Vivian only realized she was tipsy when she turned her head and the world tilted in a slow, disorienting sway. I overestimated this body, she thought with mild annoyance, trying to steady her vision. Can’t even handle a few glasses.

The moonlight caught the silk of her gown, tracing it in silver, but left her face half-veiled in the hedges’ shadow.

“Madam Lily? Is that you? Come, let’s drink—I still have more here.” Vivian gestured vaguely toward the marble settee, attempting to steady herself against the gentle rocking of the garden.

“You’re already drunk, Lady Vivian,” came a young, uncertain voice.

Vivian, too inebriated to notice the difference in tone—or the absence of Madam Lily’s fir-and-olive scent—didn’t wait for the speaker to step fully into view. She turned back toward the wine.

“Nonsense! Here, let’s drink!” she declared, half-laughing as she swayed forward.

A pair of hands caught her elbow—firm, gentle, steady. The woman guided her upright, then eased her back onto the marble settee so they both faced the path she’d come from. With their backs to the fountain, the weak light cloaked both faces in shadow.

“See? You cannot even stand properly, My Lady,” the young woman said, her voice threaded with fragile resolve. A faint floral perfume lingered between them—the same elegant blend all models at the event wore. It was delicate, soft, unassuming. Yet somehow, in that moment, it unsettled her.

“What a ridiculous thing to say,” Vivian scoffed, masking her embarrassment behind her sharpest noble tone. “I merely lost balance. I’m not drunk, only… momentarily—structurally unsound.”

Vivianne kept her hands firmly on Vivian’s shoulders, steadying the noblewoman before easing her grip away. Her internal alarm bells were screaming. Vivianne, who had gone to great lengths to avoid the nobles—and especially the infamous Duke’s daughter—was now sitting with her in a vulnerable, drunk state.

Why is she here? Vivianne thought, glancing back toward the distant glow of the palace. She was just speaking with Madam Lily before I slipped out of the event, and now she’s drunk to boot.

Her eyes scanned the evidence on the marble settee: four empty wine glasses, a half-finished bottle, and another bottle that hadn’t even been opened yet. Is she a drunkard? Vivianne wondered, momentarily forgetting the usual fear she felt toward the Alpha noble. This is too much, even for someone like her.

The sharp Alpha scent of the noblewoman—normally clean sandalwood and citrus—was hazy now, dulled and almost sickly sweet under the heavy fumes of alcohol. It clashed sharply with the crisp air of the garden. Vivianne shifted slightly, keeping her own scent—fragile, cold rose—tightly restrained, a subconscious defense against the chaos beside her.

“My Lady,” Vivianne said, keeping her tone soft but firm. “It is not structural unsoundness. It is wine. You should not consume more, or you will certainly regret it in the morning.”

Vivian huffed, her eyes closed as she tried to will the world to stop spinning. “Hush, you,” she mumbled, her words slurring slightly as her hand fumbled across the server tray for the bottle. “Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t regret. I regret my entire life, actually. Wine is just a temporary patch.”

“My Lady, it is better that you return home. I will call your driver to help—” Vivianne began, gently steering the conversation toward reason.

“No! I am not hic drunk, and I don’t want to go home yet,” Vivian slurred, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“Then I will return you inside and inform Madam Li—” Vivianne couldn’t finish; a half-full wine glass was suddenly shoved into her face.

“I hic don’t want to go inside and mingle with hic those fakers. Now shut up and drink, hic,” Vivian commanded, pushing the glass toward Vivianne while her entire weight—warm and heavy—slumped onto the young woman’s shoulder.

This woman, even drunk, is trying to—no, never mind, Vivianne thought, her initial panic fading into weary inevitability. She accepted the glass, carefully taking it away from her face and steadying the noblewoman’s head against her shoulder. Vivian, now a dead weight, was still trying to sip from a wine glass that wasn’t even there.

Vivianne lifted the glass to her lips and took a cautious sip, her eyes scanning the immobile noblewoman. Even in this drunk, undignified state, the Duke’s daughter radiated an air of nobility and command—like a lion forced to rest, dangerous even in stillness.

A sudden draft swept through the garden, rustling the high hedges and brushing cold air over the two women. The wind carried a scent—sharp and unmistakable.

Vivianne inhaled, startled. Fir and olive. Clean, commanding, unyielding. It was the scent of a domineering Alpha, the very kind she had hoped to avoid. I don’t like it, she thought, tension rising in her shoulders. It was the cold, cutting aroma of power.

But then Vivian, heavy with wine and unsteady limbs, shifted closer. Her empty hand found Vivianne’s shoulder and, before Vivianne could react, pulled her near. Vivian leaned in, sniffing faintly. The alcohol dulled her restraint and sharpened her instincts.

The scent she drew in was intoxicating—powerful, heady, and unlike anything she’d encountered. A deep red rose, rich and velvety, paired with the chill of mint and frost. It felt both passionate and untouchable, like a bloom frozen under glass.

Vivianne sat frozen, every muscle locked in shock at the Duke’s daughter’s unladylike closeness. Vivian’s alcohol-sweet breath brushed hotly near her ear—a violation of personal space no noble, drunk or sober, should ever commit.

“Wait…” Vivian mumbled, slurring between hiccups as the realization struck. “You’re not… hic… Madam Lily.” She squinted, trying to sit upright, but her balance failed her and she flopped back onto the settee with a faint thud. “Who are you?”

“I—I am glad you attended the event, My Lady. Thank the heavens you recovered,” Vivianne stammered, her voice trembling with panic as she grasped for the nearest harmless topic.

