I Drugged My Fiancé Instead

My skin was burning, a fierce, unnatural heat clawing its way up my throat. I yanked at the collar of my silk gown, gasping for air.

The sight of the velvet drapes, the heavy mahogany wardrobe, and the flickering candlelight made my breath hitch. I was back. I had returned to the very night I was drugged.

Damians brother-in-law, Lord George Harrington, would burst through that door in less than fifteen minutes. I had to get out.

Cynthia, Damians scheming sister, had undoubtedly stationed her guards outside. She wanted me trapped. She wanted my ruin to secure her familys fortune.

Desperation overtook my fear. I grabbed the brass oil lamp from the nightstand and threw it directly onto the heavy bed curtains. The dry velvet caught instantly, flames hungry and bright, licking up the canopy. Within moments, the room was a furnace of smoke and fire.

In this life, I would never play the tragic victim. I would never agree to become Lord Harringtons second wifea gilded prisoner brought in solely to bankroll his bankrupt estate and raise Cynthias spoiled children.

"Fire! Oh heavens, how did a fire start?"

A frantic female voice cried from the hallway.

Phoebe. Cynthia's loyal lady's maid. Of course she was out there. Cynthia had orchestrated every single detail.

"You two, stay here and watch the doors! I'll be right back!" Phoebe barked, her voice shaking with panic.

She didn't dare rush in to save me. According to their grand design, the Lord was supposed to "discover" me compromised, not roasted alive.

My chest heaved. The drug in my veins, combined with the rising heat of the flames, made my head spin. I stumbled toward the door and yanked the handle. It was locked from the outside.

Did George Harrington know of his wife's plot?

I was the sole heiress of the Whitmore merchant empire. Half the noble bachelors in the capital had begged for my hand. Why on earth would I have ever willingly thrown myself at a man twelve years my senior?

In my past life, Cynthia had "discovered" us herself, dramatically coughing up blood, weeping, and accusing me of shameless debauchery. Damian had immediately and publicly broken our engagement. Shamed and desperate, I was told my only option to salvage a shred of dignity was to enter Lord Harrington's household as his second wife.

I wanted to shave my head and enter a convent instead, but Damian had played the martyr. My sister is dying, he had pleaded, tears in his eyes. She only wants her children cared for. Please, Giselle. I will beg the Lord to grant you the status of an equal wife.

My poor mother, unable to bear the thought of me in a convent, had begged me to accept. And so, I had walked straight into their trap.

The bitter memory made me bite my lip so hard I tasted copper. This time, I would not be their puppet.

I kicked over the heavy chairs to create noise, then staggered toward the window.

"Did she faint?" one of the maids outside squeaked.

"If she dies in there, the Lord will skin us alive!" the older maid hissed, unlocking the door. "Hush! I'll open it and check."

The moment she cracked the door open, I pushed the heavy window frame open, scrambled over the ledge, and tumbled into the cool night air, carefully pulling the window shut behind me.

I couldn't run far. The heat in my blood was reaching a boiling point. Dragging my heavy limbs, I slipped into the secluded wing of the estatethe quarters of Solomon Harrington, George's younger brother.

In my previous life, Solomon had been one of the few decent souls in this wretched house. I knew his character. He was a man of honor; he would never take advantage of a woman in my state.

"Who's there?"

A cold, sharp voice sliced through the dark. A silver blade gleamed in the moonlight, resting flush against my throat.

"Solomon... please. Help me," I gasped. My vision blurred as I collapsed forward, tumbling right into the chest of the young man clad in a pale, moon-white robe.

The sword clattered to the stone floor. Startled, Solomon instinctively pushed me back. I fell to the ground, a low groan escaping my lips.

"Miss Whitmore? What are you doing here?" He looked bewildered, reaching out to help me before quickly drawing his hand back, mindful of propriety.

"I've been drugged. Please... tell no one," I whispered, my face burning, my voice trembling with the effort to stay conscious.

"I... I will fetch your maid," he stammered, his eyes wide.

"No. I don't trust her. I only trust you."

Monica had vanished the moment she escorted me to that room. In my past life, she eventually became Damian's mistress. I wouldn't trust either of them with my life.

In the dim light, Solomon's eyes flickered with a sudden, intense warmth.

"If you truly trust me, take this," he murmured, pulling a small white porcelain vial from his sleeve and tapping out a round, chalky pill.

I grabbed it without hesitation and swallowed it dry. Solomon blinked, surprised by my absolute faith in him, and a soft, genuine smile touched his lips.

The cool medicine trickled down my throat, slowly dousing the roaring fire in my veins. I took a deep breath, reclaiming my sanity.

"Thank you, Solomon." I bowed slightly and pulled out a thick stack of banknotes from my hidden pocket, pressing them into his hand.

"It was nothing. Please, there is no need," he protested, trying to push them back. Our fingers brushed, and a dark blush crept up his neck as he hastily withdrew his hand.

"You saved my life tonight, Solomon. You must take this." I stuffed the money into his vest and turned on my heel.

The Harrington estate was a hollow shell, rotting from the inside out under George's poor management. If they weren't bankrupt, Cynthia would never have targeted my family's wealth. Right now, I needed to see exactly what role my beloved fianc, Damian, had played in tonight's little theater.

"Then... I shall accept," Solomon's quiet voice drifted after me.

