While Vivianne was keenly aware of the sudden spike in hostility, her interpretation of it was painfully wrong.

Her wide, anxious eyes, which had been darting across the room in search of Melissa or Madam Lily, froze when they locked onto Lady Vivian de Guzman.

The duke’s daughter stood across the hall like a coiled predator; gaze fixed on the scene with lethal intensity. In her hand, the wine goblet trembled—a faint but unmistakable sign of barely contained fury.

Not this again, Vivianne thought, dread pooling in her stomach. She’s angry. At me. I’ve seen that look before—always a heartbeat before the venom struck.

This was precisely why she avoided the Noble District whenever possible: the endless baiting, the cruel laughter, the bullying that turned her very name into a weapon. And now, the Viper’s eyes were on her once more.

If only Melissa and Madam Lily hadn’t forced her to attend. The Boutique had plenty of models, yet both insisted only she could embody their vision of fragile grace. Refusal wasn’t an option; not for a commoner depending on their favor.

As a commoner, she had no choice. To refuse Madam Lily or Lady Melissa—backed by one of the Empire’s most powerful houses—was to lose her livelihood and invite punishment she couldn’t afford. So here she was, trapped, trying to breathe evenly as her floral perfume threatened to spiral out of control.

And still, Vivian de Guzman’s sandalwood-and-citrus mask sharpened across the room, her fury radiating like a blade unsheathed.

Please, Vivianne prayed silently, her hands tightening on the order tablet, please leave me in peace. Don’t strike at me. Not here, not now.

The predator’s eyes never wavered. And Vivianne braced herself for the blow she was certain was coming.

But when she opened her eyes again, the immediate threat was gone. She saw Vivian de Guzman a distance away, speaking with Madam Lily. The two women were engaged in a low, swift conversation that was serious and discreet, but lacked the outward hostility Vivianne expected. It was a professional discussion, quickly executed, designed to manage the fallout of the incident.

Lady Melissa was already beside Vivianne, her movements brisk and decisive, her scent a sharp, clean burst of Alpha citrus that cut through the heavier, predatory musk’s of the other nobles, signaling protection. Melissa gently guided the young woman out of the nobles’ immediate group, leading her toward the back where the commissioned gowns were being logged.

“That will be all for tonight, Miss Frostman,” Lady Melissa said smoothly, the crisp edge of command threading through her otherwise courteous tone. Her words carried just enough for nearby nobles to hear—firm, final, and impossible to contest.

“You’ve performed admirably,” she continued, dipping her head in a show of polite deference to the guests. “However, it seems our models have been far too long on their feet. We’ll see to the remainder of the commissions shortly.”

The crowd accepted the dismissal without protest; few were willing to challenge an Alpha of House Baltimore. Behind her measured smile, Melissa’s senses burned. The air still thrummed faintly with that sharp, commanding scent—Lady Vivian de Guzman’s sandalwood and citrus, far too volatile to ignore.

“Come,” she murmured, lowering her voice as her hand closed gently but insistently around Vivianne’s arm. “We’ll continue in the back. It’s safer there.”

“Yes, my lady,” Vivianne said quietly, clutching the order tablet close. She kept her posture steady, even as her pulse raced beneath the weight of so many watching eyes.

Out of the corner of her eye, Melissa saw Madam Lily exchange a brief, urgent glance with Lady Vivian. The older woman’s poise never faltered, but the tension in her shoulders told the story—every noble present had felt that flare of dominance, and one misstep could turn this elegant evening into a scandal.

While they walked, Melissa leaned close, her voice a low, encouraging whisper that only Vivianne could hear.

“You did great, Viv!” Melissa silently squealed in genuine delight, waving the full order form Vivianne had just finished completing. “I knew you were the right person to wear that dress. You were able to convey the beauty of it, and look”—she waved the form again, making the paper crackle— “we have a lot of orders on the dress you wore.”

Melissa patted her shoulder, her Alpha scent of citrus and success filling the small space. “Viv, you can enjoy the rest of the party. You deserve it,” she said, already turning her attention to the other forms.

