Vivian woke up to a throbbing, relentless headache. The silk sheets, the heavy velvet drapes, and the suffocating opulence of the room only amplified her misery.

“Ugh, I guess I drank too much last night,” she groaned, her tongue thick with the taste of stale red wine.

“I am amazed you are even aware, Vivi!” A sharp, thunderous voice cut through the silence—an old man’s voice, commanding, authoritative, and loud enough to split her skull in two.

She forced her heavy eyelids open. A tall, imposing figure loomed at the foot of her bed, his expensive velvet suit immaculate, his golden hair slicked perfectly back. His sharp blue eyes burned with fury, and the air around him reeked of leather and tobacco—the heavy, disciplined scent of an Alpha whose dominance could crush a room.

“Are you… father?” Vivian asked, the word stiff and awkward on her tongue.

“Not only have you forgotten your manners after that accident,” the Duke roared, his voice a growl of rolling thunder, “you have also forgotten your own father?!”

“My apologies, father. I may have overindulged last night,” Vivian mumbled, trying to deescalate. But every time the man spoke, her poor, wine-battered skull throbbed in perfect, merciless rhythm.

“Overindulge!? Ha!” His leather-and-tobacco scent spiked sharply, hot and angry. “Nobles reported hearing you demand not one, but two bottles of wine! Two! What are you thinking, young lady?! I will remind you again: you are a Duke’s daughter! Every step you take, every glass you lift, every careless word you utter bears the name De Guzman! Do you understand me? You are to carry yourself with the dignity of this Empire, not drink yourself into disgrace like some alley drunk!”

“Ughhhhhhh,” Vivian moaned, flopping back against her pillows. She grabbed one feather pillow and pressed it over her ears like a barricade. If only you knew, old man… I’m old enough to marry, old enough to drink, and old enough to ignore you. Not that I ever planned to be a drunkard.

A faint scent of fir and olive lingered on the sheets—clean, cold, and unmistakably Alpha. It wasn’t hers. Madam Lily…? The thought flickered briefly, but before she could grasp it, her father’s furious tirade drowned it out once more.

The Duke’s face went crimson, the leather-and-tobacco scent swelling like a storm cloud. “This woman! My neck hurts just looking at her!”

“Your Grace, calm down, or you’ll age another ten years,” a smoother, deeper voice interjected.

The Duke whirled, glaring at the distinguished physician who stood nearby. Dr. Alvaro, unruffled as ever, clasped his hands behind his back, his Beta neutrality a balm in the tense atmosphere.

“I did not call you here to tend me, Alvaro! Examine my daughter. What if she poisoned her young body with that much alcohol?!”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the physician said evenly. “The young lady is merely experiencing a hangover. I have prescribed a tonic for her recovery.”

“Prescribed her something?!” the Duke bellowed. “The way she addressed me was already proof her mind is addled! She called me father! Utterly ridiculous!”

Vivian ripped the pillow off her head, momentarily forgetting her pain, and sat up to glare. “What?! Do you want me to call you Daddy instead?! Do you have any idea how old I am—?!”

“What?!” the Duke roared again, his face now blooming a deep, alarming shade of purple.

“Your Grace,” Alvaro said swiftly, his voice like cool water poured over fire. He stepped forward, laying one steady hand on the Duke’s arm and subtly guiding him toward the door. “It will take time. Let her… remember everything at her own pace.”

While the physician and the Duke were gone, their authoritative leather-and-tobacco scent slowly diffusing from the chamber, two maids slipped inside, moving with quiet, well-practiced efficiency.

Mary, the younger of the two, hurried to Vivian’s side, setting down a silver tray and then gently pressing a silk-wrapped ice patch against the throbbing welt on her head.

“My Lady, would you like to wash your body first, or have your lunch?” Helen asked softly, her movements composed as always. She poured the prescribed tonic into a small crystal goblet, then passed it to Mary with a steady hand.

“Ugh… it’s afternoon already?” Vivian groaned, forcing herself up with a wince. “Fine, I’ll wash first. Maybe that’ll stop the world from spinning.”

Mary slid a careful hand behind her mistress’s back to support her, helping her sit properly before offering the goblet. Vivian eyed it suspiciously.

“Will this be bitter again? Mix it with wine.”

Helen stepped forward quickly, her voice apologetic but firm. “My Lady, the Duke’s order bans wine entirely. He had Carmina lock the wine cellar this morning.”

Vivian grimaced. “Figures. Then give me anything. A milk, perhaps.”

At that, Mary went scarlet, blushing so hard it crept all the way to the tips of her ears. She bobbed a clumsy curtsy. “Y-yes, My Lady! A warm milk immediately!” She bolted from the chamber, nearly tripping over her own skirts in her haste, leaving Helen standing there, frozen in confusion.

Helen turned to her mistress, brows furrowing. “My Lady… did something happen between you two?”

Vivian’s stomach dropped like a stone. Oh no. Don’t remind me—don’t.

