Lady Gretel Ashburn, the Duke’s formidable aide, had not intended to interrupt the young mistress of the house. She was merely conversing with the butler about household finances in the quiet corner of the outer hall when faint, muffled sounds drifted from the slightly ajar greeting room door.

Her Alpha instincts stirred—curiosity sharpened by a protective edge. Someone unfamiliar was inside with Lady Vivian. Without thinking, Gretel leaned toward the narrow gap, the glint of her monocle catching the morning light.

She saw it: Vivian swaying, pressing the heel of her palm to her temple, words slurring as if her tongue had turned to lead as the designer half-rose in alarm.

Years of court discipline kicked in. Gretel's instincts screamed two urgent commands

Stop the scene. Contain the damage.

Before the thought finished forming, Gretel was moving. Her boots clicked once on marble; the next instant, she was at Vivian’s side. The rich, commanding scent of red wine—aged, spiced, and heady—flooded the parlor. It crushed the faint fir-and-olive trace of Madam Lily’s lingering scent and even smothered the sharp citrus edge of Vivian’s suppressants.

Vivian blinked up, disoriented, her vision blurring into the red-haired woman’s silhouette. The scent pressed down like velvet, sweet and dizzying. Her throat tightened, alarm shooting through her veins.

“Ugh… who are you?” she demanded, her voice low, guarded.

“Young mistress, you need to rest—” Lady Ashburn’s tone was clipped, professional, but she suddenly stiffened. A faint tendril of lavender threaded the air, subtle but undeniable, invading her nose with startling clarity.

Saints… that scent. For a split second, Lady Ashburn’s composure faltered. The fragrance wasn’t the polished sandalwood of a noble Alpha — it was sweet, lush, and devastatingly alive. It pulled at the instinct she’d spent years mastering, the one that demanded dominance, contact, control. Gretel’s jaw tightened, her pupils constricting as the red wine of her own scent sharpened dangerously. She forced her breathing to steady, locking her muscles in place. No. Focus. She’s the Duke’s daughter, not prey.

“Young mistress…” she said again, sharper this time to mask the tremor beneath it, “did you forget to use your suppressant?”

Vivian’s heart skipped, panic prickling along her skin. Suppressant? Of course… the villainess would have one. She forced a scowl, baring the sharpness that kept nobles at bay. “And why should I answer a stranger? Remove your hands.”

The words came out colder than she intended, her Alpha façade snapping back like a blade unsheathed. Yet inside, her chest fluttered with unease.

The ache in her skull had faded, replaced by something far worse—a feverish hum beneath her skin, heat crawling through her veins like wildfire. Her focus slipped, breath catching. No, this can’t be… is this what happens during rut month? OMG, this is bad.

Her body trembled. The sandalwood and citrus veneer of her Alpha façade broke apart, drowned beneath the growing sweetness of lavender—wild, raw, dangerously real.

Lady Ashburn’s scent: red wine, deep and spiced, intoxicating to the point of suffocation. Vivian’s every nerve screamed both warning and want. I need to move—before something happens I can’t undo. The "undo" was a blank, terrifying abyss of lost control.

Vivian staggered, clutching at her own arms as if to hold herself together. Her knees wobbled, breath ragged. “Ge–get off me—” she panted, “huff… huff…”

The red-haired woman’s scent pressed closer. It was like a rich, aged red wine—deep, sweet, and utterly intoxicating.

“Calm yourself, my lady,” Gretel commanded, catching her just as her knees buckled. Vivian’s breath came in ragged gasps, her hands clutching at the red-haired woman’s lapel for balance—or perhaps for sanity. The Alpha’s scent filled her head, thick as velvet smoke.

No, stop, don’t breathe—don’t want this—

But her body didn’t listen. The heat burned higher, a foreign pulse she couldn’t restrain.

A flicker of silver caught her eye. Gretel’s hand moved with mechanical precision; the suppressant syringe gleamed between her fingers.

“Hold still.”

Her tone left no room for argument.

Vivian stiffened as the woman tilted her chin, baring the line of her neck. Her pulse thudded wildly beneath the skin. The cool metal kissed her nape—

—and the world narrowed to breath, heartbeat, and the scent of red wine swallowing lavender whole.

When Vivian finally stirred again, the golden glow of early evening spilled through the curtains. Her head felt clearer, though the memory of what had happened pressed heavy against her chest.

So, it’s true… I don’t just have the death sentence from the novel—I’ve got something else to survive too. The heat cycle.

At her bedside, Carmina—the physician’s assistant—sat patiently with a ledger on her lap. Her warm eyes lifted the moment Vivian moved.

“My lady, you mustn’t force yourself,” Carmina said gently. “The suppressant worked, but you must learn how to manage your cycle. If left untended, the symptoms will return.”

Vivian grimaced, propping herself weakly on one elbow. “Then tell me—how do I even know when my heat cycle comes?”

Carmina’s expression softened, her tone shifting into the calm precision of a teacher. “Each Alpha’s rhythm is different, but most are marked by the turning of the moons. Magic helps track the cycle—mages at the Tower have developed talismans to measure it precisely. Your father, the Duke, has long supported their work.”

Vivian tried to keep up, but her thoughts tangled. Magic talismans? Mages? A Tower? None of this was in the version I read…

Carmina frowned slightly, noticing the distant glaze in her mistress’s eyes. “Are you listening, my lady?”

“Yes, yes,” Vivian answered quickly, waving a hand. “Suppressants, talismans, moons, magic—got it. But… who was the woman earlier? The red-haired one. I didn’t catch her face.”

“That,” Carmina said, her lips curving with recognition, “was Lady Gretel Ashburn. She is the Duke’s personal assistant.”

Vivian blinked. “…Ashburn?”