“Sigh… Thank you, My Lady,” Vivianne replied, the gratitude genuine, even if the relief was overwhelming. “I will be outside, as I require fresh air.”

She turned and walked quickly toward the nearest exit. She did not look back. Vivianne had seen enough of the Noble District for one night and yearned only for separation.

Thank goodness we did not meet this time, she thought, her steps quickening.

She walked into the cool night air and dove straight into the shadows of the expansive maze garden outside. She needed the privacy of the tall, manicured hedges to compose herself and avoid the noble crowds for the rest of the evening.

Vivian, who tried to control the body that was uncooperative—the residual rage of the original owner still vibrating in her limbs—abruptly gulped the heavy, expensive wine in one sharp swallow. The taste barely registered against the heat of her fury.

Before she could set the empty goblet down, Madam Lily swept toward her, her elaborate gown rustling like dry leaves.

“Lady Vivian, I am honored you’ve attended the event! Did you see the dress we make? It’s a success!” Madam Lily exclaimed, her excitement barely contained. She attempted to control herself, resisting the urge to jump or clap, and instead performed a deep, stylized curtsy. She stopped just short of taking Vivian’s hands. Vivian noticed that only Madam Lily curtsied to her in this particular way—a gesture that had always puzzled the original Vivian de Guzman.

Well not that I mind, Vivian mused, quickly resetting her expression of aloof boredom. I find it cool and gentlemanly in a feminine way. It’s certainly unique.

When Madam Lily straightened up, the fresh, assertive scent of fir and olive wafted over Vivian’s nose. It was a clean, dominant scent that, like her curtsy, smelled manly in a feminine way.

Is this an Alpha scent? Vivian thought, filing the complex, earthy aroma away. Somehow, I know. I thought Madam was a Beta. This scent was strong, assertive, and undeniably one of command—the kind of aroma that demanded respect, and certainly one that fit the successful, unyielding Madam Lily.

“We’ve had spectacular commissions this evening, Lady Vivian,” Madam Lily said with composed delight, her fir-and-olive scent deepening in satisfaction. “Even the Statement Gown has already received three firm alteration requests. As for the earlier disturbance, it was settled exactly as you preferred—Lady Melissa handled the commoner model swiftly and without commotion. No scandal, no loss of face.”

Her tone softened into courteous sympathy, though the edge beneath it was unmistakable. “A pity, truly. Some forget their place when given too much attention. Still, your presence steadied the room, my lady.”

Vivian forced her expression into a mask of composure, though the faint shimmer of heat beneath her skin betrayed her slipping control. The sandalwood-and-citrus edge of her scent spiked, sharper than she intended.

“Of course, Madam,” she replied, her tone smooth but distant. “I wouldn’t want the success of your garments marred by unnecessary spectacle.”

Madam Lily inclined her head graciously, mistaking the restrained tone for approval.

But Vivian’s thoughts were far from calm. Every breath felt heavy with the body’s lingering fury, a restless energy pulsing just under her skin. She needed to anchor herself—to say something, anything to keep her focus from fracturing.

Her gaze shifted to the nearest gown display. “Madam Lily,” she said quietly, her voice lowering, “why did you permit that model—Frostman—to wear my sketch?”

Madam Lily’s polite smile faltered just a breath. “Because the design required someone who could embody softness without weakness, my lady,” she replied carefully. “The Angelic Ingenue was never meant for a highborn Alpha’s presence. Its purity would have dulled. Only a gentle aura could bring it to life.”

Vivian’s eyes narrowed slightly, though she said nothing. The air between them tightened; her scent flared again, colder this time, like citrus rind crushed under ice.

Madam Lily hesitated, then added, her voice lower, as if to soothe: “You misunderstand, Lady Vivian. No one else could have carried that design with such quiet precision. It honored your work, not diminished it.”

Several nobles nearby began to glance in their direction, drawn by the faint tension humming through the air. Madam Lily noticed first, her poise instantly returning. She dipped a shallow curtsy and murmured, “Forgive me, my lady—we’re attracting attention. Perhaps we can continue this in private later.”

