Vivian’s spine stiffened as Doctor Alvaro bowed with practiced grace—not too low to seem servile, not too shallow to seem dismissive. The scent of him—a precise blend of clean parchment and ironed 

linen—spoke of his decades spent in noble service, 

his movements precise even in the angle of his head.

“My lady Vivian,” he said, voice steady but gentled at the edges. 

“I come at the Duke’s request, to follow up on your condition. 

Your survival has caused quite a stir—few endure both a fall of such violence and 

the fever that followed. It is no small feat.”

Vivian’s gaze flicked to the sealed box on the garden table. 

Suppressants. Her father’s “gift.” Of course Alvaro would know. A household physician 

was never only a healer—they were watchers, record-keepers, guardians of secrets 

better left buried. My entire existence is a security risk to the Duke's brand.

Her lips curved in a dry half-smile, though her stomach knotted. 

“I am recovering well enough without being turned into a pincushion.”

Her tongue had aimed for humor, for something light, but it rolled out sharp and cutting instead. 

A knife instead of a jest.

For a moment, silence stretched. Then, faintly, Alvaro’s lips twitched as though stifling 

amusement. “Spirited. Good. The body often follows where the will is strong. 

Still—” his gaze flicked once to the box, then back to her, unreadable 

“—I must insist on a brief examination, for the Duke’s peace of mind.”

Carmina, the assistant at his side, spoke next, her voice low and measured, 

carrying a gentleness that softened his formality. The woman smelled faintly 

of subtle cloves and fine leather. “We will be swift, my lady. No unnecessary discomfort.”

My father’s control comes not only in vials but in people—loyal retainers who will watch me, 

listen, and report every word. I'm a prisoner in a Versace garden.

“Very well,” she murmured, though her throat tightened.

The examination was clinical, efficient. Alvaro pressed two fingers to her wrist, timing the 

pulse with a steady patience. He studied her pupils, lifted her arm lightly to test 

resistance, and asked questions about her rest, her appetite, her headaches. 

His touch was firm but never rough. Carmina scribbled quick notes in her ledger, 

her brows furrowing whenever Vivian hesitated in her answers.

Alvaro said nothing of the suppressants. But when he packed his instruments away, 

his eyes lingered on the unopened box one moment too long—like a man who had 

been given orders but not the heart to enforce them.

At last, he closed the case with a soft click. “I will report to the Duke that you are 

recovering steadily. Continue your walks, strengthen your limbs, but do not overtax yourself. 

The mind may heal slower than the body.”

Vivian inclined her head, hiding the churn of her thoughts. 

“You have done your duty. That will be all.”

The maids, Helen and Mary, nervous shadows at her back, straightened at her words. 

Mary’s milk and bread scent was strained with anxiety. Vivian turned her gaze 

on them, her tongue striking sharper than intended:

“Go prepare tea. Do not waste time.”

Both maids flinched and hurried off, Mary nearly stumbling in her haste as her anxious 

scent spiked. Their footsteps faded across the garden stones, leaving only 

Alvaro and Carmina a moment longer.

The physician adjusted his spectacles, his expression neutral. 

“If any dizziness or fainting returns, send word at once.”

Carmina hesitated, her gaze flicking between Vivian and the box. 

She bowed, then spoke carefully. “Forgive me, my lady… but the Duke believes 

only in prevention. Should you… feel it necessary, I can administer the dose.”

Vivian’s jaw tightened. She forced her voice calm. “I will let you know if I require it.”

Carmina lowered her eyes quickly, murmured her assent, and followed 

Alvaro as he departed. Their dark coats vanished into the shadowed corridor, 

their presence dissolving like smoke.

Silence at last.

Vivian released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her shoulders 

slumped, tension spilling like water from a cracked vessel.

And the chains my father gave me—disguised as medicine—are already tightening. 

I need a plan, and I need it fast, before I get pincushioned into compliance.

Lowe Street was Uptown’s crown jewel—a glittering artery of wealth 

where stone facades gleamed under golden trim, and every shopfront 

glittered like a treasure chest cracked open. Nobles drifted past in silk and velvet, 

their laughter floating above the quiet jingle of silver coins and the faint perfume 

of beeswax polish. The air itself seemed rich here—scented with polished wood, 

fresh parchment, and rare spices so sharp they prickled the nose.

Commoners rarely crossed this marble path, except as shadows bent over mops 

or brooms. Their work was tolerated only because someone had to keep the noble stage clean.

