The air in the hidden passage was cool and dry, thick with dust that sparkled faintly in the narrow beam of light spilling from the main room.

The faint aroma of ink, wax, and old secrets hung heavy—like the ghost of a scholar who refused to leave his notes behind.

Vivian took one step inside, skirts brushing the uneven stone. “Well,” she murmured, “I guess every villainess needs a hideout.”

Her hand traced along the wall until she found a switch—mechanical, not alchemical catalyst-like—and the faintest click lit a crystal lamp embedded in the ceiling.

Soft amber light glowed over a small chamber lined with shelves.

This hidden room was large, but the floor was not lined with torture instruments; instead, it was littered with a sea of paper.

What shocked her more was that the documents were not political treaties or financial ledgers, but sketches of different types of dresses.

Wait. Was this... a design studio? A secret, hidden-from-the-world design studio?

She breathed deeply, and the simple, professional scent of the room—part fine cedarwood from the desk and part clean linen from the paper—washed over her.

I don't know if it's because of the original’s body or it’s the designer in me, but this room makes me fully comfortable and at ease.

My body is relaxing for the first time since the accident.

So, the original Vivian did sketches here. Based on the evidence—books, hundreds of them, some ancient, others neatly bound in expensive covers.

Sketches were pinned on the wall: dress designs, diagrams of embroidery techniques, fabric dye formulas. On the table sat an unfinished gown sketch,

half-colored, its fabric samples neatly stacked beside it.

The table was covered in scratches, pools of dried ink, and scattered papers. It seemed she used this room all the time—and no one else knew about it, not even her maids.

And no wonder. This place is a disaster.

No one cleaned this room but her, and looking at how clumsily someone had wiped the now-dried ink stain on the desk,

it seemed the OG Vivian tried to clean it on her own and failed completely. A villainess with a secret design habit and no concept of cleaning solvent. 

Relatable.

She touched the table, eyes widening. “This… was her real passion.”

Her heart gave an odd twist. She was cruel, but she still created beauty.

Maybe that’s why Madam Lily trusted her. Maybe—

She stopped. A journal lay half-open beneath the sketch. Its pages smelled faintly of sandalwood and dried ink.

She flipped through it carefully.

Commission from Duchess Cardenas — due spring.

Note: Adjust for her Beta husband’s scent sensitivity. Avoid musk.

Mary failed to deliver materials again. Consider punishment.

Vivian winced. Right. There’s the villainess tone again. Old habits die with the host, I guess.

She read further.

Rumor: Imperial Court preparing for law change on scent suppressants. If true, nobles will scramble for control.

Must design collection with symbolism of dominance and freedom.

Vivian blinked, then smiled slightly. She was fashion-forward… literally. No wonder her name survived in the gossip chapters.

She flipped the final page and found a folded letter tucked inside. The handwriting was familiar.

Lady Vivian,

You once said creation is control. But creation is also salvation.

Do not lose yourself to dominance.

— L.

L? Lily? Or someone else?

Her pulse quickened. The ink was smudged, as if by water—or tears. She pressed the letter flat and exhaled.

“Guess you weren’t all villain after all.”

Vivian smiled faintly, then gathered a few sketches and the green-paper letter. 

If I’m stuck living her life, I’ll at least fix her reputation—and her wardrobe line.

She picked up the rest of the sketches on the floor and reviewed them, including the ones on the table and three more pinned to the wall.

She now realized that the sketches on the wall seemed to be the dress she was trying to sketch for the Spring event mentioned in the letter.

She looked around, trying to find a mannequin or cloth that she could use to make a muslin, but saw nothing. 

This is weird. Where is she trying to make clothes?

She paused, the details of Madam Lily’s letter finally clicking into place.

“…As I know how important your recovery is, I am in a pinch about the deadline of the dress you are planning to sketch...”

Madam Lily only wrote about the dress that Vivian planned to sketch. The OG Vivian wasn’t making them here; she was just doing the creative work—the design.

She was using Madam Lily as her outsourced factory!

She looked at the sketches on the wall again. They were beautifully drawn—fluid lines, dramatic silhouettes.

She could feel the fierce passion the original Vivian must have poured into this hidden work, but something was missing. 

It needs... a focal point. It’s too busy.

She thought and thought, then, like a bulb blinking on a drawing table in her old life, she had an idea.

A small, precise alteration to the hemline, a subtle restructure of the bodice’s drape—and suddenly, the design transformed.