The memory unspooled without mercy: the fever, her lips mumbling nonsense, Mary’s small hands trembling as they wiped her down. The milk-sweet scent clinging to her skin. Her own voice, blurred and delirious, murmuring things no sane noblewoman should ever say to a trembling Omega maid.

Her pulse spiked as horror sank its claws in. In the ABO world, scent and words weren’t innocent. They carried weight—intimate, binding weight. For an Alpha noble’s daughter to corner an Omega with unsolicited scent and suggestive remarks… in their society, it was no different from harassment.

Vivian realized too late that silence would only make her look guiltier. Her tongue, traitor that it always was, lashed out:

“No! Nothing happened—nothing at all!” she snapped, voice sharper than intended. Her cheeks flamed so hot she thought she’d combust. “I… I am not what you think. Kn—Know your place!”

The words rang like iron in the quiet chamber.

Helen flinched, but her eyes flickered—not with fear, but with understanding. Since the accident, she had noticed how often her lady’s tongue spat knives when her expression betrayed something closer to shame. Something happened. That much was certain.

Vivian opened her mouth, desperate to explain, but the words tangled and died on her tongue. Helen’s calm, unreadable face made it worse; it was the kind of silence that said I know enough. Panic prickled under Vivian’s skin as she searched for an excuse, any excuse, but the maid was already gliding across the room—quick on her feet, hands steady, fetching towels and turning the tap. By the time Vivian’s mind managed to string together a defense, Helen had outpaced it completely.

“I will prepare your bath, My Lady,” Helen said softly, bowing with the smooth precision of long practice. Then she turned and slipped from the room before the fragile moment could fray any further.

Moments later, Mary returned, her cheeks still faintly pink as she carried a small tray with a cup of warm milk drizzled with honey. Without a word, she resumed her duties, moving carefully to assist her lady. Both tried to appear calm—two actors pretending nothing had happened.

Vivian silently picked up the tonic, downed it in one go, and immediately reached for the milk. The sweetness washed away the bitterness, easing both the taste and the tension, then allowed Mary to help her out of her gown in preparation for the bath. The air between them was awkward but polite, every movement too precise, too careful.

Helen reentered just as the silence thickened, her expression unreadable as she watched the pair fumble through their work. The corner of her mouth twitched, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity before her. They looked less like mistress and maids, and more like two flustered children caught staring at their crushes for the first time.

The air inside the workrooms of St. Therese Boutique was thick with frantic, exhilarating energy. The triumph of last night’s Spring Event—a success owed in no small part to the gown worn by the commoner model—had ignited a feverish storm of orders.

Scrolls sealed with the crests of marquesses, counts, and minor royals littered every available surface. The very air seemed to shimmer with the cost of ambition: the sharp freshness of newly dyed silks, the subtle powder of Veldavan muslin, and the faint sweetness of lace. For once, these mingled scents even overpowered the assertive traces left behind by the Alpha clients who had visited earlier.

A new shipment had arrived from Madam Lily’s central workshop. Bolts of fabric, pearl clasps, and hand-embroidered trims were unpacked, inspected, and repackaged with feverish precision. Couriers dashed to and from the noble districts while house stewards waited by the door, clutching ledgers and sealed lists. The boutique was alive with motion—a hive of labor where beauty itself was both currency and competition.

Amid the flurry, one woman’s focus drifted far from her hands.

Vivianne Frostman, her silver hair neatly braided and her dark blue over-tunic speckled with stray threads, sorted through lace samples with mechanical care. Her fingers moved on instinct, but her attention was lost somewhere else entirely—enough that even her employer noticed.

“It seems you’re basking in the afterglow of the event, Viv,” drawled Lady Melissa Baltimore. Her sharp citrus scent sliced through the musky warmth of fabrics and polished wood. An Alpha of grace and keen eyes, Melissa had built the boutique on ambition as refined as her manners.

Vivianne blinked, startled from her reverie. Her pale pink eyes, usually calm, were rimmed with exhaustion. “My apologies, My Lady. My mind… seems to wander these days.”

After last night, how could it not? Sleep had refused to come, her mind replaying the scene in the garden again and again—the drunken noblewoman’s weight slumped against her shoulder, that intoxicating scent of red wine and confusion, and Madam Lily’s sudden, overwhelming claim. I was wide awake until dawn, and even then… I could still smell the fir and olive.

Melissa smiled knowingly, tilting her head. “Is it because you’ve become known among the nobles? Perhaps that Count has already sent you flowers?”

Vivianne’s head whipped up, her braid swinging as she stammered, “No, My Lady—it’s that—” She hesitated, weighing whether she should speak of what happened last night—the drunken noblewoman, the Alpha’s claim, the confusion still lodged in her chest. But just as she decided to speak, she never finished.

The hum of the workroom faltered. Conversations stilled mid-sentence. Even the rustle of fabric seemed to die away as a familiar scent swept in—crisp, clean, and commanding.

Fir and olive.

The air itself seemed to tighten around her lungs. Vivianne’s pulse stuttered, fingers going cold. Not here. Not again.