I have been consumed on my walk early in the morning, just to make sure

I can recover as quickly as possible and check the outside world, 

to know what’s next to do. I have read in History that the 

Veldava Empire’s hierarchy was ruled by old traditions of men and noble ranks. 

But since they discovered the ABO designations—Alpha, Beta, Omega—a new order has been forming.

It has been twenty-five years since royalty accepted the dominance structure, 

yet the old noble ways remain stubbornly rooted.

Now able to rise from her silk-canopied four-poster bed on her own, 

Lady Vivian de Guzman sat in the sun-dappled ducal garden with a cup of spiced 

Hyacinth-tea steaming at her elbow. The air, crisp and fresh from the morn, 

was a pleasant escape from the heavy suppressants that dulled her senses, 

allowing the faint scent of stone and damp earth to soothe her.

Letters lay scattered across the little marble table, their heavy wax seals glinting in the soft, 

morning light, each one smelling faintly of the sender's designation—mostly the sharp, 

demanding scents of Alphas or the neutral, busy musk of Betas.

Ugh, more correspondence. I didn't survive a rainy night accident and 

cross worlds just to drown in fancy stationery, she thought, resisting the urge to groan. 

The original Vivian died early in the plot, but I swear I’m going to die of

sheer bureaucratic exhaustion first.

“Mary, Helen,” she called, voice steady but elegant. 

“Sort these. I trust you know my preferences.”

Both maids bowed low. Helen, her scent faint as clean linen and soap, 

moved first—precise and unflinching. Mary, warm and soft with the comforting scent 

of milk and bread, followed timidly.

They began the ritual sorting:

First, letters from dukes, marquesses, and ministers—business and politics, 

sealed in heavy parchment scented with silk and ambition.

Second, invitations to social gatherings—tea parties and balls reeking 

of light Omega perfumes.

Lastly, came the pile of what she privately termed "spam mails." 

These were petitions, ill-informed proposals, or sycophantic invitations from new-money 

Betas hoping to catch the eye of the Duke’s daughter.

Vivian prioritized replying to the first category herself, 

those she considered a possible business prospect or political maneuver, 

knowing her reputation as a sharp-tongued Alpha was essential for survival.

She let Helen draft the reply to the one tea gathering she could 

possibly attend—a mandatory event at the Imperial Palace—and coldly

reject the others that were not fit to her grueling schedule.

The rest, Mary collected for disposal, her expression brightening only when Vivian said,

“Burn them for the hearth. At least they’ll warm something useful.”

Mary looked startled. “As you wish, My Lady.”

Finally, an inbox system that makes sense. 

Vivian sipped her tea with satisfaction. A far more satisfying digital 'delete' button: fire. 

If only I could filter my life as easily.

One envelope in particular caught her eye—green paper tied with a ribbon of gold. 

It was simple, yet its seal—unembossed and utterly lacking a noble crest—was unique. 

It carried a fresh, invigorating scent, like crushed fir needles and warm olives, 

the heavy perfumes of her usual correspondents.

She untied it, curiosity prickling her fingers. Is this the plot starting? 

Did the original villainess get mail like this? Big yikes.

The letter itself was written in an elegant, practiced script.

Dear Lady Vivian,

I pray your recovery continues swiftly. The weather has turned pleasant; 

perhaps gentle walks will help restore your strength. I am certain your household 

physicians are the best, but I cannot help worrying and praying for your health. 

Yet, though it pains me, I must raise an urgent matter. 

The sketches for your Spring special-event dress are overdue. 

I have delayed the deadlines before, but Spring approaches fast and this gown is meant 

to be the talk of the Capital.

Please forgive my rudeness in pressing you while you are still convalescing.

Gracefully yours,

Madam Lily

Vivian blinked. "Madam Lily...? That name is familiar." Lily. 

Wait, wasn't she the designer for the protagonist’s rival house in the novel? 

Or... was she the one the villainess always bullied into doing what she wanted? 

She turned the letter over in her hands, the rough texture of the green paper 

a stark contrast to the smooth marble. 

"She's asking about the dress... am I supposed to be wearing it? Or making it?"

She murmured aloud, "It sounds like I'm the one designing it..."

Wait. I was a designer! A world-renowned one! The best! 

This is actually a piece of my old life that fits the new one. 

This is gold. 

Her controlled scent, managed expertly through discipline and powerful suppressants, 

subtly warmed, briefly taking on a sophisticated, expensive 

edge like aged sandalwood and bitter citrus—the commanding 

scent expected of a high-ranking Alpha noble.

Turning to Helen, the bolder of her two maids, she asked, 

"Do I have any scheduled work I need to meet? 

Any ongoing projects? Anything that requires the meticulous hand 

of a creative genius?"

