Mary hesitated. “The… items from the boutique, my lady?”
Vivian nodded. “And prepare yourself. I’ll be visiting Helen’s quarters.”
The maid froze mid-motion.
“My lady, that’s—” She stopped herself, pressing her hands tightly together.
“Forgive me, but… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” Vivian’s voice was cool, almost curious.
Mary swallowed. “The maids’ quarters… you’ve never gone there. It’s not—proper.”
Vivian stood, her movement smooth despite the stiffness in her arm.
“That’s precisely why I will. You’re here to guide me.”
“But—”
“No buts, Mary.” Her tone dropped, low and clipped, the kind that allowed no debate.
Mary bowed deeply. “Yes, my lady.”
Mary followed a few steps behind her mistress, her breath shallow, her heart pounding so loudly she could hear it over the soft drag of silk on stone.
The corridor that led to the servants’ wing was narrower than the grand halls—its chandeliers smaller, its scent humbler: soap, boiled starch, warm linen.
Yet as Vivian de Guzman stepped into it, the air seemed to curdle.
It was as if her presence didn’t belong here.
Every maid who caught sight of her froze mid-step.
A few managed stammered greetings before quickly bowing so low they nearly kissed the floor.
Others simply turned pale and stumbled back, as though the mere act of standing too close to the Duke’s daughter might invite punishment—or worse, notice.
A manservant carrying a basket of clean sheets tripped over his own boots, scattering them across the floor.
His partner hissed his name in terror, and both scrambled to collect them before Vivian’s shadow passed.
Vivian said nothing, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
“Are they always this dramatic,” she murmured, “or is there something on my face?”
Mary, already trembling, flinched at the tone.
“N-no, my lady. It’s just—no noble ever comes here. Especially not you.”
Vivian’s steps slowed.
The faint click of her heels echoed down the narrow hall, mingling with the rustle of skirts.
Her posture remained elegant, chin slightly raised, but her thoughts were spinning.
Why are they staring like that? she wondered. I’m not holding a whip or a sword. I’m just walking.
But deep inside, she felt it—the air had changed.
It pressed heavier around her, charged with something warm and faintly metallic, like the scent of summer lightning.
Her scent. Twisted, amplified, stripped of softness.
Electrified lavender bled into the corridor air, its sweetness burned into ozone.
Mary noticed it too.
Her fingers trembled as she adjusted her grip on her apron, a thin sheen of sweat gathering at the back of her neck.
That scent… it’s wrong. Too strong, too alive.
Not Alpha. Not Beta either.
But gods, it’s close—too close.
They should have known what to do. Every servant in the estate had drilled for this—monthly, without fail. Alphas and Omegas were to evacuate; Betas to stay masked.
Simple. Safe. But this scent wasn’t the one from training.
This one pressed down instead of pulling close, made the air taste of metal and fear.
“My lady,” Mary whispered, voice barely steady, “perhaps we should turn back. The physician said—your scent cycle might—”
Vivian halted mid-step, one bandaged hand resting lightly on a windowsill. She looked over her shoulder, eyes calm but cool. “Might what, Mary?”
Mary’s throat bobbed. “It—it might react again, my lady. The alchemy in your blood—it could trigger a scent flare.”
Her body wanted to kneel; her will refused. Training or not, she would not abandon her mistress.
Vivian gave a low, humorless laugh.
“A scent flare. How dramatic.”
She turned, the sunlight from the tall window catching in her hair, painting her in threads of gold.
“If I start glowing or biting someone, you have my permission to drag me back yourself.”
Mary’s cheeks turned bright red.
“My lady!” she squeaked, half in scandal and half in panic.
A small smile tugged at Vivian’s lips—though it never reached her eyes.
“Relax. I’m not going feral.”
Yet even as she said it, she could feel it—the faint pulse under her skin, the warmth coiling low in her stomach like something alive.
A scent that wasn’t supposed to exist. Her scent.
She swallowed, trying to ignore it. So this is what they meant by side effects.
As they continued down the corridor, the reaction from the servants only worsened. Maids flattened against the walls, their breath held; a few whispered frantic prayers.
Some collapsed entirely, their instincts overwhelmed by the heavy air that rolled off her like invisible heat.
“Mary,” Vivian said quietly, “do they always look this frightened?”
