Maid POV

Mary had always been a light sleeper. Perhaps it was fear of failing her duties, or perhaps it was simply the habit of a servant raised to rise at the faintest sound. Either way, when the clock tolled somewhere past the second hour of night, she found herself sitting upright in her narrow cot, clutching her thin blanket to her chest.

Her mind wandered to the young lady upstairs. Fever was a sly beast—quiet at first, then raging, then quiet again as if plotting its next assault. What if she worsened? What if Mary failed to notice some change, some danger, and her mistress suffered for it?

Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird.

Biting her lip, she slipped from her cot, her apron hastily tied over her nightdress. She fetched the basin of fresh water she had kept ready by habit, her hands white-knuckled around the rim. The stone floors bit cold against her bare feet as she padded through the silent halls, every shadow on the wall swelling like it might sprout teeth. Still, she carried on, whispering little prayers beneath her breath. Please let her fever be lower. Please don’t let me fail again.

When she entered the chamber, the fire had burned low, casting the room in faint orange glow. Her mistress tossed fitfully on her silken bed, golden hair damp against her temples, lips moving in restless half-words. Mary froze, her own breath caught in her chest. The Duke’s daughter looked as though she were in the grip of a nightmare no prayer could soothe.

Timidly, Mary crept closer, setting the basin on the side table with care. Her hand hovered in the air before daring to press against the young lady’s brow. Heat radiated from her mistress’s skin, startling her so badly she nearly cried out. The fever had worsened.

Panic clawed her throat. She fumbled for the vial, nearly spilling the powder as she crushed it, her fingers shaking so badly she feared she’d ruin the dose. She wiped her palms against her apron, drew a sharp breath, and repeated to herself: diligence, not fear. That is what the Duke demands.

But just as she turned back with the basin and cloth, her mistress suddenly bolted upright, her breath ragged.

“Not this time,” Lady Vivian whispered hoarsely, as if declaring victory against some unseen enemy.

Mary yelped, nearly sloshing the basin across the floor. Her knees knocked beneath her, her gaze darting to the corners of the chamber as though some phantom intruder lingered. “Y-young lady?” she squeaked, wringing the cloth until her knuckles blanched.

Her mistress blinked, slow, fever-drunk. For a heartbeat Mary thought she spoke to someone unseen. Then she realized—it had been a dream. A nightmare. Or perhaps… a vision. Mary pressed her lips tight, heart hammering.

She dipped the cloth quickly, forcing her trembling motions into steady, practiced ones. With care she wiped the sweat beading her lady’s brow, then swept down the flushed line of her neck, across her arms. “It is normal,” she whispered, almost chanting it for her own courage. “Yes, normal to speak nonsense in fever. Nothing more.”

Her mistress finally sagged back against the pillows. Mary seized the chance to fetch the draught. Quietly she slid one arm behind Vivian’s back, coaxing her upright despite the weight of fever pressing her down.

But then—something unexpected.

The young lady stilled. Her nose twitched—like a curious animal sniffing the air.

“Wait.” Her hoarse voice cut the silence. She sniffed again, blinking owlishly at the maid. “Is that… warm milk?”

Mary froze. “P-pardon, my lady?”

“It smells nice,” Vivian murmured dreamily, her tone oddly childlike. “Sweet. Comforting. Did you… bring a cup of milk for me?”

The basin rattled in Mary’s trembling grip. Her cheeks burned crimson. “Ah… no, my lady. That would be… me.”

Vivian tilted her head, brow furrowing. “You? Are you wearing perfume?”

Mary’s throat tightened. She shook her head, mortified. “…No, my lady. I’m… an Omega.”

The air itself seemed to thicken.

“Oh.” Vivian’s lips parted in faint wonder. A whisper followed: “Omegaverse… real Omegaverse…”

Then, without hesitation, she added, “Well, you smell very nice. Like a bakery at bedtime.”

Mary nearly dropped the spoon. Her blush crept to her ears. Her mistress might as well have called her sweet buns and custard. She forced herself to focus, carefully raising the spoon to her lady’s lips.

Vivian swallowed the draught, grimaced, and scowled. “Ugh. Bitter. I’d rather drink you.”

Mary blinked. Heat rushed through her entire body. Surely—surely she meant milk. Yes. Milk. Fevered nonsense.

And yet Mary’s hands shook for a very long time after.

Vivian POV

Vivian let her head sink deeper into the pillow, her body heavy with fever yet oddly soothed. The maid’s hands moved like careful tides—dipping the cloth, wringing it, sweeping it across her brow, down her neck, along her arms. Each stroke was unhurried, coaxing her into half-dream where touch, warmth, and fragrance blended.

The scent clung to her—the maid’s natural fragrance, soft and subtle, nothing like artificial perfume. It was comforting. Sweet. Almost nostalgic. Ridiculous, Vivian scolded herself, yet… I feel safe. Cherished.

