The Duke waved his hand, the gesture causing a brief, sharp shift in the heavy leather-and-tobacco scent that clung to the dining parlor. The air rippled faintly with authority, as though even the walls had learned to obey him.

Immediately, one of the housemaids glided forward—her shoes muffled against the polished floor—to present a tray holding three squared, velvet-covered boxes.

“Here,” the Duke said, pushing the tray toward her with the tip of his finger. The movement was small, yet it carried weight. “You might forget to ask, so I bought you some new jewels you can use when you attend these social events.”

He did mention that I forgot, but not why. Vivian felt a brief surge of relief. Good. My ‘mild illness and memory lapses’ story still holds… or maybe he’s simply too cold to care about my mental state.

“Thank you, Father,” Vivian replied, carefully examining the boxes. The velvet surface felt cool beneath her fingertips, plush but slightly worn at the corners—a sign they’d been chosen long before this moment.

Box 1: The Midnight Viper Set

She opened the first. The lid lifted with a soft hiss of silk against metal. Inside, the black gold gleamed under the lamplight, dark and sleek like an oil-slick serpent. Each piece was set with enormous, faceted deep blue sapphires that caught the light and fractured it into icy shards. The necklace was a high, intricate choker; its links, shaped like overlapping snake scales, were cool to the touch. The earrings were long, viciously sharp drops resembling fangs, and the bracelet was a heavy, coiling cuff—its serpentine form resting as if asleep, ready to strike with a single motion.

Wow. Talk about committing to the bit. This isn’t jewelry; it’s a statement of impending homicide. He really went for ‘predator chic,’ didn’t he?

Box 2: The Sunken Gold Set

The second box opened with a faint click and a whisper of displaced air. Its white silk lining shimmered like still water beneath the warm glow of the jewels. Ancient, polished yellow gold caught the lamplight and threw it back in molten ripples. The Imperial Topaz stones—cut into perfect teardrops—burned with a fiery brilliance that danced across her skin. The necklace was a massive, ornate collar that draped over her clavicle with the weight of command. The earrings were heavy chandelier drops, each movement sending a faint metallic chime through the quiet room. The bracelet, a wide, articulated cuff, bore engraved dragons mid-battle, their bodies winding in endless, golden conflict.

Okay, this one is pure power. It’s too heavy for anything but a formal ball, but it looks like I could trade it for a small navy if things go badly. Very, very villainous.

Box 3: The Frozen Heart Set

The third box felt colder than the rest, the chill of its metal biting faintly through her gloves. Inside, platinum gleamed like winter sunlight over snow. Thousands of tiny, perfectly cut diamonds scattered light across the table, each one catching fire for a moment before dimming again. The necklace was a sharp, geometric mesh that fit the throat like armor forged from frost. The earrings were slender triangular studs—beautiful and cruel—and the bracelet was a solid, unyielding band that locked shut with a click so final it almost echoed. The coldness radiating from the metal made her skin prickle.

“They are designed to suit your… public image,” the Duke stated, voice flat, his scent deepening slightly—more tobacco now, more smoke than leather—as if sealing the conversation. “Wear them well.”

Vivian slowly closed the last box, the faint drag of velvet against her skin grounding her in the moment. The cold weight of the jewels in her hands felt like judgment—heavy, glittering, and inescapable. “I will, Father.”

They were stunning. Terrifying. Perfectly on brand for a future murder victim. Now I have a new problem: surviving the social season while wearing a hundred thousand carats of pure villainy.

He nodded once, satisfied. The conversation was over before it began.

As the Duke rose from his chair, his scent shifted again—tobacco deepening with faint warmth, a rare flicker of pride perhaps. Then, just before he turned to leave, he said, “Your attendance at the Grand Ball will reflect upon this family. Choose your company wisely.”

Company…?

Her brow twitched. Oh no. That tone. That fatherly matchmaking tone.

She knew what was coming. Her smile didn’t falter, but the corner of her eye twitched. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

As if she didn’t already have enough problems.

