriate object of allure, I enter the dining room, where there's far too much food for one person piled high on a long banquet table. Exactly three chairs attend the feast, all spaced at ridiculous intervals.

Plates of bloodied meat, breaded vegetables, and soups form the cornucopia of delicacies. Douglass nudges me to my seat, which is at the far end of the table.

A servant rushes out, wearing everything that a maid would, from the lacey headdress to the black and white apron and undershirt, but her swagger and footing catch me off guard. That, and her face is certainly more unique than any of the other servants.

Another side character that appears in the novel: an undercover noble working as my maid to woo me into submission. Alopisha Vigarente—I'm honestly not even sure how to pronounce that.

I just smile at her as she slides a bowl of food in front of me. She avoids my eyes, and that familiar anger fills me. One that isn't my own. As though possessed, my arm reaches up and grips her by the jaw.

She startles, blue eyes wide and reddish hair spilling from her headdress. My hand tugs her closer. Her heartbeat quickens under my thumb.

And then... the duke doesn't speak. His strange forcefulness took me over, but he has nothing to say?! At least last time my actions were explained, albeit with his not-so-delicate demeanor.

My lips stretch wide and probably creepily over my perfect teeth as I repossess control of my hand and pull her slightly closer. Whatever the previous actions had meant, I will recraft the intent.

"You look stunning today, Peesh," I purr, stunning her with my disgustingly tantalizing gaze. "It's a pity we only hired you as a maid; you would've made for a fine courtesan."

Her face reddens to the shade of her wavy locks, and then she rips away from my grasp. I watch her stalk off—clearly upset, or embarrassed—and chuckle despite myself. I sense Douglass's judging stare, but I don't look at him.

I turn to the bowl she brought, and my stomach twists.

Neon green leaves stare up at me from the porcelain platter.

🌸🌸🌸

Night approaches quickly, and I'm shimmied into my dressing chambers for one final tune-up. Nothing is out of place with my immaculate suit, nor with my hair or perfect skin. A part of it makes me wish I ate that salad again, to make this ball a little more interesting. But the memory of the green residue was enough to make me gag.

Douglass had brought me a stale cookie instead.

Once the chunky maid gives me a thumbs-up, I steal a deep breath and traipse down the hallway to the grand ballroom, which apparently our house has. If I remember correctly, all balls had been held at one of the courtesan's houses or at the royal palace, to progress the rivalry between Theodore and Escobar. I guess my involvement here will prove to be somewhat interesting.

I stand before these regal doors, encrusted with gold paint. Then, with my palms pressed to them, I push them open. A long staircase is in front of me and leads to the bustle below. The doors slam behind me and the sweet background music silences. Everyone stares at me like I'm an alien from another dimension—with gruesome focus.

My eyes flank the sides of the room and I spot the blonde—Annalise—sipping on a dark, thick wine. Escobar is surrounded by women that had been talking to him before, but are now blinking up at me.

"H-hi," I say with a wince. Damn you, Duke. You take over my body whenever you like to, but never when I need you to!

Before I can say anything else, voices and music mix together again. I've flubbed my first entrance, and apparently, no one seems to care.

I raise an eyebrow at this as I step slowly down the stairs. I remember Theo being a force to be reckoned with; everyone feared him for his cruelty and sharp tongue, yet no one seems to acknowledge me. There's no way they can sense I'm not him, right? That would be ridiculous...

To be fair, I don't know the first thing when it comes to hosting a party. What the hell was I thinking?

With a sigh, I reach the bottom step and three women immediately block me off from the dance floor. One wears a yellow dress, one a blue, and one a red. Each has brown hair and brown eyes, but their facial features are all different lengths and sizes, making them rather unsightly.

Yellow curtsies, followed by Red, then Blue.

"Sire," they sing.

I offer a hesitant bow and they smile at me bitterly. "Welcome, ladies. May I hear your names?" Oh god I hope that sounded convincing.

Yellow smiles, holding out an elbow-length gloved hand. "Rachel," she coos as I gently kiss her fingers.

My eyebrows pop up on my forehead. It can't be—this couldn't be Rachael. Not the most beautiful, and the heroine of this stupid novel.

I move onto Red. She holds her pale hand out and I take it. As I am about to kiss her knuckles, she hisses, "I'm Rachel."

I do my best not to drop her hand from surprise, afraid that would be rude.

Shaking, I take Blue's outstretched hand, dreading her introduction. As I kiss her hand, she clicks her tongue. "I'm also Rachel."

My chest tightens.

I stand straight and survey the room beyond the primary colors and clear my throat. "Attention, if you please," I say just loud enough that the music simmers down again. "Please raise your hand if your name... starts with an R and ends with an L?"

The crowd seems to be confused for a moment, or perhaps they have to think about it first, but eventually, about eighty percent of the women's hands go into the air. A disgusted murmur follows.

Shit.

I frantically look around for the right Rachael, but it's impossible with the number of ladies in the room. My eyes land on Douglass, who is stationed by the hors d'oeurves.

His eyes are laughing.

The Primary Colors
(not important)