“Heh, though you wish I was dead… hic,” Vivian teased weakly. The words should have cut like a viper’s bite, but they melted into a soft, childish sound instead.

Vivianne blinked, completely thrown off by the sudden shift. “My Lady, please stop drinking. You are drunk,” she said carefully, reaching to stop the noblewoman from grabbing another glass.

“Just one more… one more—” Vivian pleaded, the slurred request pitifully undignified.

Deep inside, she knew her transplanted body couldn’t take any more, but her modern mind refused to yield. I haven’t had a beer since coming to this world, she thought bitterly. Carmina only lets me have one glass of wine a day. One! Tonight, after a mountain of stress, her brain was determined to rebel.

Vivianne, who had never imagined calling the Duke’s daughter cute, found herself thinking exactly that. Is this really how she acts when she’s drunk? It was almost endearing—so unlike the venomous woman she feared.

“The physician told my maids to give me only one glass a day,” Vivian continued, her eyes glassy and wet like a scolded pup’s. “But I’ve been long recovered.”

“It is only for your health, My Lady,” Vivianne said softly, fighting down a strange wave of protectiveness.

“I know, but… I just… want to wash it away…” Vivian’s words faltered, raw and unguarded. “The pain of forgetting… who I am. They call me the villainess Vivian de Guzman… but is that… really me?”

The glass trembled in her hand, red wine quivering like blood in a vein.

Who was I before this? The thought roared inside her but never reached her lips. The haze of alcohol blurred it into silence. Her head swayed, heavy, before finally coming to rest on the nearest warmth—Vivianne’s shoulder.

Vivianne’s pulse stuttered—not from excitement or the usual cold fear, but from a sharp, unexpected pang of guilt. She remembered the cruel whispers that had fluttered through the boutique’s walls—rumors she herself had once echoed, wishing the Duke’s daughter would simply forget that a commoner named Vivianne existed.

But now, seeing the proud young noble unravel beside her, Vivianne realized the truth was far worse than gossip ever hinted. This wasn’t arrogance or cruelty. It was a genuine fracture in a woman’s mind—anguished, fragile, and unbearably human.

“My Lady, you are you,” Vivianne murmured softly when the noblewoman didn’t respond. The cold rose scent that usually cloaked her tightened, softening into something almost tender.

“My Lady?” she tried again.

It seemed Vivian had finally succumbed to the wine. Her head had grown heavy against Vivianne’s shoulder. When Vivianne carefully shifted, her fingers brushed against the side of the noblewoman’s head. Beneath the smooth skin, she felt a faint ridge—a healed scar, small but firm under her fingertips.

So it’s true, she thought. The physician’s orders weren’t mere caution. She really did suffer a head injury.

Vivianne exhaled quietly and let the noblewoman rest back on her shoulder.

But before she could settle, the air changed. The scent of fir and olive—clean, commanding, and utterly unyielding—cut sharply through the night. It wasn’t coming from the wine-soaked woman beside her. It was coming from behind.

The sharp scent grew stronger, an invisible hand pressing down on the air, followed by the crisp rustle of silk. Madam Lily stepped out from the maze’s shadows, her gown immaculate, her smile wide but rigidly composed.

“Vivianne Frostman,” she greeted smoothly. “I wasn’t aware you were accompanying Lady de Guzman.” Her tone was courteous, but every syllable carried the weight of territorial warning.

The scent… it’s from Madam Lily?! Vivianne’s thoughts raced. Her mind reeled—she had always assumed the famed designer to be a Beta. But this… this was unmistakable Alpha presence, potent and suffocating, each breath pressing harder against her lungs.

“My apologies, Madam. I am unable to stand to greet you. It seems the young lady is drunk and has fallen asl—”

“No need for formality,” Madam Lily interrupted, her tone sharp and precise. In a single, fluid motion, she reached down and gathered the limp form of the Duke’s daughter into her arms—a flawless princess carry, protective to the point of possession.

In that instant, Vivianne understood.

The fir-and-olive scent saturating the air, pressing down like invisible stone, wasn’t Vivian’s at all. It was Madam Lily’s. Not the Duke’s daughter. Not any nearby Alpha. The famed designer herself.

The realization hit like cold lightning, rewriting everything Vivianne had ever believed about the woman.

The scent surged. Fir and olive exploded through the garden, clean yet suffocating, its dominance radiating in waves. It was a claim, pure and unmistakable. The air itself seemed to bow beneath it.

Vivian stirred faintly in Madam Lily’s arms, her wine-heavy body yielding, her pale throat exposed beneath the moonlight as she instinctively leaned into the Alpha’s hold.

Vivianne could only stare, frozen. Her own cold-rose scent faltered, smothered beneath the storm. Every nerve in her body trembled under the pressure—an instinctive submission that left her breathless.

When Madam Lily finally turned, the weight of her gaze pinned Vivianne in place—cool, assessing, and absolute. Then, with the same grace she wore on the showroom floor, she carried Lady Vivian back toward the palace. The sound of retreating footsteps faded into the maze, leaving only the fountain’s whisper and the faint echo of that overpowering scent.

Vivianne remained seated, hands trembling against the marble, her lungs still tight beneath the invisible pressure that lingered in the air. The garden smelled of fir and olive and spilled wine—dominance, elegance, and danger.

So Madam Lily is an Alpha… she thought, the realization chilling her spine. And she claimed Lady Vivian right in front of me.

For a long moment she sat there, too stunned to move. Then, when the night wind finally scattered the last trace of that scent, Vivianne rose, her knees unsteady. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm the frantic beat beneath.

Whatever she had witnessed tonight had rewritten more than one truth—and the world of nobles no longer felt like a place she understood.