Don’t worry, Vivian. This sketch will be the highlight of the century.

A sharp, high-pitched peal of laughter burst from her lips—the sound of unrestrained artistic triumph. “Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

She threw her head back, positively gleeful over the altered design.

Little did she know, her villainess-style cackle carried straight through the thick walls.

Out in the corridor, Mary froze. Still trembling where she stood, she heard the laughter roll like thunder from within.

As if the heavens themselves conspired with her mistress’s “evil plan,” a real thunderclap split the sky, rattling the windowpanes.

Helen’s eyes darted toward the ceiling. “Saints preserve us,” she whispered. “She’s laughing. That means she’s plotting.”

Mary whimpered. “Should I hide?”

“Yes,” Helen hissed. “Preferably somewhere with locks.”

But before either could run, the door creaked softly.

Vivian stepped out, brushing a bit of dust from her gown, calm as if she’d merely inspected a sewing room.

“Mary,” she said smoothly.

Mary yelped. “Y-yes, My Lady!”

Vivian arched a brow. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I—I mean—My Lady, you’ve returned safely!”

Vivian raised an eyebrow. “You sound disappointed, Mary.”

Mary’s scent wobbled between panic and bread dough about to collapse. “N-No, My Lady! I was simply—uh—worried for your safety!”

Vivian sighed but allowed a faint smile. “Relax. I found nothing horrifying inside. It seems your Lady enjoys secrets, not screams.”

Helen blinked. “Secrets, My Lady?”

Vivian handed her a sketch. “Tell the household painter to prepare the art room. It’s time we restored my creative quarters.”

Helen hesitated, clearly unused to this version of her mistress. “Yes… My Lady.”

Vivian turned toward the hall, her voice softer. “And Mary, tell the cooks to bake something sweet today. I think we could all use sugar after this morning.”

Mary froze. She’s feeding us? Not feeding on us?

Helen gently nudged her. “Go before she changes her mind.”

Mary hurried away, nearly tripping on her apron strings.

Vivian exhaled. One step at a time. Maybe I can rewrite this story—not with blood, but with silk.

She smiled faintly and strode down the corridor, sunlight spilling through the tall windows like a quiet applause.

The following morning, the De Guzman Duchy was buzzing with restrained activity, preparing for the arrival of the renowned designer.

Today is the day this Madam Lily will come visit me, Vivian mused, running a hand over the intricate silver embroidery of her deep emerald morning gown. 

I have to see for myself who this woman really is and if cooperating with her in the future is the best thing to do.

She had spent the previous evening, locked away in her secret lair, entirely rewriting the preliminary sketches for the Spring Gala.

The process, exhilarating and familiar, had left her mind sharp and focused—perfect for evaluating threats and opportunities. 

As a villainess who is absolutely doomed to die, I have to make sure that I am with the right people to at least avoid my predestined death. Survival is the only metric that matters now. I need allies who are smart, discreet, and preferably not political time-bombs.

Vivian allowed herself a small, cold smile—the kind that looked perfectly natural on the Duke's formidable daughter. 

If she is as good as the Capital whispers, she'll understand that the best designs are built on strong, trustworthy foundations.

And I need to judge her foundation myself. Her public scent, meticulously managed by her suppressants to project aged sandalwood and bitter citrus,

remained cool and sophisticated, projecting an aura of composed Alpha control over the entire wing of the mansion.

The whole exercise was a high-stakes interview: Was Madam Lily worthy of joining her private, desperate mission to survive?

Vivian, now fully dressed in an imposing gown that emphasized her public Alpha status, stood before a tall, gilded mirror, studying the perfect,

cold mask of a Duke's daughter. A soft, hesitant sound broke the quiet tension of the dressing room.

Knock, knock.

The door cracked open just enough for Helen to peek through, her timid Beta scent of clean soap barely perceptible.

“Your visitor has arrived, my lady,” the maid whispered.

“Good,” Vivian commanded, her voice ringing with the involuntary sharpness that always betrayed her inner intent to be polite.

“Prepare a tea and confection. I’ll be down there in a minute.” She moved back toward the mirror, allowing the timid maid,

who was still trembling from the previous day's encounter, to fix the final strand of her elaborately pinned hair.

She’s early. Punctuality is a good sign, Madam Lily. Now, let’s see if you can handle a villainess.

In the sun-drenched receiving parlor, Madam Lily stood waiting, perfectly composed in her sharp, tailored wool suit.

