I Married Him for Points

Location: The Ashford's Country Club Garden Party

That was him.

Captain Theodore Ashford. Poster boy for heroic shoulders and a tragically perfect jawline.

The sun practically begged to highlight him, glinting off his uniform buttons like tiny, approving stars. He held a champagne flute like it was a tactical map he was bored of, the center of gravity in a room of people trying too hard.

Time for the show to begin.

I squared my shoulders. Alright, Beatrice. Deep breath. Commit to the bit. I spotted a waiter floating by with a tray of overpriced bubbles. Perfect. I snagged two flutes. One for throwing, one for... backup throwing? Moral support? I didn't overthink it.

I marched as I locked onto my target.

Conversations stuttered and died in my wake.

"-and then he said the stock would-oh, dear."

"Is she...is she walking toward the Captain?"

"Move,Constance, for heaven's sake."

They parted. They always did. A whisper slithered past my ear, "Lord knows what she's up to now." Another, closer, hissed, "Probably about to torment another poor soul." And a final, familiar verdict, tinged with fear: "She's crazy. Don't make eye contact."

I ignored them. Their version of madness was bad manners. Mine was a calculated survival strategy. With a side of flair.

Theodore Ashford's face was a masterpiece of polite endurance. His eyes were glazed as he nodded absent mindedly while the man in beside him talked at breakneck speed.

"...a truly excellent arrangement, Captain," the man beside him wheezed, fumbling for a business card. "My factories, your influence, if you'd just consider..."

I stopped. Directly in front of them. A wall of lavender taffeta and hostile intent.

Theo's eyes-distant a second before-snapped up and locked onto mine.

And I, traitorously, froze.

They weren't just green. They were the dark, merciless green of a deep forest- Like a forest that knew all your secrets.

Damn it. He was too aware. The element of surprise was gone.

But the curtain was up. The audience was waiting.

"Lady Cruelton," the businessman squeaked, recognizing me, his face draining of color. He took a half-step back.

Theo's gaze narrowed, just a fraction. Confusion, then dawning assessment.

I raised the champagne flute. The garden held its breath. You could hear a bee question its life choices.

I threw it.

It sailed beautifully through the air. The golden liquid caught the light-a sparkling, expensive insult-before connecting with his left cheekbone with a satisfying splat. It dripped from his unfairly thick lashes, down his nose, and soaked into the heroic wool of his uniform.

The gasps were sharp, a ripping sound through the party.

The businessman scrambled backward as if scalded. "I-I must-my wife-" he stammered, vanishing into the crowd.

Silence. Heavy, stunned, delicious silence.

My voice cut through it, clean and clear as shattered glass. "You absolute walnut. Did your mother raise you in a barn, or did the military just beat all the manners out of you?"

The whispers exploded, a cacophony of scandalized delight.

"She didn't-"

"-to a war hero-"

"-she'll be ruined-"

"-always was unhinged-"

Captain Theodore Ashford, society's golden boy, the pride of the empire, stood there, dripping. He didn't flinch. Didn't wipe his face. His expression was... unreadable. A statue carved from composure.

Perfect.

My heart hammered a victorious rhythm against my ribs.That was five hundred hatred points if I'd ever seen them. A masterstroke.

System, I thought, grinning internally. Pay up.

A chime, soft and cold, sounded only in my mind.

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:

+five hundred hatred points

Current balance: eight thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds .

Warning: Target designated as HIGH VALUE INDIVIDUAL. Threat level elevated. Proceed with extreme caution.Possibly apologise.

I mentally swatted the System away. Apologize? Please. I was on a roll.

The Captain finally moved. With slow, deliberate care, he dabbed his cheek, jaw, and collar with a pristine white handkerchief-more terrifying than any tantrum.

"Lady Cruelton," he said. His voice was calm. Dangerously, impossibly calm. "That was a 1928 Dom Pérignon. Given the current war rations, that bottle was, for all intents and purposes, irreplaceable."

My bravado faltered for a second. This... was not in the script. Where was the fury? The outrage? I glanced around, but the crowd was just a blur of wide eyes and open mouths.

I recovered, forcing my grin wider, riding the brittle high. "Was it?" I shrugged, the picture of casual cruelty. "Tasted like expensive regret to me."

Victory. It tasted sweeter than any champagne. I turned on my heel, the taffeta whipping around my ankles, ready to stride off, to bask, to plan my next move-

His hand shot out and closed around my wrist.