One: she still needed to discreetly dispose of the “Trophies of Discipline” before anyone in the Royal Court decided to revisit her little “disciplinary allegations.”
Two: she had to survive the upcoming social season without stabbing someone in the eye with her serpent earrings.
Three: now she was apparently expected to secure a politically convenient partner—preferably without triggering another scandal, duel, or execution.

Her mind ran through the logistics like a doomsday checklist.
Remove incriminating evidence.
Attend gatherings.
Find allies.
Pretend to flirt.
All while wrapped in enough gemstones to sink a carriage.

Oh, and let’s not forget—if the Duke truly meant “choose your company wisely” in the traditional sense, then marriage was on the table.

To a man.

Vivian’s internal groan was loud enough to echo through generations. Same-sex marriages were technically legal of the lower gentry, but for nobility? Not a chance. The Duke followed the Old Codes—the kind of rules carved in stone tablets and worshipped like divine law.

Which meant, if fate hated her enough, she might end up with a husband. Fantastic. Another problem to add to the pile.

The Duke turned to leave, his heavy footsteps fading down the marble corridor.

Vivian bowed low toward his retreating back—a perfect gesture of filial obedience—and quickly excused herself from the suffocating weight of his presence. The sharp, controlled scent of leather and tobacco receded as she exited the dining hall, the three velvet boxes of terrifying jewels clutched tightly in her hands.

Enough panicking. She’d spent the entire day realizing how deep the original Vivian’s mess went—now it was time to start cleaning it up. Every trace of that woman’s insanity had to go, preferably in a way that turned a profit.

She found Helen and Mary already waiting outside her chambers, Helen holding a small, pristine ledger and Mary fidgeting nervously. Mary’s comforting milk-and-bread scent was still fluctuating, showing her anxiety hadn’t fully abated.

“Helen, the box you prepared. The— the collection,” Vivian said, dropping the euphemism. “We are moving forward with the plan. Auction it. Immediately. I don’t care who buys it—just ensure the money is routed through three different non–De Guzman accounts, and the physical items leave the estate grounds today.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Helen confirmed, jotting the instructions into her ledger. Her Beta calm was unshakable when faced with a business proposal, no matter how macabre. “I will contact the specialized dealer in Black Market oddities—the one who handles relics from the Shadow Isles. He asks no questions.”

“Good. Handle it.” Vivian straightened, determination replacing dread. “Now, the room. I’ve decided what this room will be. It will be a Library of Forbidden Arts.”

Mary gasped, her scent spiking in fresh terror.

Oh, come on! Why is “library” still scary to them?

“Do not fret, Mary,” Vivian sighed, turning to the timid maid. “I mean forbidden only because it will be entirely private. Helen, I need a rush order of materials—sound-dampening velvet on the walls, several thick rugs, and two new, deep leather armchairs.”

“And Mary,” she added, her tone mild but purposeful, “visit the kitchen stores and see if they keep any of those dried foreign beans the merchants sometimes bring in—the small, hard ones with a sharp, earthy scent when ground.”

Vivian rested her fingers briefly on the cool stone ledge, tapping once in thought. “If there are none, make inquiries at the marketplace. Tell them it’s for one of my aroma studies.”

Helen’s brow furrowed slightly as she noted the odd request, but her pen didn’t pause.

“No, Helen. Those beans are for a far more important cause,” Vivian declared, her voice carrying just enough authority to echo faintly down the corridor. I don’t know what I can make with weird bitter beans, but maybe I can brew something strong enough to function. I need a distraction that isn’t tea.

“The room needs to feel cozy, quiet, and smell absolutely nothing like the rest of this tea-and-rose-scented manor,” she continued, her sandalwood suppressant scent holding steady beneath the cloying sweetness of the upper halls. “We are creating a sanctuary—a place where a lady can think without being judged.”

She turned to Mary with a deliberately soft, reassuring smile. “Your task, Mary, is to ensure I am never disturbed here. This room—the forbidden room of arts—is my sanctuary, unseen and unspoken of. To all others, it does not exist. Especially to my father and the court officials. Do you understand? It is sacred.”

Mary, overwhelmed by the gravity of her mistress’s words and the unwavering eye contact, stammered, “Y-yes, My Lady. It will be done. I shall… stand guard.” Her scent was now a mix of fear and earnest devotion.

