This isn't a custom piece. This is a collection design. Vivian’s tone sharpened. “The issue isn't whether it's daring enough for me, Madam Lily. The issue is the design itself. This gown is meant for the Spring Night Collection, isn't it? It’s a showpiece.”

She dropped her voice to a low, strategic tone. “It was designed to be universally audacious, not personally political... If this specialized thread you plan to use is going to pull the silk as you fear, it will look less rebellious and more… slovenly. That is not the impression I wish to make, Madam Lily. And it won’t sell well for your house, either.”

The Beta designer stared at Vivian, her scent of fir and warm olives smoothing out, regaining a clear, professional competence.

“M-My Lady,” Lily breathed, her voice now perfectly steady. “You… you are absolutely correct. It is the core concept for the collection’s unveiling. The issue is the magic-stone thread’s weight. The original design can’t handle the density needed to maintain the light effect without dragging the whole line. How did you know about the collection?”

Vivian blinked. Magic-stone thread? What even— Is that supposed to be literal? Or like those “magic” contour pencils influencers used to swear by? I mean, threads can’t possibly glow on their own… right?

She kept her expression neutral, refusing to let her bewilderment show. “I see,” she said smoothly, masking her ignorance beneath professional calm. “Then the problem isn’t in the aesthetic choice, it’s in the engineering of the garment.”

Vivian’s tone sharpened, returning to confident analysis. “The slit, aside from adding a touch of seduction,” she continued, tracing the design sketch with a gloved fingertip, “is fundamentally meant to help the wearer move freely. The train is long, opulent, and utterly unforgiving. Without that slit, the movement becomes a shuffle, not a confident stride—it destroys the entire message of the gown.”

Madam Lily hesitated, then nodded slowly, her fir-and-olive scent smoothing again into thoughtful calm. “You truly understand the philosophy of it,” she murmured. “It’s not rebellion for attention… it’s rebellion with grace.”

Exactly, Vivian thought, relieved she’d managed to navigate the talk of glowing magic thread without outing herself as technologically illiterate in this world. Now, if only the rest of this empire could stop using the word ‘magic’ like it’s part of a sewing kit.

She paused, then pushed the remaining two sketches—equally detailed but wildly different in spirit—toward the Beta designer.

“And the other two sketches,” Vivian continued, her tone cool and poised, as though briefing a noble committee rather than discussing fabric. “One is suited for someone with an angelic presence—soft frills, light fabrics, pastel shades of pink and ivory, the kind of style that evokes innocence and charm.”

Translation: the first is your sugar-sweet, fairy-wing look—perfect for someone who wants to float into a ballroom like a frosted cupcake.

“The other,” she added, tapping the second sheet, “is a neutral design, for someone who cannot carry daring cuts or overly frilled silhouettes. It avoids extremes—neither bold nor cute—favoring calm elegance instead.”

And this one? That’s for people who just want to breathe. Greens, browns, clean lines… simple, stable—‘I have no interest in playing dress-up.’

Madam Lily’s eyes glittered, a spark of pure excitement cutting through her composed professionalism. Her scent—fir and warm olives—brightened faintly, touched now by a sharp hint of lemon zest. “That is true. Not everyone can wear a statement piece perfectly, but thinking ahead like this… it’s amazing, my lady! You speak as though you’ve managed a design house yourself!”

“Well,” Vivian replied, a faint smile tugging at her lips, “as a designer, it’s expected to think of the client’s needs. A dress that cannot be worn for its purpose is nothing more than wasted fabric and ego.”

Lily gave a quiet, respectful laugh. “Your insight into market segmentation is remarkable, Lady Vivian. We could approach this as a true capsule collection.”

“Exactly.” Vivian’s eyes lit up with rare, unguarded satisfaction. “Three pillars: The Bold Statement, The Angelic Ingenue, and The Calm Elegance. Together, they’ll cover the full aesthetic spectrum. The problem, as we established, lies with the Bold Statement’s construction.”

“I agree, my lady.” Madam Lily’s voice warmed as she leaned forward, already sketching invisible patterns in the air with her fingertips. “I will instruct my head weaver to adjust the density of the magic-stone thread and redistribute the weight through the bodice. That should preserve the fluid line of both the slit and the train.”

Vivian nodded, carefully hiding her lingering unease at the term magic-stone thread. So it glows and… floats? Or hums? Or whatever it does? I’ll just nod like I’ve used that in couture since birth.

As Lily continued laying out her plan for the Spring Collection, Vivian allowed herself a quiet moment of satisfaction. For the first time since awakening in this world, she wasn’t merely reacting—she was leading.

The atmosphere between them hummed with creative focus—warm, charged, alive with purpose.

Vivian leaned in, her scent of aged sandalwood and bitter citrus mingling with the Beta’s fir and warm olives. Two professionals deep in consultation, oblivious to all else.

Beyond the half-shut doors, leather shifted softly. A figure lingered in the shadows of the portico columns—motionless, scent rich and heady like spiced red wine. Through the narrow gap, they could see everything: Lady Vivian de Guzman framed in golden light, the air inside heavy with layered pheromones that told more than words ever could.

Inside, Madam Lily, having secured Vivian’s input, gathered her materials. She took the brown envelope containing the sketch and held it over a small, exquisitely beaded purse that looked too slender to hold more than a coin or two.

Vivian, still calculating adjustments for thread weight in her head, watched the professional motion—and froze. The envelope, easily the size of a dinner plate, was sucked into the tiny purse as if the air itself had swallowed it whole. The bag didn’t swell or strain; the object simply vanished, defying every law of physics Vivian knew.

“Wait, you can do that!?” she blurted, her voice breaking through her practiced poise. Her Alpha scent flickered—aged sandalwood and citrus pierced by a flash of raw metallic disbelief.