Mary hesitated. “N-not exactly, my lady. But your presence right now—it’s… stronger than usual.”
“Stronger?” Vivian arched an eyebrow. “You mean frightening.”
Mary didn’t deny it.
A sharp pang of guilt pricked Vivian’s chest, though she hid it behind a faint sigh.
“Tch. This is absurd. I’m not a beast.”
Not yet, whispered a mocking thought at the back of her mind.
They turned a corner, and the corridor narrowed even further.
The scent of herbs and detergent thickened the air—but underneath it lingered something else, faint and charged, clinging to her skin like static.
Vivian caught glimpses of startled faces vanishing behind half-closed doors, the whisper of skirts fleeing out of sight.
It was almost funny, she thought bitterly. The Duke’s daughter, the model of grace and control—reduced to something people fled from.
The ache in her bandaged arm pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
Something beneath her skin stirred—an unfamiliar pressure that felt too alive, too insistent.
She didn’t know what to call it, only that it left her chest tight and her breath uneven, as if her own body were bracing for something she couldn’t see.
“Mary,” she said softly, “did Carmina tell you what kind of poison it was?”
Mary blinked at the sudden question, her eyes darting nervously toward her mistress. “N-no, my lady. She only said that taking a suppressant could make it worse.”
“I see.” Vivian’s tone was light, but her mind turned sharply inward. Alchemy and magic mixed in one dart. I should’ve guessed. Whoever used that knew exactly what they were doing.
“She’s coming here?” a voice hissed behind a wall.
“The Viper,” someone whispered.
“She nearly killed her own maid, they say—”
“Shut up! She’ll hear you!”
Vivian’s lips pressed into a thin line. So that’s what they think.
The air followed her like a living thing—faintly metallic, humming, heavy.
Mary steadied her trembling hands as they neared the final corridor. By then, even the sound of their footsteps seemed too loud.
When they arrived at Helen’s door, the air itself seemed to hesitate. Mary’s hands were shaking.
“My lady, perhaps I should check first. Just to be sure she’s—”
“No,” Vivian said softly but firmly. “She’s my maid. I’ll go in myself.”
Her bandaged fingers lifted, trembling just slightly before curling into a determined fist.
Vivian was about to knock—but before her knuckles could touch the wood, Mary quickly stepped forward and opened the door for her.
Helen was sitting up in bed, a plain blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
The faint smell of medicinal salve hung in the small, tidy room.
Her hair was loose, a bandage wrapped across her neck beneath a soft brace.
“Mary?” she asked in confusion. “Why are you here in the middle of your duties? Does our mistress know—”
Her words faltered as Vivian stepped inside.
The noblewoman’s presence filled the tiny space like a sudden storm.
Not because she glared or raised her chin—but because she shouldn’t have been there at all.
“My apologies,” Vivian began softly, then paused. “For not being at your side sooner.”
The word tasted wrong—sharp, bitter, as though her tongue rebelled against it.
The moment it left her lips, her throat tightened painfully, her voice faltering mid-air.
Helen blinked, uncertain whether she’d heard correctly.
The Lady de Guzman… apologizing?
Vivian tried again, but her chest constricted, heat coiling behind her ribs.
The word sorry rose up, lodged in her throat like a spark refusing to burn.
Her lips parted—but nothing came out.
A faint tremor ran through her hand.
What is this? Why can’t I say it?
Her body—no, the original Vivian’s pride—fought her every attempt.
That unbending arrogance still lingered in muscle and memory, as if the flesh itself remembered what its owner would never permit.
Instead, her mouth moved on its own, the tone sharpening despite her will.
“You shouldn’t have gotten in my way that day.”
Helen froze. Mary’s eyes widened.
The room went heavy with unspoken shock.
Inside, Vivian’s mind screamed.
No! That’s not what I meant! Damn it, that’s her… her reflexes!
A hollow laugh escaped her before she could stop it, half-nervous, half-miserable.
“Tch… this mouth really refuses to cooperate.”
Mary took a step forward, wringing her hands anxiously.
The faint, warm pulse of scent energy stirred the air—a dangerous sign.
“My lady—your scent,” Mary breathed, panic flickering in her eyes. “We should—”
“Go back?” Vivian cut in, her tone dry.