Carmina nodded. “Yes. The Baron Ashburn household has provided the De Guzman Dukedom with its finest personal aides for centuries. But Lady Gretel is… different. She is the first Alpha woman the Duke has ever acknowledged in that role. Tradition has always dictated that men should lead, regardless of their secondary gender. Yet she—” Carmina allowed herself a small smile, “—she earned the Duke’s trust. And that is no small feat.”

Vivian leaned back against her pillows, absorbing the words. So… the woman who practically manhandled me earlier is not just anyone. Gretel Ashburn. The one whose red wine scent almost made me lose control. An Alpha rival, hand-picked by the Duke himself.

Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling. My ally list is shrinking, and my enemy list just got a very capable, red-haired addition.

Her lips twitched wryly. Just my luck.

But as the quiet settled back into the room, another thought stirred—soft, unwelcome, and far too intimate.

Lavender… That was the scent that broke through. Sweet, sharp, and wild. Was that really mine?

She stared at her hands, palms open against the coverlet. If it was, then what was the aged sandalwood and citrus I’ve been using all this time? A suppressant? A disguise?

Her chest tightened. Did someone make me hide my real scent on purpose?

Carmina was still in the room, jotting something into her ledger, but Vivian bit her tongue. She didn’t dare ask—not yet. The woman was kind, but also the Duke’s employee.

For now, she buried the question beneath a practiced calm, letting her eyes slip shut. I’ll find out on my own, she thought, even if I have to tear through every bottle in this house to do it.

A week had passed in a blur of mandatory medical checks, hushed visits from the Duke’s personal physician, and the ever-present, watchful scrutiny of Lady Gretel Ashburn. Vivian had spent the time mastering her suppressant schedule and, more importantly, studying the political landscape, preparing for her next bold move.

Tonight marked the grandest event on Lowe’s Street. The air itself crackled with high-society energy, drawing in the entire spectrum of prestige: the centuries-old Nobility and the commercially powerful Gentry.

The venue for the Spring Opening was the Grand Atrium of the Gilded Thread—Madam Lily’s colossal flagship, occupying a prime stretch of Lowe’s Street.

The Atrium was an architectural marvel: old-world arches entwined with modern magic-stone engineering. A serpentine runway of polished obsidian dominated the floor, surrounded by velvet-draped tiers. Lumina-stones embedded in the vaulted ceiling cast a shifting glow of sapphire and emerald, bathing hundreds of attendees in a dreamlike wash of color.

The air, normally a riot of mixed Alpha, Beta, and Omega pheromones, was carefully balanced tonight by the faint, clean scent of fir and warm olives—Madam Lily’s deliberate projection of professionalism and calm.

Vivian de Guzman made her entrance precisely as the last nobles were being seated. She moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator, the perfect mask of control restored. Her suppressants held flawlessly, projecting the composed, cold scent of aged sandalwood and bitter citrus. Every step dismissed the noise around her.

Her reappearance so soon after rumors of her “collapse” sent a ripple through the audience. Heads turned; murmurs sparked like static across the tiers.

Warm greetings followed—smiles too polished, voices too sweet. Vivian returned them all with a curve of her lips that never reached her eyes. They smell like perfume-coated lies, she thought. The ones who bow the lowest are the first to bare their teeth once your back is turned.

After a suffocating round of obligatory courtesies, she slipped free and ascended to her private box—a curtained balcony on the second floor, right of the stage, giving her a commanding view of the runway and the crowd below.

The hum of conversation faded.

With a resonant, magical thrum, the Lumina-stones dimmed, plunging the Atrium into near darkness. A hush swept over the Nobility and Gentry.

A single beam of white light struck the runway. An older gentleman stood in its glow, his snow-white mustache neat, his black coat immaculate. The Beta’s scent—leather and dried cloves—cut clean through the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his amplified voice boomed, “I am honored to announce the start of the Spring Night Collection!”

Applause cascaded through the chamber. Music rose—an exotic rhythm of strings and enchanted pipes—and the show began.

From her perch, Vivian watched sharply, gauging the political temperature of the room.

The first models appeared, sweeping down the obsidian runway in a careful hierarchy: noble Alphas and Omegas strutting for prestige, fallen nobles trading lineage for coin, and striking commoners whose beauty momentarily lifted them above the working class.

The energy thickened, the air perfumed with excitement, envy, and judgment. Nobles leaned forward with their habitual sneers, yet none could look away. The artistry was undeniable.

Then came the finale.

“Nobilities and Gentry,” the master of ceremonies declared, “we save the best for last—five designs, including the most anticipated suits and gowns of Spring Night!”

The crowd held its breath. The music deepened. Five models emerged.

Vivian’s gaze sharpened.

The second model wore the Calm Elegance design—hers. The execution was flawless. She permitted herself a satisfied nod.

The third passed.

Then the fourth stepped onto the runway—

—and Vivian froze.

Her breath caught; her pulse stuttered.

It wasn’t the gown that stunned her—it was the woman wearing it.

Vivianne Frostman.

The heroine glided down the runway in her design, the one she had privately named the Angelic Ingenue. A blush-pink gown of airy tulle, pleated bodice, and crisscrossed silk hugged the heroine’s frame before spilling into a cloud of ruffled light. The fabric shimmered as she moved, ethereal and impossibly pure.

Vivian’s perfect Alpha mask fractured. Her scent of sandalwood and citrus wavered, pierced by a surge of raw disbelief.

The heroine? Here? Now? And wearing my design?

The realization hit her like a magical carriage crash.

She barely registered the final model stepping out in the true showstopper—the Bold Statement gown, the same one that had caused so much strife in her parlor.

Madam Lily… Vivian’s thoughts seethed. You introduced her to the public using my work.