The maid, a nervous Beta whose scent was a faint, almost nonexistent 

wash of clean soap, hesitated, wringing her hands. 

Her eyes flickered away, an immediate sign of discomfort or fear. 

"My lady... aside from tea gatherings and ball invitations, we don't truly know your schedule.

You... you never tell us, my lady..."

Vivian’s brow furrowed, a slow dread settling in. 

I see. 

Even her own maids... this Vivian never trusted them. 

Which means I have no idea what terrible things she was 

doing five minutes before I woke up here.

She asked again, her voice sharper, attempting to maintain her 

Alpha authority. Be gentle. Just ask what she was doing. Be nice. 

"Then what was I doing before?"

Helen swallowed, her throat bobbing visibly beneath the lace of her collar. 

Her hands twisted her apron until the fine linen began to crease. 

"Well..." the maid stammered, her voice shaking, 

"you always holed up in your... in your..."

No, no, no. Stop stammering, I'm just asking a question! 

"In my what?" Vivian snapped, her tone coming out far harsher 

than she intended—like a blade instead of a simple question. 

The force of her commanding noble voice made the poor maid flinch.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, trying to soften it. 

I am literally just trying to breathe, why does that sound so menacing? 

"Sigh."

The maid visibly shivered at that small, involuntary expulsion of air—a common 

reaction to the Duke's daughter's imposing presence. 

"In your... your torture room, my lady!" she finally whispered, her voice cracking.

Helen collapsed onto the dew-kissed grass as if her knees had 

suddenly given out, the shock of saying the forbidden phrase overwhelming her.

Silence fell. A breeze rattled the porcelain cup.

Vivian blinked, expression freezing. Excuse me—my what?!

Her inner voice went ballistic. Torture room? 

What kind of hobby did this woman have—collecting chains? 

I’m the villainess, not the Marquis de Sade! 

This is a 'please arrest me now' sign. FML.

Outwardly, she merely cleared her throat. 

“I see. I shall… inspect it.”

Okay, act cool. Just own it. It's probably just a name for her private study, right? 

Her gaze flicked to Mary, the other timid maid, hovering nearby. 

Stay calm, be reassuring. Just say 'come help me.' "You... come with me."

The poor girl—Mary—blanched white, knees trembling. 

Helen covered her mouth. 

Idiot! You said it out loud! 

She wanted to melt into the grass, to be reborn as a pebble, 

anything that didn’t breathe in an Alpha’s radius.

“Now, My Lady? The room?”

“Yes.”

The single word hit like a whip crack. Mary’s breath hitched; 

Helen’s throat went dry.

Why does my mouth always default to villainess mode? 

Vivian groaned inwardly. Couldn’t I have said, 

“Please fetch a lantern, darlings”?

She rose, skirts whispering, and began walking. “Come.”

Mary followed like a condemned soul. 

Torture room? Saints preserve us. I should have written a will. 

Or at least hidden the good ribbons before dying. 

Maybe she likes dramatic last words—what rhymes with “forgive me”?

Helen trailed behind, expression caught between duty and dread. 

If she actually intends to torture us, 

I’ll throw myself in first. 

Better one Beta pancake than two Omega sobs.

They entered the left wing, where shadows cooled the marble halls. 

Portraits of long-dead De Guzmans watched their passage with judgmental eyes. 

Mary’s trembling footsteps echoed, each sound swallowed by the vast corridor.

Every step closer smells colder, Mary thought, 

the air thick with the metallic tang of old polish. 

Even the walls feel afraid.

At the end stood a door far too dramatic for domestic life—blackened oak, 

bound in iron. Its handle looked forged for prisons, not parlors.

“Open it, now,” Vivian commanded.

Her voice rang through the corridor—smooth, aristocratic, and terrifying. 

The faint citrus in her scent cut through the air like a blade, 

and both maids shivered as if a winter wind had passed.

Why does every “please” come out like an execution notice? Vivian cursed inwardly.

Mary’s fingers fumbled at the latch. The hinges gave a long, dying groan. 

A dim, vast room greeted them.

Eek, Vivian’s inner voice squeaked. Okay… definitely not a study.

Chains hung from the ceiling, glinting faintly. 

Whips of braided leather lined one wall like grim decorations. 

The scent of iron lingered, softened by dust—thankfully no blood.

Mary’s knees knocked. I’m going to faint and she’ll think I’m volunteering. 

Helen tried to speak, but her throat refused cooperation.

Do NOT comment on the decor. Do NOT.

Vivian stepped farther in. 

“Open the curtain,” she said, and the order sliced the silence. 

Please, Mary, just open it; I’m scared too.

The heavy velvet dragged open with a gasp of light. 

Pale morning flooded in, washing the nightmare gray. 

Dust danced in the beams like guilty spirits.

Vivian approached the massive desk, fingers gliding along its edges. 