“I already told you—you have my permission to drag me back if I start glowing or biting.”
Mary flushed, torn between worry and exasperation.
“My lady, please!”
Helen let out a small, breathless laugh despite herself.
“Still the same sharp tongue, I see.”
But the smile didn’t last.
The moment she saw the faint shimmer of heat curling around Vivian—the subtle flush on her cheeks, the tremor in her fingers—Helen’s amusement turned to alarm.
She immediately tried to stand, panic flashing across her bruised face.
“My lady—please, you shouldn’t strain yourself!”
Vivian raised her bandaged hand slightly, stopping her.
“Don’t move. You’re in no condition to serve anyone right now.”
The two maids exchanged a nervous glance as their mistress crossed the small room and sat on the edge of Helen’s bed.
The mattress dipped slightly beneath her weight, bringing her closer to the scent of salve and dried herbs.
Helen’s voice trembled.
“You should say that to yourself, my lady. You normally use a whip to punish someone—not your hand.”
For a moment, silence.
Then, unexpectedly, Vivian gave a small laugh—brittle, rueful.
“I suppose you’re right.”
She glanced down at her own hands: both wrapped neatly in linen, her left still swollen beneath the layers.
She’s right. I’m ridiculous. A noble with fractured knuckles from striking a maid.
Vivian’s throat tightened.
“You see… it wasn’t your fault. Nor mine.”
She hesitated, the words fighting her pride.
“I don’t even know what came over me that day, but—”
She clenched her jaw. For heaven’s sake, just say it.
“…but I wanted you to know it won’t happen again.”
Helen blinked, uncertain whether to bow or cry.
Before the silence stretched too long, Vivian reached beside her and placed a small paper bag on Helen’s lap. “Here,” she said briskly.
“Your reward for serving me well. I expect even more from you once you recover.”
Helen opened the bag carefully—and gasped. “My lady!? These are—”
“Yes,” Vivian interrupted.
“The dresses I ordered from St. Therese Boutique. From now on, these will be your uniforms.”
She looked at both women evenly. “You are not just servants of the estate. You are mine.”
Mary, startled, almost dropped the second bag.
Vivian turned toward her. “That one’s yours. Take it.”
Mary clutched it tightly, her eyes glassy. “My lady…”
“Why are you crying?” Vivian asked, half-annoyed, half-confused. “You should be grateful.”
“I—I am, my lady,” Mary stammered, bowing her head. “Truly… from the bottom of our hearts.”
“Good.” Vivian softened her tone, almost gentle. “Then remember—always wear the pin inside the box.
Let everyone know you belong to me.”
Mary carefully lifted the lid of the velvet box—and froze.
Nestled inside was a delicate silver brooch shaped like a coiled viper, tiny emerald eyes gleaming in the dim light.
A strangled squeak escaped her throat.
Vivian blinked, confused. “What’s wrong?”
Mary’s hand trembled. “M-my lady… this design…”
Before she could finish, Vivian let out a short, sharp laugh—“Oho ho ho ho!”—half amusement, half habit.
The sound bounced off the narrow walls.
It was too loud, too sharp, too eerily familiar.
Both maids stiffened where they stood, faces drained of color.
The laughter that reached their ears wasn’t warm or playful—it was the infamous cackle of the Viper in Silk.
Vivian’s smile faltered instantly.
The echo of her voice faded into uneasy quiet.
“…You both should rest,” she said softly after a moment. “Helen, focus on healing. And Mary—take the rest of the day off.”
Neither woman moved.
They only bowed stiffly as their mistress stood and walked toward the door.
When Vivian stepped back into the corridor, the servants who lingered nearby turned away, pretending to dust or polish walls that needed no cleaning. Both betas wearing a scent mask.
Her footsteps echoed down the hall—measured, heavy, dignified—but inside, she felt hollow.
At the corner, she paused. The faint murmurs of the two maids drifted through the half-closed door.
“She tried, didn’t she?” Mary whispered, voice trembling.
Helen gave a small, painful laugh. “She did. But even when she tries to be kind… she still sounds terrifying.”
Vivian froze, eyes flicking to her bandaged hand.
A hollow chuckle slipped out before she could stop it.
“Terrifying?” she echoed softly. “I suppose that’s all I’m allowed to be.”
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