It wasn't painful. It was... definite. Like being handcuffed by a principle. His thumb rested over my racing pulse.

I stared at his hand, then up at him. "Is there a problem, Captain? Thirsty? I have a backup." I wiggled the other full glass in my free hand.

He ignored it, leaning in. His scent-wool, starched linen, and undaunted male-wrapped around me. His words were a quiet rumble for my ears only. "The performance was compelling. The motivation, however, is lacking."

"My motivation," I hissed, "is a deep-seated aversion to boring garden parties and men who stand like handsome statues."

"We're not finished," he said, as if stating a simple fact. "You're going to tell me what you're really running from. And it's clearly not me."

The world tilted. The garden sounds-whispers, music, clinking glasses-muffled. I felt a violent shock of panic.

In my mind, the System didn't chime. It screamed.

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:

CRITICAL WARNING- INTEREST DETECTED.

NARRATIVE ANOMALY.

MISSION PARAMETERS COMPROMISED.

ADJUST CALCULATIONS.

ADJUST-

The words flashed, red and urgent, behind my eyes.

My smile, my glorious, victorious smile, froze solid on my face.

Wait.

What?

Two weeks ago.

"As the top reader and gifter for this story, I think it's time I give a review.

First things first: this story sucks hard. Do not waste money on this!

The author is crazy. The plot will put you in an anger management class. And the villainess is so unreasonable, her death at the end doesn't do her any justice. After wasting seven years of my life reading this, it's only fair that right after this review, I thoroughly wash my eyes with bleach to prevent myself from reading stories like this in the future!"

Those were the words that got me into this mess.

Sure, I hated my life. Who doesn't? Living as a chronically ill twenty-five-year-old marketing executive in 2026 was a special kind of soul-sucking grind. My hobbies were simple: using my hard-earned money to buy trashy online novels, then fuming about them for hours afterward. I either thirsted over fictional men with the emotional intelligence of a teaspoon, or developed migraines from protagonists making decisions so stunningly stupid they could qualify as performance art.

But that didn't mean I wanted to die.

My greatest love-hate relationship was with 'The Secret Princess: Which Man Does Maryann End Up Choosing?' I started reading it when I was eighteen. For seven long, masochistic years, I purchased every single weekly chapter. Out of spite. Pure, undiluted spite.

Did I enjoy it? Absolutely not. It was a trope landfill. The female lead, Maryann, was a Mary Sue of such epic proportions. The sun shone brighter when she smiled. Birds sang in harmony around her perfectly coiffed hair. Grown men-dukes and assassins and princes alike-literally swooned if she so much as breathed in their general direction. It was ridiculous. It was absurd. It was two thousand five hundred chapters long.

The story started okay, I'll admit. Then popularity hit like a freight train, and the plot ballooned into an ungodly mess of fan service, unnecessary side quests, and me screaming at my laptop screen at 2 AM: "JUST PICK ONE, YOU FLIGHTY HISTORICAL DISASTER!"

My breaking point came with the finale.

After two thousand five hundred chapters of agonizing "Who will she choose?" tension, complete with dramatic fainting spells and approximately four hundred scenes of men brooding attractively in the rain... she chose all four. A "happy polycule" in Regency-era England. Because of course she did.

And the villainess? Beatrice Cruelton-yes, that was her actual surname, and no, the fact that I shared her first name was pure coincidence and absolutely not foreshadowing-the most hated character in the entire godforsaken novel, who had no other goals or personality traits beyond being a stumbling block to Maryann's inevitable happiness... she died off-screen. A passing mention in the epilogue.

"Oh, that terrible Lady Cruelton? She perished in some accident, poor thing. Anyway, here's another scene of Maryann giggling while four men fight over who gets to bring her tea."

The end.

I stared at my laptop screen, the glow burning my retinas in the darkness of my bedroom. Then I laughed. It was a high, slightly unhinged sound that went on for a full thirty minutes. My cat left the room in what I can only describe as feline concern for my mental health.

With the fury of seven wasted years and approximately $4,000 in chapter purchases fueling my fingers, I typed that review. I even considered throwing my laptop out the window for dramatic effect. My bank account, ever the voice of reason, whispered desperately in my mind: You can't afford a new one, you melodramatic idiot.

So I went to bed instead. Fuming. Seething. Fantasizing about finding the author and forcing them to read their own drivel at gunpoint. I had work in less than four hours, and my mood was already ruined for the entire day.