I smiled softly to myself. Solomon lived in the forgotten, drafty wing of the estate, ignored and despised by his older brother. In my past life, he left to join the frontier army a few days after this night. Three years later, he returned as General Solomon Harrington, a decorated war hero. Right now, he needed every coin to buy his way in.

I made my way back to the burning wing, hiding in the shadows of the courtyard. The room was mostly charred wood and smoke now. George Harrington stood with his back to me, barking orders.

"She couldn't have vanished into thin air! Search every room! Find her!" His voice was steady and sharp. There was not a single trace of the "drunken stupor" he had claimed to be in during my past life. He had lied to me from the very beginning.

"George, she's gone. What do we do now?" Cynthia coughed into a silk handkerchief.

"Shes drugged. She won't make it past the estate gates," George snarled, turning around. In the torchlight, his eyes looked cold and vicious.

"I am only worried someone else will find her first," Cynthia whispered, quickly tucking her bloody handkerchief away. She was coughing up blood again. The royal physicians had whispered she had barely two months left.

"Where is Damian? Tell him to search for her."

"Damian and Monica are in my private chambers. Phoebe, go fetch them."

George shot his wife a freezing look. "Keep those two on a shorter leash. The deed isn't even done yet, and they're already rolling around in your quarters like dogs."

My ears rang. A cold wave of nausea washed over me. So, even back then, Damian and Monica were already sleeping together.

In my past life, Damian had played the devoted lover, milking me for every cent to "maintain his status" while pretending to be bullied by his peers. And because I was technically his brother-in-law's wife, I couldn't openly give him money. Monica had suggested a "solution": I should adopt her as my sister and marry her off to Damian as a concubine. That way, I could funnel my family's gold to Damian under the guise of her dowry.

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and angry. The fianc I had trusted blindly had actively conspired to ruin me. I dabbed my eyes with my handkerchief.

In my past life, when Damian married Lydia, the minor daughter of Minister Davenport, had he really been "forced" into it? I didn't want to think about how deep his lies went.

"We need Monica to keep Giselle compliant," Cynthia murmured, her eyes darting toward the pathway.

A group of high-society ladies was approaching. She had invited them specifically to witness my downfall. Now, the stage was set, but the star of the show was missing.

"Look at the mess you've made!" George spat, sweeping his cloak around him as he stormed off.

Cynthia bit her lip, tears of frustration swelling in her eyes. She only did this to secure her children's future before she died.

"Heavens! Why is there a fire?" Lady Davenport's loud, shrill voice cut through the air before she even reached the courtyard.

"Oh... Giselle was resting inside," Cynthia whimpered, putting on her most fragile, tragic face. "I don't know how this could have happened..."

"Giselle Whitmore set a fire in Harrington Hall? How dare she!" Mrs. Gable chimed in, her eyes gleaming with delicious gossip. Cynthia remained silent, playing the victim.

"I always knew she was trouble," another lady whispered. "A merchant's daughter has no breeding. Lady Harrington, should we call the city guard?"

"Where is she now? To sneak away like this... how utterly classless."

"How can a brilliant scholar like young Damian Carlyle be tied to such a girl? She is entirely unworthy of him!"

The ladies chattered like magpies, and Cynthia let out a faint, satisfied sigh. She had chosen these gossips carefully. By tomorrow morning, my reputation would be in tatters.

"Why are you ladies so eager to spread lies? Where is your breeding? Your decorum? Your basic decency?" I stepped calmly out of the shadows, my voice dripping with ice.

They gasped, spinning around to stare at me as if they had seen a ghost.

"Giselle! Where were you?" Cynthia choked out, quickly recovering her composure. "Don't worry, my dear. We won't involve the authorities."

"How dare you speak to us with such disrespect!" Lady Davenport sneered. "Setting fire to a noble estate is a hanging offense. You truly are just a vulgar merchant's child."

I locked eyes with her. "Did you see me start the fire, Lady Davenport?"

She choked on her words, glancing awkwardly at Cynthia. Cynthia forced a tight, artificial smile. "Giselle, even if you did it, the family will not press charges."

"Lady Harrington, I was in that room for exactly five minutes before I stepped out. There was no fire when I left. If you suspect arson, let us summon Justice Albright of the High Court. I am more than willing to let his investigators find the real culprit."

I knew Cynthia wouldn't dare. Justice Albright was famously incorruptible.

"No! No need for the courts," Cynthia said hastily, falling into a violent fit of coughing.

The ladies exchanged knowing, suspicious glances.

"If these ladies still doubt my word, I insist we call the guards," I said smoothly, taking a step forward.

"No one is accusing you, Giselle," Cynthia rasped, swallowing the copper taste of blood. "Right, ladies?"

"Of course," Lady Davenport muttered reluctantly, while the others looked away, suddenly silent.

"If I hear so much as a whisper of this slander tomorrow, I will sue for defamation. Spreading false rumors about a prominent family is a serious crime, after all," I warned, brushing past Cynthia.

Cynthia stumbled, caught by Phoebe.

"Giselle! Apologize to my sister!" Damians voice boomed as he marched into the courtyard, his face dark with fury. Monica followed closely behind him, keeping her distance.

"Damian, it's fine. I just lost my footing," Cynthia lied, rubbing her eyes.

"Giselle, where were you? I've been looking everywhere for you." Damian demanded, scanning me for any sign of the drug's effects.

He looked confused. Why was I perfectly fine? Had Monica failed?