Down a narrow lane, tucked half-hidden from the grand promenade, stood 

St. Therese Boutique. Its fashions met every standard of Uptown elegance,

but its scandal was notorious: models chosen from the common ranks. 

To the aristocracy, this mingling was outrageous, yet irresistible—half condemnation, 

half obsession.

Inside, the boutique hummed with faint lavender from freshly laundered linens. 

A cluster of workers whispered in the back, voices low as moth wings but sharp with unease.

“They say she lies like a broken doll… limbs twisted after the fall,” one murmured, 

their hands trembling over folded silks.

Another shook their head, eyes darting to the door. 

“If truth be told, her body must be shattered beyond hope of mending.”

A third lowered their voice to a ghost of sound. 

“Or… perhaps she’s already gone. Only no one dares to speak it aloud.”

The words hung heavy, thick as smoke. The silence that followed pressed

against their ribs, as if even the air feared the Duke’s wrath.

Across the room, a silver-haired woman moved steadily, her broom sweeping 

soft arcs across polished oak. Vivianne Frostman’s calm expression betrayed nothing, 

though her ears caught every hushed word.

A new voice broke the tension—smooth, playful, threaded with amusement. 

A young lady with dark blue hair, coiled neatly at her nape, drifted close. Her scent carried faint notes of citrus and steel, sharp as her smile.

“So, Vivianne,” Melissa Baltimore said, eyes gleaming with curiosity, 

“what’s your verdict on the Duke’s fallen star?”

Vivianne paused only long enough to glance sideways. Her voice was quiet, even.

“None at all.”

Melissa’s laugh tinkled like crystal struck by a nail. 

“None? Surely you’ve an opinion. She delights in tormenting you whenever she sets foot in here.”

Vivianne sighed, finishing her sweep in a neat stroke. 

“…It’s not my concern. I pray only for her recovery—and for peace.”

“Peace?” Melissa tilted her head, mocking. “Hah. You pray for her recovery? 

The Duke’s daughter, that villainess? Vivianne, you’re far too kind. 

Most wish she never wakes at all.”

Vivianne bent to straighten the chairs, her hands steady though her chest tightened.

Vivianne thought, almost guiltily.

Work at the boutique had been a blessing, though a humble one. 

Each sweep of Vivianne’s broom, each polish of silk beneath her careful fingers,

carried a weight of gratitude. It reminded her of the single chance encounter 

that had drawn her into Melissa Baltimore’s orbit—the day fate tested her courage 

in the rough belly of the city.

It had been in Gallows End. A place where alleys twisted like knives, 

where the air reeked of woodsmoke, sour brine, and unwashed bodies. 

Merchants bellowed prices over goods so worn they seemed to fall apart 

in their hands. Barefoot children darted like shadows through the press of bodies, 

quick as pickpockets and hungrier still. Every corner seemed to glint with the 

threat of a blade, every shadow whispered of danger. Beyond the chaos of the 

markets sprawled the true slums, a place where law was little more than a rumor, 

and survival belonged to those with the sharpest eyes and cruelest hands.

Melissa’s carriage had broken down in the midst of it, its gleaming frame a beacon 

that drew a restless crowd. Commoners pressed close—some desperate, 

others curious—clamoring for coin, for bread, for anything. 

Her guards struggled to hold the tide at bay, but fear frayed their stance 

as the voices swelled louder.

Vivianne’s stomach had clenched at the sight, instinct warning her to turn away.

She was no knight, no soldier—just a girl with calloused palms and little more 

than instinct to her name. And yet, before her mind could argue, her body moved. 

She slipped into the throng, calling out, urging Melissa to follow. 

With quick steps she threaded through back alleys only locals knew, 

twisting paths between sagging houses and crooked fences. 

Each shortcut shaved seconds off their escape, every turn pulling them further 

from the slum’s jaws and closer to the lantern glow of Uptown streets.

By some fortune—or perhaps by fate itself—they never crossed paths with 

the true predators of Gallows End. Men who lived by knife and theft, 

who would have stripped carriage and noblewoman alike to the bone. 

Instead, they stumbled out breathless but whole, greeted by the guarded 

safety of Uptown’s cobblestones.

Melissa had turned to her then, eyes wide with surprise rather than fear. 

In that moment, she pressed a small flyer into Vivianne’s hand, her voice 

carrying the faintest lilt of amusement even through exhaustion. 