Her fever-fog loosened her tongue. “So it’s true… the scent really matters here…”

The maid froze. Vivian blinked up at her, suddenly realizing what she’d just said. The girl trembled, not from fear of fever, but from something else—something intimate. Her cheeks flushed scarlet. Vivian’s heart skipped.

Wait. Did she think I—oh, no. No, no, no. She thinks I’m…

Vivian scrambled internally. Say sorry. Say you’re delirious. Anything. But instead of apology, words twisted, clumsy and defensive: “I-I mean, it’s natural to notice things when you’re sick. Fever heightens the senses, doesn’t it?”

As soon as she heard herself, she wanted to stuff her face under the pillow. Congratulations, Vivian. You sound like a scandal sheet headline: ‘Duke’s Daughter Harasses Her Maid in Delirium.’

Mary’s wide eyes only worsened it.

Vivian’s throat ached with the words she wanted to say—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Instead, her mouth betrayed her.

“You’d better not say a word of this to anyone.”

Silence fell.

Vivian froze. Wait—that sounded like blackmail! Oh no. Oh no no no. That’s not what I meant at all!

But the maid’s cheeks flamed deeper. She lowered her gaze, nodding rapidly like a cornered rabbit.

Oh gods. Vivian’s soul withered. She thinks I’m a pervert. She really thinks I’m a pervert.

Mary bowed low, flustered, murmuring, “R-rest well, my lady,” before fleeing with the basin clutched to her chest.

The door clicked shut.

Vivian buried her face in the pillow. Perfect. Day one in the Omegaverse and I’ve branded myself the scandalous young lady who terrifies her maid. Bravo, Vivian. Bravo.

Four days after the fever broke—and after the infamous “pervert incident” with Mary—Vivian finally took her first steps out of bed. She moved with a forced, stately grace, leaning lightly on the arms of her two most constant attendants: Helen, the professional maid who smelled faintly of clean linen and soap, and Mary, the timid Omega whose warm milk-and-bread scent now carried a faint, sour note of unease.

I am a delicate flower. A duke’s daughter. I shall not wobble, Vivian told herself sternly, even as her knees threatened to betray her. Then again, four days in a velvet coffin and nearly dying from a villainess tantrum probably entitled her to a bit of dramatics.

They entered the high-arched corridors of the De Guzman manor—though calling it a “manor” was a lie of noble humility. It was, quite literally, a palace. The marble floors beneath her satin slippers gleamed with gilded filigree tracing Veldava’s history, while chandeliers of humming magic stones dripped molten gold from the carved beams. Every velvet curtain, every towering window framed a view that whispered of generations of power and obscene wealth.

“This is a palace,” Vivian murmured, her voice still thin—thankfully weak enough to hide any sharpness.

Helen’s polite smile barely moved. Her neutral Beta scent—clean, precise, efficient—remained as steady as her tone. “The De Guzman mansion, milady. It has stood for centuries. The grounds span several acres.”

Mary trailed a step behind, eyes lowered to the marble floor. Her natural scent, usually soft and comforting, felt tight and nervous now—like dough that had risen too long. She dared not meet the eyes of the mistress who had, in her mind, complimented her fragrance in a most… unholy way.

They walked until they reached the receiving salon, where a polished mahogany table groaned under a mountain of letters and gifts. It was an elegant kind of excess—the kind that screamed influence. Politicians, courtiers, business magnates—everyone who mattered had sent something, each envelope probably soaked in equal parts courtesy and mockery.

Ah yes, Vivian thought dryly. The noble version of passive-aggressive “get well soon” cards. Don’t worry, everyone—I’m already planning my comeback aesthetic.

Then she noticed an outlier.

Amid the silks and embossed seals lay a plain parchment sealed with dark wax, the color of dried blood. Beside it sat a small, unmarked box. No crest, no flourish—just cold authority radiating from the air itself. Even before touching it, Vivian could almost smell her father’s presence: leather, tobacco, and iron restraint. The Duke de Guzman’s Alpha scent carried through memory alone.

She broke the seal and read the single line.

“Do not shame our name again.”

That was it. No “glad you survived,” no “take care.” Just a command, etched like a verdict.

Well, that’s just fantastic. No ‘I’m glad you’re alive,’ not even a ‘hope your fever broke.’ Pure patriarchal minimalism. FML.

She opened the box. Inside, cushioned in black velvet, lay a single syringe of pale liquid—the Alpha suppressant. Not a gift. A command. Proof that her father expected the flawless, disciplined Alpha mask to remain firmly in place.

Vivian exhaled slowly, then closed the box with careful precision. Turning to her maids, she bowed her head slightly. Her voice was even, cool, and startlingly soft.

“Thank you.”

The room stilled. Helen’s neutral scent wavered with surprise, and Mary let out a small gasp. Neither had ever heard the original Lady Vivian de Guzman utter those two words.

Before the silence could stretch too long, a firm knock echoed through the hall. Heavy footsteps followed—the familiar cadence of Doctor Alvaro’s approach.

The physician had returned for her follow-up examination, bringing with him the end of the day… and the promise of new scrutiny.