By a twist of truly cosmic unfairness-the kind reserved for people who leave one-star reviews on beloved internet novels, apparently-my recurring heart condition picked that night for its grand finale. A sudden cardiac arrest. One minute I was glaring at my ceiling, plotting a scathing follow-up comment about the author's questionable understanding of human romance. The next... nothing.

Darkness.

Silence.

And then-

I gasped, jerking upright so fast my vision swam. It felt as if I'd just run a marathon while being chased by wolves. My chest burned as I dragged in air, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. I blinked hard, trying to clear my blurry vision.

Where the hell was I?

"My lady? Lady Cruelton?"

I froze. Someone was talking to me. Lady? What?

I looked up, then slowly around. The room was... massive. Ornate. The four-poster bed I was sitting in was the size of my old apartment. Heavy velvet curtains the color of burgundy wine framed windows that looked out onto manicured gardens. A chandelier-an actual crystal chandelier-hung from the ceiling. The sheets beneath my fingers were silk.

This was not my cramped studio apartment with the broken radiator.

"Lady Cruelton?" The woman in the maid uniform spoke again, her brows furrowed in concern. Three other maids stood behind her, all watching me nervously. "Is your headache better now? You've been asleep for four hours."

My brain short-circuited. "Hold up. Did you just say Cruelton?"

I threw my hands out in a gesture of pure confusion.

"Aah!" Several of the maids flinched dramatically, as if I'd just pulled a knife.

I raised an eyebrow. What was with the exaggerated reaction? I wasn't that scary. Was I?

The woman who'd addressed me stepped forward. She had the bearing of someone in charge, her posture straight and her expression carefully neutral. "Yes, Lady Cruelton."

I blinked at her. Then nodded slowly, reaching back to fluff the pillows before flopping down again dramatically.

This was a dream. Obviously. There was no way-absolutely no way-I was inside a trashy historical novel. Maybe this was some kind of stress-induced hallucination. Or astral projection? I'd read about that once in a Reddit thread at 3 AM. But it was too vivid. The scratch of the silk sheets felt too real. The faint scent of lavender and old wood was too specific.

Okay. Okay, Beatrice, calm down. Get some rest. You're going to wake up to your alarm any second now, realize this was all just a weird fever dream, and need to hurry to work where you'll face that smug receptionist Staring like always. Just breathe in and-

"Lady Cruelton? Lady Cruel-"

"FUCK, this isn't happening!" I jumped up, ignoring the way the other maids behind the head maid scurried backward like I'd spontaneously combusted.

I hurried toward the full-length mirror I'd spotted earlier, my bare feet slapping against cold hardwood floors. My reflection stopped me dead in my tracks.

No. No way.

I pinched my cheeks. Hard. The face staring back at me was entirely different from the one I'd worn for twenty-five years. Sharper features. Porcelain skin. And-

"What the hell, I have purple hair?"

It cascaded down in waves, an unnatural shade of violet that definitely didn't exist in any normal human genetic code. My eyes were different too-larger, a striking amber color that seemed to catch the light.

This was Beatrice Cruelton's face. The villainess. The woman who died off-screen like a footnote.

The more I tried to deny it, the more real it felt. The weight of the nightgown. The chill of the floor. The distant sound of birds outside-birds that were probably preparing to sing harmoniously the moment Maryann woke up.

I'd truly entered the world of the book. As the hated villainess.

DING!

The sound chimed in my head like a notification, and suddenly words appeared in my vision-floating, translucent, like some kind of augmented reality display.

SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE.

HOST CONFIRMED: BEATRICE CRUELTON.

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE FINAL CHAPTER.

CURRENT ODDS OF SURVIVAL: 0.3%.

Oh, great. Even the universe thought I was screwed.

ASSESSMENT: YOU ARE SCREWED.

I barked out a laugh. At least it was honest.

PROPOSED SOLUTION: THE HATRED POINT ECONOMY.

TUTORIAL BEGINNING IN: 3... 2... 1...

Before the countdown could reach zero, the bedroom doors slammed open.

"Lady Cruelton," a cold male voice said, "His Grace has summoned you."

The system text flashed violently red.

WARNING: THIS EVENT DIRECTLY LEADS TO YOUR CANONICAL DEATH.

I swallowed.

So the story had already started without me.

"His Grace is summoning Lady Beatrice."

The soldier's voice was flat, polite in the way people were polite when refusal wasn't an option.

Behind him, the maids froze-then exploded into motion like someone had set off a fire alarm.

"Arms up!"

