Lady Melissa straightened instantly, posture aligning with the precision of someone born and bred to respect power. The light citrus scent that usually defined her confidence sharpened, brightened, and reshaped itself into something formal—crisp obedience wrapped in cordiality.

“Madam Lily!” she greeted with the kind of poised enthusiasm that masked both admiration and wariness. “It is an honor to grace our humble shop with your presence. Congratulations on your massive success last night!”

The air itself seemed to part for the woman who entered.

Madam Lily moved like a winter tide—slow, deliberate, impossible to resist. Her heels struck the polished floor in soft, measured rhythms that filled the sudden hush. She wore a gown of deep violet silk, its high collar and fitted bodice whispering wealth without ostentation. The fabric caught the afternoon light like the surface of still water—gleaming, precise, perfectly controlled.

Her beauty was the kind that demanded attention without asking for it: sleek silver hair pinned in a flawless coil, a few loose strands framing a face too symmetrical to be kind. Her smile was wide and courtly, but her eyes—amber touched with frost—betrayed nothing.

“The honor is mine, Lady Melissa,” Madam Lily replied, her voice smooth as lacquer, refined and dangerous in equal measure. “I congratulate you on last night’s event as well. It seems your shop has been made quite busy. I hope my arrival has not intruded.”

Even as she spoke, her presence spread through the boutique like perfume poured into water—fir and olive, crisp and unrelenting. The air thickened subtly, pressing at the edges of the lungs, too composed to be oppressive yet impossible to ignore.

Vivianne, standing near the fabric shelves, felt the change before anyone else did. Every instinct screamed at her to still her movements, to make herself small and scentless. Her fingers froze over the lace samples, her body remembering too vividly the garden’s moonlight, the crushing dominance that had nearly stolen her breath.

No one else reacted beyond polite awe. To them, Madam Lily was merely a famed designer—a commanding Beta whose power came from reputation and talent. Only Vivianne knew the truth hiding beneath that elegance. Only she could feel the invisible force behind the calm words—the unmistakable weight of an Alpha masking itself beneath layers of civility.

“Not at all, Madam. Please, come and sit here,” Melissa said, gesturing toward the VIP consultation table, every movement efficient, respectful, and practiced. The subtle citrus in her scent brightened again—an instinctive deference.

Then, with the faintest edge of command, she added, “Vivianne, prepare fresh drinks and sweets for Madam.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Vivianne murmured, her gaze dropping instantly to the floor. The submission came as naturally as breathing. Her lungs already remembered that suffocating weight from the maze garden—the way her cold rose scent had been smothered, swallowed whole.

She turned toward the back of the boutique, steps careful, deliberate. The lace in her hands trembled before she set it down. Madam Lily’s presence followed her like a phantom hand at her throat—elegant, unseen, unyielding.

Her hands clenched in her apron, then loosened. Another trouble after another… why must it always be me?

Vivianne walked quickly, refusing to lift her gaze. Even a single glance might be enough to summon that pressure again—and she wasn’t certain she could endure it a second time, not here, not under daylight.

Each step to the preparation counter stretched too long. The clinking of glass, the rustle of fabric, even the murmur of customers faded into a muffled haze—as though the world itself had dimmed to make space for Madam Lily’s presence. Even from across the room, that faint trace of fir and olive lingered, cool and commanding, brushing against her skin like invisible frost.

She busied herself with the task at hand, grateful for something tangible to do. Her fingers trembled as she arranged the porcelain cups, added a crystal bowl of candied almonds, a plate of sugar-dusted tea cakes. She double-checked everything twice—partly from habit, mostly to delay the inevitable moment she’d have to turn back.

She exhaled quietly, steadying the tray in her hands. The delicate china rattled faintly; she forced her grip to still.

“Smile,” she whispered under her breath, practicing the soft, professional expression she had worn for years. “Just smile and serve.”

Then she turned back toward the front of the boutique, her steps careful and deliberate, the faint clatter of the tray heralding her return. The air thickened again as she neared the consultation table—the invisible thread of fir and olive tightening around her like a collar.

And still—because she had no choice—Vivianne crossed the threshold, lowered her head, and set the refreshments before Madam Lily with trembling grace.