Her scent, fir and warm olives, was subtle yet unforgettable, projecting competence without intrusion.

The double doors of the parlor swung inward, announcing the Duke's daughter. Vivian went down the short stretch of steps leading into the parlor,

but her attention was elsewhere. Her movements were slow, deliberate, projecting an aura of unhurried, magnetic authority.

As she walked toward the designer, Vivian had this intense, prickling feeling that this person was visually familiar.

She fixated on Madam Lily’s face, staring at the woman unknowingly as she tried to search the deepest recesses of her inherited memory for a match. 

Where do I know that face from? Was she a side character in the novel? Why does the OG Vivian's body recognize her?

Madam Lily, for her part, felt the weight of that unblinking, analytical stare—the full, unnerving focus of a high-ranking noble Alpha.

Her Beta scent, though controlled, tightened with anxiety, smelling faintly of dry straw. 

If looks could kill, I believe I would have been dead the moment she stepped down the stairway.

However, Madam Lily was a professional. She executed her greeting with a unique, deliberate formality: she reached out, lightly clasping

Vivian’s descending hand in hers—a bold, intimate gesture for a Beta addressing a high-ranking Alpha. She maintained firm eye contact as she dipped into a flawless curtsy.

“Lady Vivian, it is a great relief to see you looking so restored,” Madam Lily said, her voice smooth and professional, betraying no hint of fear.

Vivian didn't return the greeting immediately, still struggling to categorize the woman's features while pulling her hand free from the warm,

professional clasp. Instead, she took her time, walking past the designer to the main chaise and seating herself with the practiced,

effortless grace of high nobility. Let's see if she's worthy of my gold and my secret.

“Thank you, Madam Lily. It seems my recovery quickened once a matter of haute couture was brought to my attention,”

Vivian replied, her tone cool and measured. The sharp, sophisticated scent of her suppressants—aged sandalwood and bitter citrus—cut through the parlor,

a subtle display of dominance to check the Beta's nerve. “I received your letter. And you are here. Tell me, why are you truly here?”

Madam Lily’s controlled fir and warm olives scent flickered, a tiny spike of tension giving it a brittle edge.

She shifted her weight, the movement crisp and professional.

“Th- This is the first time you invited me to your place, my lady,” Madam Lily said, an awkward tremor in her usually smooth voice.

Vivian tilted her head. Wait, what? “Oh, it is?”

“Uhhh, yes, my lady,” Lily confirmed. “We have only met at another noble's tea gatherings and the biannual 

Soirée of the Crystal Loom.”

The OG villainess probably just tormented her at crowded events. 

“I see.” Vivian’s voice was utterly devoid of emotion, her gaze still fixed on the designer's face.

Lily couldn't take the scrutiny any longer. “Is there a problem, my lady?”

“I don’t think we…do,” Vivian drawled, still staring. 

Come on, brain. Recognize the enemy!

“You—you have been staring at me for a long time, my lady,” Lily managed.

Vivian blinked, the realization of her social faux pas hitting her. “Ahem. Did nothing of a sort. I only look at you for a moment.” 

Crap, this tongue.

“Anyways,” she snapped, forcefully changing the subject. She pulled a brown envelope sealed with the de Guzman crest from the side table and slid it across the polished surface.

"This is the thing you wanted?"

Madam Lily quickly seized the envelope, sliding out the sketches and fabric samples with practiced care. She spread them across the table like rare treasures,

her eyes darting between each line and shade. Her brow furrowed slightly as she traced a fingertip over one sketch’s bold silhouette.

“I appreciate this, my lady. And… is this truly appropriate for this style?” she asked, her tone thoughtful as she pointed at the detailed drawing.

Vivian didn't wait. She suddenly sat beside the Beta woman on the edge of the smaller velvet sofa across the table. Madam Lily’s small,

professional scent cloud briefly released a spike of sheer, unadulterated surprise—like crushed thyme. Vivian, entirely focused on the technical problem,

tapped the page with a frustrated tsk.

“Tell me, do you think this is too daring?” Vivian demanded, gesturing at the design.

“The gown poured down her frame like molten wine, its silk layers pooling into a long, regal train.” She traced the problematic line.

“At her side, a carefully cut slit climbed no higher than her knee—just enough to flash a hint of movement, a whisper of freedom with each step.

Bold, yes, but not so daring that a Duchess might faint outright.”