The chamber door opened wider, and a man stepped inside with the steady gravity of one accustomed to being summoned in moments of crisis. His hair was threaded with iron-grey, his expression calm but impenetrable, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes betraying decades of experience. He wore no smile, no frown—only the mask of clinical detachment, as though no mortal ailment could ever startle him.

The physician’s gaze swept over her in one steady, professional line, revealing neither alarm nor pity. He did not flinch at her pallor, nor at the maid’s trembling voice. His loyalty was not to gossip, nor to frightened servants—it was to the Duke.

Behind him scurried a young woman, far younger, her presence like a candle beside his stone lantern. She carried his satchel in both arms, nearly tripping over her own shoes in her hurry, her wide eyes darting everywhere at once. If he was severity embodied, she was unguarded warmth, her emotions spilling freely across her face.

The timid maid, who had been hovering by the bedside with red-rimmed eyes, gasped with relief and stumbled into a curtsy so deep she nearly lost her balance. Her voice quavered as she tried to speak.

“D-Doctor! Thank heavens you’ve come. Her ladyship—she… she awoke, but… she speaks strangely. And—and she did not know us! Please forgive us, we tended her as best we could, but—”

Her words spilled like water from a cracked jug, frantic and unshaped. Her hands twisted the hem of her apron until the seams strained.

The physician lifted a hand, calm and precise. “Enough. Compose yourself. Speak plainly.” His voice was deep, clipped, each syllable carved with authority.

He stepped forward, his assistant trailing, still clutching the satchel as if it contained the cure to life itself. The girl rushed ahead to arrange pillows, smoothing sheets, whispering reassurance as though Vivian were her younger sister.

The timid maid’s lips trembled as she nodded, eyes downcast. “Y-yes, Doctor…”

She swallowed and forced the words out. “Her ladyship has forgotten… names. She… she asked who we were, as though we were strangers. And her manner—it is not…” She bit her lip, terrified to speak ill. “It is not as it was before.”

“Noted.” His gaze shifted to the bed. “Step aside.”

The timid maid obeyed at once, scuttling back against the wall. The doctor approached Vivian with a measured pace, his presence heavy but not unkind.

His assistant placed the satchel on the bedside table with a clatter, fumbling with the clasps. “Here, Doctor! I’ve prepared everything—oh, wait, no, this is the wrong vial, or is it—no, no, it’s this one first, I swear.”

“Enough.” His curt word froze her mid-motion. He didn’t even look at her, but his disapproval carried the weight of a gavel. She flushed crimson, ducking her head, and busied herself with opening the kit properly this time.

Vivian blinked at them, uncertain if she wanted to laugh or hide beneath the covers. One looks like he could dissect me without blinking, and the other looks like she might faint if he so much as frowns at her. Perfect. Just perfect.

The doctor pressed two fingers against Vivian’s wrist, timing the flutter of her pulse. Then he leaned closer, his sharp eyes narrowing as he examined her pupils.
“Do you know where you are, Lady Vivian?”

Vivian parted her lips, but hesitation caught the words. “I… I…” Her throat tightened, every syllable too heavy. The memories in her mind weren’t hers, not fully, not yet. “I don’t know.”

The maid gasped softly. The assistant placed a gentle hand on Vivian’s shoulder, whispering, “Easy, my lady. Don’t force yourself.”

She obeyed, though unease prickled down her spine. The physician tilted her chin with impersonal precision, studying first one pupil, then the other, his gaze sharp as glass.

“Do you recall the events before your fall?” he asked, tone flat, almost bored.

Vivian hesitated. She couldn’t very well say I’m not even from this world. Her throat tightened. “I… remember some things. Not all.”

He neither frowned nor nodded, simply shifted his attention to her wrist again. His fingers pressed lightly against her pulse, steady, counting each beat with the exactness of a metronome.

“Any pain? Dizziness? Nausea?”

“Headache,” she admitted softly. “And… confusion.”

The assistant leaned in eagerly, unable to restrain herself. “But her pulse feels steady, doesn’t it, Doctor? That’s a good sign, isn’t it? She’s breathing fine too—see? Her color’s returning, isn’t it?”

The doctor finally released Vivian’s wrist. He hummed low in his throat, thoughtful rather than surprised. He checked her skull carefully, fingers parting her golden hair until they paused at the tender swell of a bruise. His brows knit, but his expression never slipped into alarm.

“It is as I suspected,” he said at last. “Your fall has left you with post-traumatic amnesia. The mind is a curious thing, my lady—it shields itself even as the body lies broken. Memories may scatter, slipping through cracks like spilled pearls. Sometimes they return within days, sometimes months. And sometimes”—his eyes narrowed—“the instant of pain remains veiled forever. As though the mind has decided it is too cruel to be remembered.”

The words hung in the chamber like a sermon, and everyone seemed to hold their breath.

The timid maid choked a sob into her sleeve. The assistant gave her a sharp glance, then quickly masked it with a smile toward Vivian.

Vivian wanted to speak, to protest, to explain that her problem wasn’t just memory—it was identity. But her chest ached, her body dragged heavy against the mattress, exhaustion smothering her words.

The doctor turned to the maid. “The Duke must be informed at once. This is not an ailment to be hidden.”

Yet when word reached the Duke, the answer came swiftly, cold as steel:
“No one outside this room will know of my daughter’s condition. Not a whisper, not a rumor. She will recover at her own pace, without the court tearing at her weakness.”

The gag order fell like a sword. Every servant, every witness, every physician’s note was bound in silence.