Vivian inclined her head slightly, forcing the smallest smile as she reined in her unstable scent.  “As you wish, Madam.”

Like moths to a flame, a number of lesser nobles began hovering nearby, attempting to intercept their conversation. It seemed they desperately wanted the attention of both Madam Lily—the famous designer—and the infamous Duke’s daughter, hoping to bask in her reflected goodwill.

Vivian felt the familiar pressure of the crowd closing in, their assorted, lesser scents clashing into an unbearable perfume of greed and curiosity. Too close, she thought grimly. They always gather when they smell weakness—or spectacle. She needed to withdraw before one of them provoked the remnants of the body’s volatile instincts.

She spotted a waiter weaving carefully through the throng, balancing a tray of fresh wine. Just as he was about to pass, Vivian moved with the swift precision of a practiced predator. She placed her empty goblet on the tray and, without breaking her cool gaze, picked up two full glasses of red wine. The sandalwood-and-citrus edge of her scent flared sharply, an unspoken command that rolled across the air like pressure.

“Bring me a bottle or two outside—in the maze garden,” she ordered, her tone smooth but edged in steel.

The young waiter—likely a Beta or low-ranked Alpha—visibly straightened under the weight of her authority. His scent trembled faintly, obedience overtaking fear. He nodded as if accepting a sacred mission.

Vivian didn’t wait for his reply. She turned on her heel, moving through the crowd with the kind of quiet precision that made others part before her. The two full glasses of wine gleamed in her hands, a temporary shield between herself and the pressing tide of noble perfumes. The maze garden would suffice—cool, quiet, and far enough from the suffocating blend of scents inside. She needed distance, composure, and the night’s solitude to burn off the body’s lingering fury.

Outside, the maze garden unfurled under the soft glow of embedded magic-stones. The hedges rose tall and intricately trimmed, their shapes casting shifting shadows that rippled across the gravel paths. In a clearing at the center, a tiered fountain murmured quietly, its water catching the light in ripples of silver. Beside it stood a stone settee—an elegant, curved bench of white marble, large enough to seat three comfortably.

Vivian stopped before the fountain, the night’s cool air brushing against her skin. She held one of the full glasses of red wine in her left hand; the second she set neatly on the marble bench, its surface glinting faintly in the lamplight.

Moments later, soft footsteps rustled against the grass—the young waiter, obedient and breathless, carrying a tray with two unopened bottles and several fresh glasses. His pulse all but thudded through the air, a nervous Beta scent tinged with fear and adrenaline.

“Leave them all here and be gone,” Vivian said, her tone low and precise, every syllable edged with the authority of an Alpha born to command. The waiter bowed deeply, eager to flee.

“I said all,” Vivian added, the words soft but venomous.

He froze, then quickly placed the silver tray beside the settee with trembling hands before bolting toward the glowing ballroom, leaving the duke’s daughter alone—surrounded by the hush of hedges, the whisper of water, and the faint shimmer of her own sandalwood-and-citrus scent, sharp against the night’s damp greenery.

“Nothing beats a beer after work… or should I say red wine,” Vivian muttered, lifting her glass toward the sliver of moon above the maze garden’s tall hedges. The night air was cool—crisp with trimmed ivy, damp stone, and the faint sweetness of the fountain’s mist. It was blessed relief after the suffocating cloud of Alpha pheromones and etiquette inside.

Finally, some peace, she thought, tipping back the glass. Maybe if I drink enough, this body will stop trembling.

She drained the wine, the tart sweetness lingering on her tongue, then poured another from the bottle resting on the marble settee. Her fourth glass vanished quickly; the first bottle was already half-empty.

The rim of the fifth glass had just touched her lips when she froze. The air shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Fabric brushed softly against the quiet, a whisper beyond the fountain’s spray.

Someone was here.

The fountain hissed, steady and low. The wine in Vivian’s hand went still.

And she was no longer alone.