When Lady Seraphina von Ashgrave opened her eyes in the tattered bed of a crumbling countryside estate, she didn't scream, cry, or whisper "Where am I?" like some wet piece of toast from another reincarnation novel.
No. She smirked.
"Of course. A minor noble title, crushing debt, and a reputation for being 'socially difficult.' Perfect."
She sat up, ignoring the creak of ancient wood beneath her. The air smelled like damp curtains, rotting wood, and desperation. Her body felt smaller—her wrists more delicate, her chest lighter, her hair a tangled mess she could already tell was a disaster.
The original Seraphina, from what she remembered, had died of "emotional exhaustion and scandal." Which, honestly? Respect.
She peeled back the blanket—moth-eaten—and swung her feet onto the cold floor.
A soft meow caught her attention.
A gray cat, pudgy and glaring, sat at the foot of the bed. It looked like it had seen things. Tax evasion, probably. Maybe arson.
It blinked.
"I'm going to assume you're in charge here," she said. "I'll be taking over."
The cat yawned. It did not seem impressed.
A knock thundered on the front door downstairs. Then another. Then yelling.
She tilted her head, listening.
Ah. The debt collectors. Punctual.
With a long stretch and absolutely zero concern, she stood, cracked her knuckles, and walked to the cracked vanity mirror. Her reflection was pale, pretty, and currently wearing the expression of a woman who was about to bankrupt her enemies with flirtation and illegal permits.
Seraphina smiled.
"If I'm building from rock bottom," she said to her cat, "then I'm building an empire of sin. And maybe a few clubs. Possibly a brothel."
The cat flicked its tail.
"Oh, don't act surprised. You're going to be CFO."
Another knock. Louder this time.
She didn't rush. She picked up a chipped teacup from the windowsill, poured absolutely nothing into it, and sipped it like royalty.
Let them wait.