“Empty,” she muttered. “So this is only for torture, huh?”

Mary’s hands twisted together. Does she expect an answer? 

Saints above, don’t answer. 

Answering might be wrong. 

Not answering might be worse.

Vivian sighed—soft, unintended. 

Both maids flinched as if she’d drawn a sword.

She turned, forcing a gentle tone. “Mary. Look at me.”

Mary froze. She remembers my name. 

Oh no, that means she’ll carve it on the—

“I’m not… angry,” Vivian said carefully. “Just curious.”

Her words landed strangely formal, but to Mary they sounded like a countdown to doom. 

Her scent soured—warm milk turned to panic-butter.

Vivian grimaced inwardly.

Fantastic. I can’t even reassure someone without making them curdle.

“Never mind,” she said briskly. 

“I’ll investigate alone. You may wait outside.”

The relief that flooded Mary’s face could have powered the estate’s lamps. 

She bobbed a trembling curtsy and stumbled out, dragging Helen, 

who looked like she wanted to apologize to every deity ever listed.

Outside the door, Mary pressed a hand to her chest.

“Helen, she said ‘investigate.’ Do you think she meant… body parts?”

Helen wiped her brow.

“If she wanted to kill us, she wouldn’t have dismissed us first.”

Mary blinked. “Oh. Right.” 

Then softer, “She looked… lonely, didn’t she?”

Helen hesitated. She did. Aloud she only said, 

“Go fetch water. Your hands are shaking again.”

Inside, Vivian rubbed her temples. They think I eat people. Lovely.

She began checking drawers. The middle drawer squeaked empty; 

the side drawers rattled. 

When her fingers brushed the right-bottom edge, something clicked.

There it is. Secret villainess mechanism engaged.

She turned toward the bookshelf just as a faint thud echoed from the wall. 

The shelf shifted.

Vivian grinned despite herself. “Aha.”

Her heart beat faster—not fear now but exhilaration. 

This is it, the part where the heroine finds the hidden lab, 

except I’m the villainess, so it’s probably taxes or blackmail ledgers.

She tugged at the shelf; it swung inward with a breath of stale air and 

the scent of ink, old parchment, and faint lavender.

A narrow passage opened before her.

Vivian smiled, tension melting into curiosity. 

Alright, mystery dungeon, show me what kind of mess I inherited.

She stepped inside.

Out in the corridor, Mary and Helen waited in uneasy silence.

Mary bit her lip. “Should we tell the steward she’s gone in there?”

Helen shook her head. “The Duke ordered silence about her health. 

He’d order silence about this too.”

Mary nodded faintly. Silence, silence, always silence. 

If I survive this, I’m telling my sister I love her before another noble accident happens.

From behind the door came the faintest creak. Both maids flinched.

Mary whispered, “Do you think she found the rack?”

Helen pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“If she screams, we run. If she laughs, we hide.”

Meanwhile, in the Duke’s grand office, the air was thick with 

the scent of aged leather, tobacco, and strategy.

Four clerks bent over ledger desks, quills scratching in steady rhythm. 

The Duke himself stood before the vast window, back straight, 

his coat catching the golden edge of morning light.

Standing beside him was Lady Gretel Ashburn—an Alpha of commanding presence. 

Her short, copper-red hair gleamed under the lamplight, and the scent of 

red wine followed her like confidence itself.

A monocle perched over one sharp eye, silver-chained and precise.

“What is she doing right now?” the Duke asked without turning.

Lady Ashburn flipped through a folder. 

“The young Lady is in the left wing, Your Grace. Reports suggest she’s… 

investigating her own quarters.”

The Duke raised a brow. “Investigating?”

“Yes,” she said, lips twitching slightly. 

“The servants say she entered the… ah, restricted room.”

The Duke’s eyes narrowed. “That room was sealed years ago. Why would she—”

“Perhaps curiosity,” Ashburn suggested, her voice level but 

her scent sharpened—deep wine cut with tension. 

“Since her accident, she’s behaved… differently.”

“Differently?”

“Less cruel. More cautious. Almost—human.”

The Duke turned, eyes unreadable. 

“That difference could be dangerous. The nobles watch us like hawks, waiting for weakness.

If my daughter falters, they will tear us apart.”

Lady Ashburn inclined her head. “Understood, Your Grace. 

Shall I continue the surveillance?”

“Yes,” he said, tone final. “No rumors must spread.

No one outside this estate must know of her change.”

He paused, gaze distant. “But if she truly has changed…

perhaps it is time we see whether that difference brings ruin—or redemption.”

Lady Ashburn smiled faintly. 

“Then I shall keep the wine uncorked, Your Grace. For either occasion.”

A low, dry chuckle escaped him. “Ever pragmatic, Lady Ashburn.”