“If you want work,” she had said, “come find me.”

Now, Vivianne’s world was stitched between two realms. 

The glitter of Lowe Street, where nobles laughed and schemed in silk, 

and the grit of Gallows End, where survival itself was a daily gamble. 

Her quiet hands kept the boutique’s floors shining and its fabrics flawless, 

while above her head whispers circled like smoke—whispers of gossip, of scandal, 

of lives far larger than her own.

Three months earlier, when Lady Baltimore had been preparing a new dress for 

the Winter showcase, disaster struck—one of her chosen models fell suddenly ill, 

unable to rise from her bed. The boutique buzzed with panic, whispers sharp as needles, 

until all eyes turned on me. Me. A mere cleaner, broom still in hand, apron dusted with lint.

I laughed at first, nervously, certain it was some cruel jest. But Lady Baltimore’s 

sharp gaze silenced me.

“Stand straight, Vivianne,” she said. “You’ll do.”

And so, trembling, I stepped into a role far above my station. 

Silks clung unfamiliar against my skin, the lights of Uptown’s chandeliers glaring 

like a second sun. Yet when I walked that narrow stage, the room hushed. 

Admiration bloomed, soft and startling, like embers catching flame.

The crowd praised me, their voices warm with approval. Even she—the flower 

of high society, the Duke’s daughter, Lady Vivian de Guzman—let words of 

praise fall from her lips. Her name was one both envied and feared. Some called 

her the “Viper in silk,” her beauty concealing fangs sharp enough to bleed reputations dry. 

To be noticed by her at all was considered a rare honor.

For a fleeting moment, pride swelled in my chest. I thought fortune had 

smiled on me, if only for that one evening.

But fate is cruel with its gifts. That single compliment was a mask—and 

when it slipped, hatred was all that remained.

Later that night, away from the chandeliers and clapping hands, her eyes 

found me again. The warmth was gone, replaced by frost sharp enough to cut.

No smile. No praise. Only scorn.

From that moment forward, she treated me as if my very existence offended her. 

Every glance a blade, every word a lash. What had I done? Nothing. 

I had only walked where I was told.

Perhaps that was enough—for her to hate me without reason, 

simply because I had stood in her light for one moment too long.

“...anne... ianne… Vivianne Frostman!”

Vivianne jolted like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly tugged, 

her head snapping toward the voice with an owlish blink. The stone floors, 

which had been chilling her bare feet only moments ago, now felt like blocks of ice beneath her.

“M-my apologies, my lady,” she managed, the formality of the title a thin, 

fragile shield. “My mind wandered a touch.”

Lady Melissa Baltimore puffed out her chest, a classic Alpha gesture, 

her citrus and steel scent flaring slightly with impatience. “It surely did! 

Were you thinking of the Villainess again? You don’t have to worry. I’m here.”

Oh, perfect. Just perfect. The one subject I was actively trying to forget. Vivianne mentally corrected herself, a familiar wave of despair washing over her. She shook her head with forced firmness, 

her knees feeling a little wobbly beneath her.

“Nothing of the sort, my lady. And besides,” she stressed, letting a 

fraction of her true exhaustion bleed into her tone, “you can’t do anything about the 

Duke’s daughter. She is a noble of the highest rank.”

Melissa visibly flinched, her cheeks puffing out with wounded Alpha pride. 

“U-urk. Even so,” Melissa declared, “you are my acquisition here in the shop. 

I have every right to ensure your well-being, Viv. You are under my patronage to protect.”

Vivianne let out a weary, drawn-out sigh. 

The absolute arrogance of an Alpha Marquess's daughter. 

“Please, Lady Melissa, remember your station,” she murmured. 

“You are a noblewoman of rank. I am an employee. You must maintain appearances.”

“Ehhh…” Melissa whined, the sound high and frustrated, her voice dropping to a soft, 

confidential tone. “But you’re the only one I can talk to like this. 

If I acted this way with others, gossip would spread like wildfire and get back to her.”

Vivianne sighed again, her eyes drifting upward as if seeking patience. 

If only she’d listen to her own advice.

Just then, one of the workers approached and bowed. 

“Young Lady, the shop is cleaned and ready for closing. 

We have secured the modern safety locks.”

Melissa straightened with practiced elegance. 

“Good. Let’s wrap up, everyone. Thank yourself for your hard work today.”