Madam Lily flinched at the unexpected sound and the shift in pheromones. “Yes, my lady,” she replied, slipping quickly back behind her professional mask. “It’s a magic purse. The size is large enough to fit ten boxes of fruit?” Her tone wavered, uncertain, as if doubting what she’d heard. Surely a high-ranking Alpha knew of such a common device.

“Ten boxes of fruit!? How big is a box of fruit? No, wait—where did you buy that!?”

Vivian’s mind was screaming: What is happening? I didn’t read this in the novel! There’s magic in this world? Was it the abridged version? A fan translation?!

Lily blinked, her scent of fir and warm olives tightening with confusion. 

“My lady, a hundred pieces of fruit equal a box. You can have a purse made at the 

Magic Tower of Mages. Your father, the Duke, is one of their largest investors, so surely you own one far grander than mine?”

Vivian’s blood went cold. Of course the villainess has one. Probably a purse that carries an armory. “Do I?” she murmured, then coughed delicately. “Ahem, of course I do. I was merely jesting, Madam Lily.”

Her smile was slow and deliberate, a perfect performance of aristocratic ease. “Now, regarding the event,” she continued, voice sliding back into authority. “I believe everything is in order?”

“Of course, my lady.” Lily adjusted the cuff of her tailored suit, her tone once more crisp and composed. “We’ll collaborate with the owner of St. Therese Boutique for the Spring opening. She’ll supply models in exchange for exclusive rights to sell a few pieces from the collection.”

Vivian barely heard her. St. Therese Boutique? Madam Lily … I know this name.

The memory hit like a flashbulb—coffee, the flick of a phone screen, a paragraph from that accursed Omegaverse novel. She helps the heroine. She was always the heroine’s supporter—and she hated me.

Yet when Vivian studied Lily’s expression now, she saw no contempt. The designer’s gaze was calm, precise, quietly respectful. Her scent—fir and warm olives—remained steady, free of the bitterness that should have been there.

This isn’t the script I remember, Vivian thought. She’s not looking at me like an enemy. She’s looking at me like… a peer.

The realization stung more than expected. Two histories overlapped inside her skull—the book’s past and this strange, rewritten present. A dull ache pulsed behind her eyes. She pressed a hand to her temple, a tiny slip in her perfect façade.

Madam Lily’s explanation faltered. Her scent wavered with sudden worry. “Are you all right, my lady?” she asked, leaning forward.

Vivian blinked. Wait. She’s worried? She actually cares?

“I’m fine,” Vivian said quickly, regaining her posture. Her sandalwood-and-citrus scent cooled back into composure. “Merely fatigue. Continue.”

Inside, though, her thoughts spun. The plot is changing. Madam Lily might not be my enemy. She could even be… an ally.

Her eyes unfocused for a moment. And you… I remember… The thought came and went like a spark before she could grasp it.

Before she could make sense of the flicker in her mind, a blur of movement drew her focus—a sudden, foreign presence stepping in front of her.

The scent hit her first. Red wine—rich, spiced, and commanding—rolled through the room like a wave, crushing the delicate fir-and-olive calm that lingered from Madam Lily. Vivian stiffened, her instincts snapping taut as the new Alpha presence settled over the air, heavy and inescapable.

“I believe this meeting is finished. You may leave, Madam,” the newcomer said coolly. Her tone was crisp and absolute, with the kind of authority that tolerated no argument.

Vivian blinked, momentarily disoriented by the abrupt intrusion. The tall woman before her had hair like burning copper, vivid even under the muted light, and eyes that gleamed with sharp, assessing control.

Madam Lily instantly straightened, recognizing her. “Why, hello, Gretel. It’s been a long time.” Her voice was courteous, but her scent faltered—fir and olives retreating beneath the oppressive red wine dominance. “Lady Vivian, it saddens me to end our meeting so abruptly. Thank you for your time. Be well.”

Vivian opened her mouth to protest, but the designer was already halfway to the door. Gretel’s presence left no space for argument—she was a force that swept the entire room into submission by simply existing.

The door shut with a soft click, sealing the two Alphas inside.

Vivian slowly turned her gaze to the red-haired woman still standing close enough for their scents to clash. Aged sandalwood met spiced wine; authority met audacity.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was quiet but edged like a drawn blade.

“Who are you?”

The question cut through the charged air—not shouted, not trembling, but dangerously calm.

The red-haired woman smiled, faintly, as if she had been waiting for that very question.

The heavy mahogany carriage bore the elegant, stylized logo of the Lily brand: a golden, intertwined loom and needle—pulled away from the formidable gates of the De Guzman Duchy.

Inside, the Beta designer sat upright, her earlier professional composure returning, but now underscored by intense, quiet calculation. Her scent, the cool, competent fir and warm olives, was tinged with a faint, sharp note of intellectual focus. She didn't look forward; instead, she watched the colossal, gray stone silhouette of the mansion recede through the window.

The oddities of the meeting—Vivian's unnerving, analytical stare during the greeting, the complete shock over the simple magic purse, the genuine expertise displayed with the sketches, and the sheer fact that the villainess had invited her in the first place—all cycled through her mind like pieces of a complex mechanism finally fitting into place.

The Lady Vivian de Guzman of the Crystal Loom Soirée would never have sat on the sofa beside me, Madam Lily mused, adjusting the simple gold locket at her throat. She certainly would never have been ignorant of a common Tier-One utility artifact.

It was the only rational conclusion that explained the contradictory, fragmented behavior: the cold cruelty of the Alpha façade combined with the bewildered surprise of a complete novice.

“She lost her memories,” Madam Lily murmured to herself, the realization settling over her like a heavy, unexpected veil. It explained everything, and it changed everything. The high-stakes interview had just become far more complicated—and far more interesting.