"Quickly, quickly!"

"We're all going to die-"

Hands grabbed at my nightgown. I was yanked upright like a ragdoll, still processing the fact that I'd apparently been isekai'd by a bad review.

"Wait-what are you-oof!"

Someone shoved a corset against my ribs and started lacing it like they were preparing a thanksgiving turkey.

"You look radiant today, my lady!" a maid chirped while actively trying to rearrange my internal organs.

"Radiant?" I wheezed. "I can taste my own spleen-"

"His Grace will surely be pleased!"

"Yes, of course, very pleased!"

Another maid threw a powder-blue gown over my head. It had approximately seventy-three layers and enough ruffles to clothe a small village.

"Is this a dress or a military fortification?" I asked, muffled by fabric.

No one answered.

Some maids eagerly pushed me toward the door, faces tight with barely concealed panic. Others straight-up vanished. One second they were fluffing my sleeves, the next they'd discovered urgent business behind curtains, under tables, possibly in another dimension.

The ones who remained kept shooting me nervous glances.

"My lady, you look-"

"Stunning!"

"-like you could kill a man!"

"What?"

"I said you look thrilling!"

I squinted at them. "That's not better."

Not gonna lie though-going from a corporate drone who had to smile through client tantrums to a villainess everyone was terrified of?

Yeah. I could see the appeal.

Except for the whole dying horribly part.

As we descended the grand staircase, my head throbbed. Then-without warning-memories slammed into my brain like someone had dumped a file cabinet on my head.

Beatrice's memories.

Birthday parties where she'd gotten three ponies. Three. A father who'd given her literally everything except boundaries. Servants who treated her like a tiny dictator in petticoats.

And recently-a pink-haired girl who'd waltzed in and stolen half the attention.

"Lady Cruelton, are you all right?"

The soldier glanced back, concerned but also clearly thinking please don't make this difficult.

"Oh, I'm fantastic," I said. "Just having someone else's memories uploaded into my brain. Normal Tuesday."

"My lady?"

"Nothing. Onward to my doom."

The marble hallway stretched before us, all cold elegance and judgmental dead people in portraits. And then-

"Ah-!"

That sound.

My stomach dropped.

Oh no.

Absolutely not.

There it was. The scene I'd rage-read while eating instant ramen at 2 AM.

A shattered glass on pristine marble. Liquid spreading like an accusation. A girl on her knees, bleeding, shaking with perfectly timed sobs.

And standing in a convenient beam of sunlight-because of course there was a convenient beam of sunlight-

Maryann.

With her bright. Pink. Hair.

I stared. "Is no one going to mention the hair?"

The soldier gave me a confused look.

"The pink hair!" I gestured wildly. "In what world-you know what, never mind."

Maryann looked like she'd stepped out of an anime. Pink hair in impossible waves. Porcelain skin. Huge doe eyes currently filled with crystalline tears. She wore literal rags-who even owned rags in a duke's household?-and blood streaked her trembling fingers.

Every inch of her screamed PROTECT ME.

I wanted to gag.

A middle-aged man loomed over her, and I didn't need Beatrice's memories to know who he was.

Duke Alaric Cruelton.

The father.

Oh boy.

His expression darkened the second he saw me, like I'd personally murdered his favorite horse.

"Your Grace," the soldier said quickly, smart enough to step aside. "Lady Beatrice has arrived."

Maryann was still on the floor. Still bleeding. Still shaking.

Then-

"I've had enough of this, Beatrice!" He pointed at me like I was a war criminal. "Why do you keep bullying your sister? Why do you refuse to listen to me?"

DING!

NEW CHARACTER UNLOCKED:

Name: Duke Alaric Cruelton

Title: Duke of Blackthorne, Lord Marshal, Supreme Commander, Probably Has More Titles

Relationship: Your Father

Threat Level: High

Note: Currently believes you're a monster. Good luck!

Oh great. Fantastic. Love that for me.

I blinked at the Duke, following his pointed finger then glanced behind me.

No one there.

"Are you speaking to me?" I asked slowly.

The collective gasp was insane. Servants clutched their chests. One maid made the sign of the cross. Another straight-up fainted into a potted plant.

Duke Alaric's face went burgundy. "Who else would I be addressing? There's only one person in this household cruel enough to orchestrate such- such wickedness!"

The hall went dead silent.

Only Maryann's delicate sniffles filled the air.