“I personally came to deliver the last order for today,” Madam Lily said, her hands resting calmly on the polished consultation table. She paused, letting the polite formality stretch just long enough before adding, “And I have another reason for my visit.”

“Oh? And what might that be? I’ll gladly oblige if it lies within my means,” Melissa replied quickly, her citrus scent shifting from cautious deference to eager brightness—the scent of opportunity.

Madam Lily’s eyes flicked briefly toward Vivianne, who still lingered near the table, her hands steady despite the tremor in her breath. The moment hung—polite, silent, suffocating—before the maid bowed and slipped away toward the back once more.

“The reason is…” Madam Lily drawled, her smile widening just as the fir-and-olive scent in the air solidified—cool, cutting, absolute. She didn’t raise her voice, yet her words landed with the quiet impact of a blade sliding between ribs.

“I want to know what happened to you two in the middle of the Garden, Vivianne Frostman.”

Vivianne froze. The words struck down her spine like cold steel, catching her off guard, choking the air from her throat.

Melissa turned at once, her sharp eyes wide. Her citrus scent spiked—taut curiosity mingling with surprise—as she glanced between them, searching for context she did not yet understand.

Around them, the boutique continued to hum softly: distant chatter, the whisper of lace, the muted clink of tools. But for Vivianne, the world had shrunk to a single, unbearable point—the gleam of Madam Lily’s eyes, golden and cold, fixed on her like a predator measuring distance before the strike.

“It was only a coincidence that I met her there, Madam,” Vivianne managed, voice steady but thin, her composure trembling beneath the invisible pressure flooding the room. The fir-and-olive scent coiled tighter, elegant and suffocating, threading through her lungs like silk that burned.

“Met who there?” Melissa asked, her crisp citrus cutting through the heavy air like a blade of sunlight. Confusion rippled across her features as her scent flared brighter, more questioning.

Madam Lily leaned back slightly, her smile polite but frost-edged—a smile that never reached her eyes. “The young Lady de Guzman,” she said at last, her tone measured, deliberate, and final.

“I have heard rumors that the two of you are in disagreement,” Madam Lily began, her tone deceptively light, “but I believe those whispers to be untrue.”

“Madam, I can attest that they are not on good terms. You know how the young Duke’s daughter acts,” Melissa countered, her voice sharp with conviction. Her citrus scent flared, bright and protective—a shield of defiance thrown instinctively between Vivianne and the threat.

“I know precisely how the young lady acts, Lady Baltimore,” Madam Lily replied, her tone quiet yet edged with command. “However…” She leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, a glint of steel flashing beneath her composed smile. “What I witnessed was the opposite of how they are supposed to be.”

Her gaze locked on Vivianne with predatory precision. Silence stretched thin, trembling, as though the room itself held its breath.

“Madam, it is not what you think,” Vivianne said quickly, her tone cracking under the strain. The faint chill of her cold rose scent wavered—fragile, trembling, as if one breath away from fracturing.

“Are you implying that the rumors are true?” Madam Lily asked, her voice dropping to a silken, dangerous register. “That you used Lady Vivian’s name to climb the social ladder?”

The accusation struck like a lash—clean, deliberate, meant to sting.

“Madam!” Melissa shot to her feet, her motion sharp and protective. Her citrus scent burst like lightning, slicing through the oppressive air. “We both know Viv wants nothing to do with the runway! How could she possibly be using Lady de Guzman’s name?”

“You speak that way, Lady Baltimore,” Madam Lily said softly, her tone all false gentleness, “because you did not see them last night.” Her gaze flicked toward Melissa—cold, dismissive—before sliding back to Vivianne like a blade finding its mark.

The air pulsed with unspoken tension: Alpha pressure disguised as Beta civility clashing against bright citrus defiance. Though Madam Lily’s scent remained tempered, its undertone carried unmistakable dominance—one only another Alpha could truly feel.

“It is already improper for an unmarried noble to be alone with an unmarried Omega,” she continued, voice smooth as polished glass. “But to be seen hugging and kissing an unconscious noblewoman…” Her tone dropped to a whisper, soft but sharp enough to draw blood. “That is the height of indecency.”

The room constricted, every scent twisting together—the bitter tang of fear, the sharp flare of citrus, the trembling chill of rose—all suspended in one suffocating moment.