Vivian tried to raise her head, to argue—why conceal this?—but pain lanced through her temples. The doctor, seeing her effort, gently pressed her back against the pillows. Instead of placing the vials into her hands, he set them into the waiting grasp of the maid.

“For the aches,” he instructed firmly. “And this—” a second vial, “if fever rises before dawn. Crush the powder into warm water or wine. See that she takes it.”

The maid bobbed a nervous curtsy, clutching the medicines as though they were sacred relics.

Vivian’s vision swam. The assistant prepared the draught quickly, guiding it to Vivian’s lips until she swallowed, grimacing at the bitter tang. Then, with careful hands, she placed the remaining vial upon the side table. Her warm fingers brushed Vivian’s as she whispered, “Sleep, my lady. The morning will be kinder.”

Vivian closed her eyes, her thoughts burning despite the heaviness pressing her down. Recovery—yes, that had to come first. If her body failed her, nothing else would matter. Then, survival. The villainess was meant to die; she would not. And if, by some miracle of will, she could rise above both pain and fate… perhaps she could do more. Perhaps she could shield Vivianne Frostman, the girl she once adored from afar. That would be her triumph, her vow.

The doctor straightened, his voice final. “She must rest. No undue stress, no emotional agitation. Her recovery depends on it. Do you understand?”

The maids nodded so quickly it bordered on frantic bowing.

---

Sleep dragged her under, heavy as lead, yet it was not the dreamless void she hoped for. Her mind burned with fever, stitching together two lives—her own and the villainess’—until the seams blurred.

She was back on the runway. Spotlights flared, cameras clicked, the roar of applause thundered in her ears. Models glided past her, wearing gowns spun from her imagination, stitched from sleepless nights. She should have felt pride. She should have felt triumph.

But their faces…

One by one, they blurred, melted, transformed—until every single model wore the same face.

Vivianne Frostman.

Not the fully bloomed star she remembered from the novel, but the Vivianne of now: young, still shy, her beauty not yet discovered by the world. She turned her head, lips trembling as if about to speak.

But when she did, her voice echoed with accusation.
“Why do you hate me?”

Vivian staggered back, clutching at her chest. “I don’t! I never—”

The lights shifted. The applause turned to whispers.

“Vivian de Guzman is a tyrant.”
“She ruined her.”
“She deserves her fate.”

The whispers multiplied, each one sharper, heavier, until they rained down like stones. She wanted to scream that she wasn’t that woman, but her throat was sealed, her lips frozen.

Then came the ballroom scene. Vivianne Frostman kneeling on the floor, dress torn, eyes wide with humiliation. Guests circling like wolves, sneering at the omega who dared enter their glittering world.

And above her—herself. Vivian de Guzman. A cruel smile twisting her lips, wine spilling deliberately down Vivianne’s shoulders.

“No,” Vivian gasped. “That’s not me. I won’t—”

But the dream didn’t listen.

Vivianne raised her eyes, not wide with fear now but burning with cold fury.
“One day, I’ll rise above you.”

The ballroom shattered. Now they stood in a courtroom. Chains bit into her wrists, iron raw against skin. Nobles filled the chamber, smug expressions dripping judgment.

The charges—treason, cruelty, abuse of her alpha authority—rolled from the judge’s tongue like poison. She remembered this from the book. This was her downfall.

And Vivianne Frostman stood radiant in her new fame, her new love. Yet her eyes were not triumphant. They were heartbroken.

“Why couldn’t you have been different?”

Vivian’s knees hit the cold stone floor. “I will be. I swear—I’ll be different.”

The chains dissolved. The court melted away.

And suddenly she was back in her studio, her old life. Sketches scattered across the floor, rain dripping through broken windows. 

Her reflection in the glass split in two: on the left, herself—the weary designer. 

On the right, Vivian de Guzman—the villainess.

Both whispered in unison:
“Choose.”

The fever broke with a gasp.

Vivian sat upright in bed, drenched in sweat, breath tearing through her throat. The curtains shifted with the night breeze, the crackle of a dying fire filling the silence.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. The visions clung—the humiliation, the trial, the sorrow in Vivianne’s eyes.

Not illusions. Foreshadowing.

The world wanted her to play the villainess. To follow the script. To meet her ruin.

But she clenched her trembling fists, her voice hoarse yet steady as she whispered into the night:
“Not this time.”

The maid at her bedside nearly dropped the basin she carried. Her wide eyes darted about as if some intruder lurked in the shadows.
“Y-young lady?” she asked timidly, wringing the damp cloth.

Vivian blinked, realizing too late how her words must have sounded. She tried to explain, but before she could, the maid exhaled nervously and murmured, half to herself, “It is normal… yes, it is normal to speak nonsense dreams during a fever. Nothing more.”

She dipped the cloth again, steadying her trembling hands. Carefully, she dabbed Vivian’s brow, sweeping coolness over heated skin. The contrast made Vivian sigh despite herself.

The maid pressed the cloth to her wrists and forearms, coaxing the fever away through touch alone. Each stroke was unhurried, almost reverent, like a whispered prayer. Even when Vivian’s hair clung damply to her temples, the maid smoothed it back with patient care.

“You will see, my lady,” she said softly, a flush rising in her cheeks though she kept her eyes lowered. “When the fever passes, such strange dreams will fade. It is only the body’s way of fighting.”

Vivian closed her eyes, letting the cool strokes ease her. The words were simple, yet in that fever-lit chamber, they carried a tenderness that slipped past every wall she had left.