Vivianne Frostman. The heroine. The gentle, stubborn Omega whose quiet elegance would one day eclipse all others—not only in the rough-spun Common Districts, but even in the glittering salons of the Noble courts.

The girl whose very existence infuriated Vivian de Guzman.

Not because of her beauty.

Not because of her kindness.

Those only sharpened the knife.

It was the name.

Vivianne. Vivian. So easily mistaken. So easily switched upon the gossiping tongues of Veldava.

One, the noble-born jewel of fashion—daughter of a Duke, darling of aristocratic courts.

The other, a common-born model rising from the underground shows of the lower city—her name clinging like a shadow to a nobility that was never hers.

To the original Vivian de Guzman, the Duke’s feared Alpha daughter, Vivianne Frostman had always been a parasite—an insult etched into existence by accident of naming.

The faint, sweet scent of the girl was an offense in itself, a reminder that even scent could defy rank. And for that crime alone, she had been doomed to cruelty.

Because in this world of silk, iron, and magic-stone light, status meant survival.

The King might have sanctioned the ABO hierarchy as the foundation of modern society, but among the Nobility, old blood still ruled.

Lineage, not scent, decided one’s worth.

Even a Beta son of a noble house could inherit over an Alpha commoner; even an Omega heir could outrank a dozen powerful Alphas—so long as blue blood ran through their veins.

Alphas, Betas, Omegas—such labels only mattered outside the marble walls of aristocracy.

Vivian de Guzman: Alpha, noble, feared.

The villainess—petty, jealous, her pride a jeweled blade she clung to until it dragged her to ruin, long before the true story reached its height.

Vivianne Frostman: Omega, common-born, dismissed.

And yet, one day, beneath the glow of a thousand magic-stone streetlamps, the world would bow—

not to the Duke’s daughter,

but to her.

After the tumultuous rush of the fashion shows, the collection of gowns was now arrayed for the critical inspection of the nobility. A total of thirty dresses stood displayed on mannequins, each piece illuminated by the soft, humming light of carefully positioned magic stone lamps.

This collaboration, Vivian recalled, was vital: Madam Lily, a true artist devoted solely to crafting the most exquisite and structurally perfect garments in the Veldava Empire, needed the savvy and reach of the St. Therese Boutique owner to handle the public spectacle and commerce. The Boutique specialized in grand, high-profile fashion events—essential for launching new lines of gowns and bespoke suits.

As nobles gathered to socialize, the air thickened with the rich scent of expensive wine and delicate Omega perfumes, laced with the sharp, assertive cedar-and-spice undertones of powerful Alphas. It was an elegant battlefield of fragrance and conversation—every smile a calculated move, every gesture a subtle claim of power.

Ugh, the after-party inspection is the worst part, Vivian thought, her jaw tightening. Thirty pieces? This isn’t a collection—it’s a marathon. And I bet I could find three structural flaws in that Marquise de Lyra gown just by looking at the dart placement.

She forced her focus onto the details—seams, silhouettes, hem balances—anything but the wild, simmering pulse in her veins. Think about the fabric. The lines. The craft. The discipline of design steadied her breathing, cooling the storm that still churned beneath her suppressants. It wasn’t just irritation; it was the echo of something deeper, something that didn’t feel entirely her own.

Many guests continued to chatter, their conversations circling between political gossip and the more immediate subject: the clothing. Some spoke in hushed, sophisticated tones, offering compliments—which were essentially veiled appraisals—to the attending models. Others, more pragmatic, immediately began requesting to place orders.

In carefully maintained tradition, the model who had worn a specific gown or suit on the runway was responsible for receiving the commission. They would present the order form, noting fabric preferences, alteration requests, and, most importantly, the noble’s title for billing. It ensured direct feedback for the designers and gave the models—most of whom came from lower circles—a chance to form valuable connections with noble patrons.

Right. Order forms. It’s like a medieval Omegaverse version of retail luxury. Vivian’s lips twitched faintly. At least it means they can’t fire the models until all the commissions are settled.

But as her gaze drifted across the floor—past the models smiling under the soft hum of magic-stone lamps—her focus inevitably found her.

Vivianne Frostman.

The Omega stood near one of the center displays, speaking politely with a merchant’s wife who looked ready to faint from proximity. The soft blush perfume that clung to her skin still reached Vivian from across the room, faint but maddeningly distinct.

Something deep within her chest tightened, sharp and hot. Her pulse stuttered, then quickened. The suppressant should have muted everything, yet the air around her felt charged, alive with old instinct.

Why… why am I reacting like this?

Her mind scrambled for control, clinging to anything rational. Just look busy. Pretend to care about the embroidery. Don’t stare at her.

Vivian turned sharply toward the nearest mannequin; a black silk damask gown embroidered with silver thread that pulsed faintly with magic-light. She ran a gloved finger down the fabric’s edge, pretending to study the weave—while in truth, forcing herself to breathe evenly, to bury the strange, raw anger simmering in her veins.