“What!?” Melissa spun toward Vivianne, disbelief carving sharp lines across her face. Her citrus scent spiked—confusion, accusation, and something dangerously close to betrayal mingling into a sharp, tangy haze. The sudden flare of her Alpha pheromones clashed violently against Madam Lily’s fir-and-olive dominance, making the air itself hum with tension.

“Madam, with all due respect, I did no such thing—please, allow me to explain!” Vivianne pleaded, her voice cracking despite her attempt at composure. Her fingers gripped the polished edge of the table until her knuckles whitened. Which part of it is kissing? she screamed inwardly. I don’t want to die for merely touching a noble—especially the villainess herself!

“You’d better explain, Viv,” Melissa demanded, her tone low and sharp, cutting through the heavy air like the snap of silk.

“Then explain what happened before you put her back to your shoulder,” Madam Lily said, her fir-and-olive scent pressing closer, a weight both elegant and suffocating. Her voice was too calm—the kind of calm that came before a blade’s descent.

Vivianne drew a shaky breath, forcing her thoughts into order. The memory replayed—the moonlit garden, the unconscious noblewoman slumped against her, the silence that had felt too intimate. She chose her words carefully, trimming away every dangerous truth.

“The young lady fell asleep,” she said softly, deliberately measured, “and I tried to wake her—to move her into a more comfortable position. When nothing worked, I let her rest on my shoulder.”

She kept her eyes lowered, voice steady though her pulse thundered in her ears. Keeping her injury secret is best. There’s been no talk of her memory loss—if I say anything now, I’ll drown in a storm I can’t escape.

“And you thought your shoulder was more suitable for her?” Madam Lily’s voice dripped skepticism.

“That’s not what I meant, Madam. I only wished to spare the young lady’s neck the strain of lying against a cold marble settee.” This is getting out of hand—this jealous Alpha. Vivianne’s thoughts churned. I didn’t know you were in a relationship with her.

The notion struck her suddenly, wild but useful. If Lily’s anger was possessive, perhaps she could redirect it.

Lifting her gaze just enough to meet the older woman’s eyes, Vivianne added carefully, “Even if you are in a relationship—or not—Madam, I, a mere commoner, would never dare to lay a hand on a noble such as her.”

The words fell like stones into a still pond. Madam Lily’s posture stiffened, the fir-and-olive scent faltering for the briefest instant—a single flicker of professional embarrassment breaking through her composure. Neither Vivianne nor Melissa noticed the slip, but the air shifted all the same.

“Ahem. Then if that is the case, I understand,” Madam Lily said at last, her professional veneer snapping neatly back into place. She rose halfway from her chair, every movement precise, controlled—like a curtain falling over a scene that had gone too far.

“Madam and the Lady de Guzman?! You’re—” Melissa blurted out before she could stop herself. Her citrus scent spiked violently, confusion and disbelief bursting like a struck chord.

“No, we are not,” Madam Lily interrupted sharply. Her voice carried no heat, only the cool, cutting edge of warning. “Do not spread false gossip, Lady Baltimore. You know what happens to those who do.”

The forced smile she gave could have frozen a room. It was all composure and no warmth—a professional pleasantry that disguised a promise of retaliation.

They’re not in a relationship? Vivianne thought, startled. But she was marking her with her scent last night… Realizing too late that her own words might have exposed something Madam Lily preferred hidden, she quickly lowered her head in contrition.

“My apologies, Madam,” she said quietly, this time with genuine regret. “I assumed as much because of how you acted last night.”

“I accept your apology,” Madam Lily replied briskly. “Since the misunderstanding is cleared, I bid you good day, Lady Baltimore. Ms. Frostman.”

She rose fully this time and swept toward the door, her violet gown whispering with restrained grace. Though her expression was serene once more, the air she left behind was anything but calm—her fir-and-olive scent lingered heavy and unmistakable, a warning cloaked in elegance.

Melissa followed her out, stunned into silence. When she returned moments later, she seized Vivianne by the shoulders and gave her a light shake.

“I. Need. More. Details,” she demanded, each word punctuated by a jab of bright citrus pheromones that practically sparkled with curiosity.

Vivianne sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. There was no escaping now—not from her employer’s questions, nor from the absurd memory that still made her cheeks burn.