Aside from the brief, embarrassing commotion involving two overly protective Alpha guards rushing to assist the swooning young noblewoman, the evening remained lively.

Through the swirl of laughter and perfume, Vivianne caught the tail end of whispers drifting past her display.

“De Guzman temper… poor model caught in her glare—no wonder the lady collapsed…”

Her smile didn’t falter, but her fingers tightened around the order tablet. The nobles chatting before her continued as if nothing had been said, their scents light and polite—sweet, powdery, merciless.

She didn’t dare look up. Not when she could still feel the weight of that Alpha-sharp presence somewhere across the room—half disdain, half something she couldn’t name—pressing against her skin like heat through silk.

As the noise settled, Vivian noticed a curious detail: throughout the entire evening, Madam Lily had been meticulous about presenting the collection as her own, never mentioning who had contributed the initial sketches for the boldest pieces.

Why is that? Vivian frowned, her designer’s pride briefly warring with her survival instincts. I’m a Duke’s daughter; having a ‘hobby’ like sketching shouldn’t be a secret. Unless... is it because I’m the villainess? Or is the De Guzman family still quietly opposed to anything that smells of trade?

In noble circles, creation was for craftsmen, not daughters of dukes. A lady could commission beauty, but never claim to have built it.

It was a question she filed away. In Veldava, secrets were often more valuable than public compliments.

The whispers drifted away, swallowed by music and clinking glasses. Yet the unease they left behind did not fade.

Vivianne Frostman was currently juggling the order tablet, her hands slightly trembling as she focused on the intricate script required for noble commissions. Her soft, perfumed Omega sweetness fluctuated—warm with relief from the compliments, but strained with the effort of maintaining composure. She was politely but quickly filling in the forms, nodding and offering soft thanks to every noble who praised her or the garment.

A heavy, cloying musk cut through the room’s delicate balance of perfume and wine—thick, suffocating, unmistakably predatory. Count Deitrich. Vivian instantly recognized the scent and the threat; the Count was infamous for his predatory gaze and his preference for the vulnerable, particularly young Omegas. He was, in Vivian’s modern mental glossary, a grade-A perv.

The Count, flanked by a small pack of jeering followers, stopped directly in front of Vivianne and asked her name. As a mere commoner, and a highly exposed Omega in a room full of powerful Alphas, Vivianne had no choice but to comply. Her distress was palpable, making her scent turn faintly sour with apprehension, but her face remained carefully neutral. She desperately scanned the room for Melissa or Madam Lily, but they were currently trapped across the floor, engrossed in a high-stakes discussion with a Marquess.

“Greetings, Count Deitrich,” Vivianne replied, her voice soft but steady. “This commoner's name is Vivianne Frostman.”

The Count leaned in slightly, his gaze raking over her like a physical touch. His eyes, full of thinly veiled lust, were a clear act of sexual harassment under the guise of noble privilege. He smiled mockingly, a cruel twist of the lips.

“What a lovely name it did suit your lovely face, Miss Vivianne. For a commoner,” the Count announced in a loud, carrying voice, ensuring everyone around heard the pointed, class-based insult.

His coterie of nobles laughed and jeered in agreement, their own Alpha scents expanding to dominate the immediate vicinity.

“Why, isn’t it amusing?” a noblewoman cooed behind her fan. “You share a name with that villainess—the Duke’s daughter. Such opposites bearing the same name!”

A younger man leaned forward with a smug grin.

“Indeed. One born to nobility, with the temperament of a viper and the scent of rusted iron—” His gaze lingered far too long on Vivianne. “—and the other, a common-born girl, yet with an aura as gentle as an angel. Clearly, you are the one more suited to the name, Miss Vivianne.”

A matron added sweetly, “A cruel jest of fate, don’t you think? That such a radiant child must carry the shadow of a name stained by arrogance and scandal.”

Their laughter overlapped—sharp, deliberate, like knives dulled by overuse.

Oh, hell no.

Her self-preservation instinct blared like a siren: stay quiet, don’t make waves, don’t paint a target on your back.

But something else—older, darker—was rising beneath her ribs.

It wasn’t courage. It wasn’t reason. It was instinct. A violent, seething pulse that didn’t belong to her at all. The kind that came from blood, not memory.

Vivian froze mid-breath as it clawed its way up—sharp, hot, and foreign beneath her skin.

Her Alpha façade wavered. The sandalwood-and-citrus mask of control sharpened to something cutting, almost feral. The air around her shifted, trembling with suppressed pheromones. Her pulse thundered; every beat felt like a battle between two hearts.

Count Dietrich—smug, gluttonous little parasite—was practically devouring Vivianne Frostman with his eyes.

And that lace-wrapped harpy beside him had just called her, the Duke’s daughter, a “Viper.” In public.

FML.

Her jaw locked, her throat burning with words that weren’t hers. The fury rising in her chest didn’t feel borrowed—it felt inherited.

This was the body’s rage. The original Vivian’s rage.

She could taste it, metallic and bitter, like blood under her tongue. The hatred was old—heavy, suffocating, remembered. The body knew the heroine. Hated her. Wanted her gone.

This isn’t me, she thought desperately. This is her—her pride—her fury—

But the body didn’t listen. Her muscles coiled tight, posture straightening, eyes narrowing to a predator’s focus.

Dietrich was still talking, oblivious.

Vivian barely heard him over the roaring in her blood.

One thought surfaced—cold, perfect, and final:

Dietrich was about to regret every syllable he’d just spoken.