Perfect. I have my scapegoat, my fence, and I’m about to set up the only place in this entire empire where I can truly be myself.

“Helen,” Vivian commanded, her voice calm yet edged with authority. “Bring these boxes with you—prepare my bath for tonight. The water must be warmed with citrus oils, and make sure the room is thoroughly scented with the usual suppressant before I return.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Helen replied, her faint scent of clean linen and soap carrying quiet efficiency.

Vivian took Mary by the arm, her grip firm but measured. “We’ll be back later, Helen.”

Both maids stiffened in perfect synchrony.

Mary’s eyes widened, her breath catching—not out of defiance, but out of sheer disbelief. Nobles did not touch their servants like equals, and certainly not in the open corridor. Her pulse fluttered; her milk-and-bread scent wavered nervously as she tried not to stumble.

Helen’s expression didn’t change, but the faintest twitch of her brow betrayed her alarm. Her pen paused above the ledger. My Lady just committed a social misdemeanor, she thought grimly. Wonderful.

“Yes, My Lady,” Helen said finally, her voice perfectly polite but edged with quiet restraint.

Vivian, entirely unaware of the silent panic she’d caused, simply nodded and started down the corridor, still holding the bewildered maid by the arm.

Now that I think about it, Vivian mused inwardly as she walked down the dim corridor, one sleeve lifted lightly to her face. I did smell strangely of fir and olives. Did Madam Lily—or one of her staff—bring me home that night? I should send a thank-you gift. She’ll likely dispatch someone tomorrow to deliver the dress; I’ll have them bring it for me.

Mary followed—a small, nervous shadow trailing behind. Helen told me not to overthink… but I can’t help it. The maid’s thoughts spiraled as her pulse raced. The young lady is acting strangely again. It almost feels like we’re sneaking away for some secret rendezvous.

Her anxiety spiked when they stopped at the door of the recently cleaned “forbidden” room.

“Come, faster,” her mistress commanded, tone clipped.

Vivian strode to the mahogany table pressed against the far wall, her heels whispering over marble. She crouched, fingertips brushing the dustless planks. A soft click followed, then a low groan as an entire bookshelf shifted inward, revealing a dark passage.

Without hesitation, Vivian stepped through, her skirts brushing the narrow frame. She turned sharply, grasping Mary’s shoulders and pulling her inside before the wall sealed behind them with a muffled thud.

“Now, Mary—” Vivian whispered. The confined darkness made her voice seem closer, almost intimate.

Mary shivered, unable to see anything, her senses overwhelmed by the faint sandalwood beneath her Lady’s scent.

Am I going to get laid here?! Mary’s mind screamed, her milk-and-bread scent dissolving into a trembling cloud of sugar-sweet panic.

“I want you to clean this room and make sure no one knows about it,” Vivian murmured, her tone dropping to a near-purr of focus. She leaned close, her breath brushing Mary’s ear. “Except you and Helen. Do you understand? This room is part of my sanctuary.”

Vivian straightened, satisfied that fear would serve as a sufficient deterrent. I don’t know why, but my instinct says this room must remain secret—and fear seems to be the only language anyone understands in this house.

Mary’s face flamed crimson as she completely misinterpreted the command. She’ll “do” it with me if I fail?! Scandalous images flooded her head, and the air grew thick with the syrupy scent of her panic and misplaced arousal.

“What are you waiting for? Chop-chop,” Vivian snapped, tone brisk and businesslike once more. Leaving the trembling maid to her misunderstood mission, Vivian swept back toward her chambers.

Helen’s preparations awaited: steam curling from the tub, citrus oil glimmering on the water’s surface, the air thick with the calming scent of lavender suppressant. Two attendants moved with quiet precision, adjusting the towels and testing the temperature with silver dippers.

Vivian allowed them to guide her into the bath, the heat coaxing the tension from her muscles. The lavender scent clung to her skin—familiar, deceptive, safe. Let them think it was merely another suppressant; in truth, it was the only scent that belonged to her.

The last traces of fir and olives faded from her body, replaced by the fragrance that both revealed and concealed her.

Only then did she allow herself to exhale—and for the first time that day, rest.