This isn’t mine; she told herself firmly. This fury—it’s the body remembering something. Not me.

But no amount of logic could fully quiet the violent pulse beneath her skin.

"Good evening, Lady Vivian," a nearby Count, Lord Rylan, said, his scent a mix of sandalwood and barely restrained Alpha aggression, slightly acrid with excitement from the spectacle.

Vivian turned, her internal sarcastic designer monologue firing. Oh, look, it's the Count who thinks he's a Grand Duke. His waistcoat is entirely the wrong shade of emerald.

She offered a cool, perfectly pitched smile, projecting an aura of sophisticated boredom. "Count Rylan. Are you admiring the structural integrity of Madam Lily’s Statement Gown, or merely wondering if your tailor could ever manage the magic-stone detailing? You know they can’t, of course—it requires a Grade Four focusing crystal."

Her sharp tongue, the very thing she was trying to suppress, had slipped out. It wasn't quite villainous, but it was certainly Duke's-daughter-level condescending.

Big yikes. I need to walk that back. My survival depends on not insulting the entire nobility.

Lord Rylan’s face tightened, his sandalwood scent spiking sharply in annoyance before he forced a neutral Beta-like control. "I was merely observing the craftsmanship, Lady Vivian. Remarkable, truly. I believe that young Omega model, the one who wore this piece, is taking orders nearby?" while touching the Angelic Ingenue gown.

His gaze slid past her—straight to Vivianne Frostman. The girl stood near a pillar, clutching an order tablet, nervous fingers trembling against the glass. A faint sweetness hung in the air—light, perfumed, the kind of scent models wore during showcases to mask their natural pheromones. It wasn’t real, but somehow it still scraped against Vivian’s nerves, subtle and irritating in its gentleness.

No… she didn’t even know why the word echoed in her mind. The air around her tightened, her pulse hammering. Her body reacted before she could think, like something territorial had just flared to life inside her.

Vivian positioned herself deliberately between the Count and the heroine, her own Alpha-mimicking scent—cool, sharp, like expensive, bitter perfume—flaring slightly in warning.

"Oh, her?" Vivian said, injecting a subtle, dismissive sneer into the word. "She's frightfully slow with the forms, poor thing. All thumbs. I suggest you approach Lady Clarissa's model instead. Much more efficient. Unless, of course, you enjoy waiting half the night."

She didn't wait for his reply. She simply turned her back on the Count, who was now utterly nonplussed, and walked directly toward Vivianne, who flinched at her approach.

Perfect. I just alienated a minor noble and terrified the heroine simultaneously. Two birds, one unnecessarily aggressive stone.

Vivian didn't have time to process her own unnecessary aggression. She focused on the crowd. As expected, many flocks of nobles were scenting around Vivianne's pieces—dresses designed to be conventionally beautiful and gentle, suitable for a delicate Omega like the heroine. Only a daring few, often the younger, more reform-minded Alphas or socially secure Betas, had the audacity to approach the boldest pieces, including the one Vivian herself had sketched and Madam Lily had perfected.

The bold Statement Gown was the talk of the room, though few dared to commission it. Madam Lily had adjusted the original design, replacing Vivian’s envisioned deep velvet red with a darker, near-black hue that shimmered under the magic-stone lighting. The effect was mesmerizing—dangerous even—but it only widened the gap between admiration and fear.

Which is alright, Vivian thought, observing the stiff lace and high collars elsewhere. This world is still stuck in a conservative tradition. God forbid a woman show an ankle, let alone a personality.

Then, she spotted her—a young noblewoman, Lady Elara, the daughter of a minor Count who had somehow secured the Statement Gown for the show and was now trying to circulate. Lady Elara had guts. Vivian drifted over, her eyes critically assessing the fit, already planning mental tweaks.

"Lady Elara," Vivian drawled, her voice carrying just enough to cut through the chatter. Her scent, the cool, sharp barrier, tightened slightly.

Lady Elara froze, clutching the train of the magic-stone gown. Her sweet, almond Omega scent went momentarily acrid with terror.

"You wear the piece perfectly," Vivian complimented, her inner monologue adding: bold, yes, but not aggressive enough to lift an eyebrow. It needs more structural drama. "The lines suit your carriage, and the silverwork is impeccable."

Lady Elara’s sweet, almond Omega scent spiked, fluttering unsteadily—more startled delight than fear—then faded, dizzy, like a candle snuffed too fast. The young lady stared for one beat too long, her eyes wide as saucers, her breath hitching. Then, with a gasp of pure, overwhelming shock and—impossibly—joy, she simply crumpled.

"Oh. Big yikes," Vivian muttered internally. Did I just... make a noblewoman faint from a compliment? Is that peak villainess or just peak awkward?