A wave of applause swept through the auditorium.
Then—
He appeared.
From the wings of the stage, a young man stepped forward with an unhurried confidence that seemed entirely natural.
Vivienne’s breath caught.
...There he was.
Anthony Ashford.
For one fleeting moment, the rest of the auditorium simply... disappeared.
The applause became distant.
The principal’s voice faded into the background.
Even the hundreds of students surrounding her seemed to blur into nothing.
Her eyes could only follow the figure walking toward the center of the stage.
His ash-blond hair caught the morning light filtering through the stained-glass windows, each step sending subtle flashes of gold across neatly combed strands. His St. Albion uniform, immaculate down to the last button, fit him with effortless precision, accentuating a tall, athletic frame that carried itself with quiet confidence rather than arrogance.
But it wasn’t his appearance that held the entire hall captive.
It was his presence.
Calm.
Composed.
Unshakable.
He neither hurried nor slowed his pace. He acknowledged the applause with a courteous inclination of his head before taking his place behind the podium, sapphire-blue eyes sweeping across the auditorium with calm attentiveness.
There was nothing theatrical about him.
Nothing that demanded attention.
And yet...
Everyone was looking at him.
Vivienne stared.
The illustrations...
The fan art...
The countless times she’d imagined him while reading late into the night...
None of them had come close.
...No fair.
The thought escaped before she could stop it.
He’s even better-looking than the illustrations.
She almost laughed at herself.
How many times had she reread The Duchess’s White Moonlight?
How many online discussions had she joined defending Anthony Ashford whenever readers argued that Damian Blackwood should have been the male lead?
Too many to count.
And now...
The man she’d spent years calling her "standard" was standing less than thirty meters away.
Real.
Claire discreetly nudged her elbow.
"...So?"
Vivienne didn’t take her eyes off the stage.
"So..."
She answered honestly.
"I finally understand why the readers went crazy."
Claire blinked before quietly laughing.
"I’ll take that as a good sign."
"A very good sign."
Claire looked back toward the stage.
"I’ve heard about him since I was little."
"My mother always said House Ashford produced people who looked like they walked straight out of paintings."
She paused.
"...For once..."
"I think Mother wasn’t exaggerating."
Vivienne smiled faintly.
Not even a little.
On stage, Anthony adjusted the microphone.
The applause gradually subsided until the auditorium became perfectly still.
"Good morning."
His voice was calm and steady, deep enough to carry naturally through the hall without ever sounding forced.
"I am Anthony Ashford."
"I’m a third-year student in the College of Political and Administrative Sciences, and I have the privilege of serving as this year’s Student Council President."
There was no unnecessary flourish.
No attempt to impress.
Just a simple introduction.
Vivienne found herself smiling.
That’s exactly how you’d introduce yourself.
Anthony continued.
"On behalf of the Student Council, I’d like to welcome each of you to St. Albion."
"I know today may feel overwhelming."
"For many of you, this is your first time living away from home."
"A new environment."
"New classmates."
"New responsibilities."
He spoke without dramatic gestures, yet every sentence carried quiet conviction.
"If there’s one thing I’d like you to remember..."
"It is that no one is expected to face those changes alone."
"The faculty, your residence advisors, and every member of the Student Council are here to support you."
"So don’t hesitate to ask for help."
He offered the faintest smile.
"I hope your years at St. Albion become some of the happiest memories you’ll carry with you."
"Thank you."
He placed one hand lightly over his chest and gave a respectful bow.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The hall erupted into applause once again.
Vivienne joined in almost absentmindedly, her gaze never leaving the stage.
That’s him...
Anthony Ashford.
The man I’d admired for years.
Vivienne’s applause gradually slowed as a small smile found its way onto her lips.
Standing on the stage wasn’t the Anthony Ashford she’d cried over during the final season of the novel.
Nor was he the devoted man readers had fallen in love with.
Not yet.
Right now...
He was simply Anthony Ashford.
A third-year student.
The Student Council President.
The childhood fiancé of the girl whose body she now inhabited.
...And the young man who, if the story followed its original course, would one day fall deeply in love with Evelyn Sinclair.
Vivienne smiled to herself.
Let’s see...
Will reality unfold exactly the way I remember from the novel?
Or...
Will this story choose a different ending?
The thought sent an unfamiliar thrill through her.
It wasn’t fear.
It was anticipation.
Outside, the morning sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows, bathing the stage in warm shades of gold.
Without realizing it...
The story had quietly taken its very first step.