"I-"

"It's only been two months since I brought your sister home, and look at her!" He gestured dramatically at Maryann. "Look at how bruised she is! I understood you were spoiled, being an only child, but I will not tolerate this cruelty any longer!"

I stared at him. At Maryann, who was doing her best wounded-bird impression. Back at him.

"Okay, real talk?" I said. "I was literally unconscious until ten minutes ago. So unless I've developed sleepwalking superpowers, I don't see how I'm responsible for-" I waved vaguely at the chaos, "-this."

DING!

SYSTEM WARNING:

OUT OF CHARACTER DETECTED

Beatrice Cruelton would NEVER talk back to her father in public. She's a Daddy's girl who maintains perfect behavior in front of him.

Suggested Action: Cry prettily and blame the servants.

"Oh, so now you give me tips?" I muttered.

Duke Alaric's jaw clenched. "What was that?"

"I said-lovely weather we're having!"

His eye actually twitched. "Bring in those maids. Now."

Two servants scurried forward, dragging two sobbing girls whose wails immediately tripled in volume when they saw me.

"AHH!" Maryann screamed at that exact moment, flinging herself at Duke Alaric's legs like he was a life raft.

I raised an eyebrow. Did she do that in the novel? I couldn't remember. Early chapters all blurred together.

"Lady Cruelton, please save us!" one maid sobbed.

"Mistress, we only followed your orders!" the other wailed. "Don't let them punish us!"

I recognized them from Beatrice's memories. Samantha and Sienna. The loyal minions who'd done Beatrice's dirty work. Spilled tea on Maryann. Spread rumors. Generally made her life miserable.

And now they were being fed to the wolves.

Every eye in the hall locked onto me.

"Well, Beatrice?" Duke Alaric's voice could have frozen hell. "Do you know these maids?"

"Mistress, please!" Samantha reached toward me, tears running.

"We did everything you asked!" Sienna's hands shook.

I looked at them. Then at Maryann, still clinging to the Duke's legs.

And I saw it.

Just for a second.

Her lips curved up. A tiny smirk.

Then it vanished, replaced by trembling innocence.

My eye twitched.

Oh, you clever little-

A laugh burst out of me. Couldn't help it.

"Beatrice?" Duke Alaric looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. "What is funny about this?"

"Nothing," I said, still laughing. "Absolutely nothing. This is just-" I gestured at the whole ridiculous scene, "-peak comedy. The timing. The drama. The convenient sunbeam. It's chef's kiss."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Possibly!" I turned on my heel. "Anyway, I'm out."

"What?"

"Lady Cruelton!" Rose, the head maid, hurried after me. "Your Grace is calling you!"

"Yeah, I heard him. Still leaving."

I kept walking, heels clicking on marble.

The original Beatrice died because she kept playing the villain. Kept tormenting Maryann until the plot demanded her removal.

But me? I didn't have to follow that script.

I could just... leave. Grab some jewels, yeet myself to another continent, open a bookshop. Live my best life far away from this garbage fire of a plot.

"Lady Cruelton, please!" Sienna's voice cracked behind me. "Don't leave us!"

"Beatrice Annalise Cruelton, you stop this instant!" Duke Alaric roared.

Even Maryann had stopped crying. Just staring at me, frowning.

I took another step toward the doors.

Freedom. Survival. A life that was actually mine.

One more step.

Something red flashed behind my eyes-hot, sharp, wrong.

DING!

SYSTEM ALERT: CRITICAL OUT OF CHARACTER ACTION DETECTED

WARNING: YOU ARE DEVIATING FROM CORE NARRATIVE PATH

ATTEMPTING TO LEAVE THE SCENE EQUALS STORY COLLAPSE

TURN BACK IMMEDIATELY OR FACE PENALTY

The words blazed across my vision in angry crimson.

"Like I would." I took another step.

PENALTY: IMMEDIATE PLOT CORRECTION VIA FORCED SYNCHRONIZATION

THIS WILL HURT.

FINAL WARNING: TURN BACK NOW

The pain hit like a truck.

White-hot agony exploded through my skull. Every nerve ending caught fire. My legs buckled.

"Oh-ow-okay, that's-OW-"

I was falling-

The world tilted. Marble rushed up to meet my face.

"LADY CRUELTON!"

Screams erupted around me, but they sounded far away, muffled.

My vision went fuzzy. Then dark.

The last thing I saw was Maryann's face.

No tears.

No fear.

Just a small, satisfied smile.

And one thought managed to pierce through the pain

That conniving little-

Then everything went black.