The results never came that night.

For several days, Vivian and Carmina buried themselves in the library, combing through medical logs, scent field studies, and old estate archives in search of anything—anything—that might explain her anomaly.
But nothing existed. No records. No notes. Not even a rumor.

Was it because no such case had ever been documented?
Or because someone had removed every trace?

No one knew.

By the break of dawn, the mansion was already alive with movement, servants rushing in preparation for the Grand Seasonal Ball tomorrow—one of the two royal gatherings no noble could refuse.

I haven’t seen Lady Gretel or Madam Lily since the incident a few days ago. I have more questions about myself than I have answers. I thought I understood Vivian de Guzman, but her body seems far more complicated than her reputation as a villainess.

There’s no time to dig deeper now. Carmina’s explanations were vague at best, and this ball demands my attention. According to her, releasing that kind of pheromone only confirmed that the unidentified poison in my system had finally cleared. I’d mistaken it for a side effect.

Now, using both a suppressant and a blocker has become mandatory—if only to keep others from being affected by my scent.

Still, I can’t shake this uneasy feeling, this sense that I’ve become a nuisance in my own estate. I’m not confident in that thought, yet I can’t seem to silence it.

The doctors finally cleared me to use suppressants again, letting me breathe fresh air without causing another collapse in the hallways. Even so, the only thing I want is for my scent to disappear entirely—buried, hidden from every pair of eyes and every nose in this cursed mansion.

Now, the morning light filtered through the tall windows of Vivian’s chamber, dust motes drifting lazily like tiny dancers across the polished floor. The breakfast table had been arranged with meticulous care: porcelain plates gleamed, silver cutlery aligned, and a small crystal decanter of milk with honey stood ready. Helen and Mary moved quietly, anticipating the exact desires of their mistress.

Vivian sat on the chaise, her golden curls catching the sunlight, but her blue eyes were distant, fixed on nothing in particular. She picked at a warm roll, breaking it open and letting the scent of fresh bread mingle with the faint perfume of her tea. She poured a tiny drizzle of honey, letting it fall in slow, golden ribbons, but her mind was elsewhere. Thoughts tangled around her like thorned vines—memories, worries, plans, and regrets all jostling for space in her head.

Her thoughts drifted, tangled in conflicting emotions. She remembered the thrill she had felt when she first transmigrated—the excitement of seeing Vivianne, the pure admiration she had held for the girl who had been her idol, and the rush of purpose in protecting her. And now… That excitement had curdled into unease. Her inner voice whispered relentlessly: You cannot protect her. You have more problems than you can fix. It’s more complicated than restoring your reputation or fixing the OG Vivian’s wardrobe.

It was only dawning on her, slowly and terrifyingly, that she herself was part of the problem. Not because she or the OG Vivian had meant to cause harm, but because of her unidentified phenomenon scent, alive and unpredictable beneath her skin. Something she could not yet control—something that could overwhelm or terrify others if it flared. In her previous life, she had always been in command, always the one leading, the one controlling every detail. And now, I cannot control myself. This… terrifies me to the core.

And then her thoughts snapped to her ever-present weight of her father’s oversight. I am his daughter… he should comfort me, explain what’s happening, guide me. Instead, stricter surveillance, every step watched… I feel suffocated. I can’t breathe a single moment.

Helen noticed the tension in her mistress’s posture, the distant flicker in her eyes. “My lady? It seems you are in deep thought?”

Vivian forced herself to lift her gaze toward the sunlight streaming through the windows, pressing her lips into a thin line. “I have… a lot to think,” she said carefully. “And… no answer.” Her mind screamed to say more, to confess the fear and unease coiling in her chest, but she swallowed it, snagged by that same inner voice insisting she could not show weakness. She paused abruptly, letting the sentence die in her mind.

Mary moved quietly to refill the teapot, careful not to disturb the fragile rhythm of the scene. Helen placed another roll within Vivian’s reach, eyes flicking toward her with gentle concern, silently urging her to release the storm inside.

Vivian sipped her tea, letting the warmth soothe her hands, yet the dread curling in her chest remained. Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke another piece of bread, repeating the careful ritual of eating to keep herself grounded. The ordinary act of breakfast—the bread, the honey, the tea—was comforting, but it could not reach the storm she carried beneath her skin.

“Nevermind,” she added finally, After a few measured bites, Vivian tried to focus on something else—anything to distract her mind from the storm inside. “Helen,” she asked quietly, “how did the auction go?”

Helen hesitated briefly, then explained with careful precision. “It was successful, my lady. The items were sold to multiple buyers, and the proceeds were carefully transferred in separate non-de Guzman names before reaching the secret slush fund, just as you instructed.”

Vivian nodded, her fingers absently twisting the napkin beside her plate. The words floated past her without sinking in; she barely registered the success, barely allowed herself to care.

The anger simmered under her skin, tempered by disappointment that cut deeper than rage. Even the OG Vivian never had the chance to fully express her talent as a designer… and I understand why. A noble cannot act freely in these matters. But understanding it doesn’t make it fair. Why? Why won’t he tell me more? Did he do the same to the OG Vivian?

Her mind kept asking questions, looping endlessly: Why must I cover what I truly want? Why can Madam Lily operate as she does, unrestricted? Is it because she is not a noble? And Lady Melissa Baltimore—why can she open her own shop? The questions tumbled in her mind, looping endlessly, faster and faster, until disappointment boiled over, fed by the injustice surrounding her. It twisted into anger, then sharpened into a flicker of hatred, coiling tight around her chest like a living thing.

She clenched her fingers around the warm roll, forcing herself to take another bite, grounding herself just enough to hide the storm. But the questions lingered, unanswered, pressing against her mind like a weight that no ordinary breakfast, no polite ritual, could ease.

Helen and Mary exchanged a quiet glance, sensing the turmoil that still weighed on their mistress. Helen spoke softly, trying to guide her without overstepping. “My lady… perhaps a short walk would ease your mind? They say a bit of movement can help clear troubling thoughts.”

Vivian let out a faint sigh, not from willingness but from logic. Walking might… ease my mind, or so they say. She rose, allowing the maids to accompany her, each step deliberate despite the lack of motivation pressing down on her.

Servants and manservants along the corridor stiffened at her approach. Some still kept their distance, shivering at her presence, though none ran away outright. The small restraint on their fear eased the boiling rage coiling in her chest, if only slightly.

Her steps took her to the main floor, where a large painting of the Duke and Duchess de Guzman dominated the hall. She paused, intending to study the image, but something in her peripheral vision drew her attention elsewhere.

A group was walking toward her, and she instinctively turned. At the front stood the Duke himself, flanked by attendants—and among them, the striking figure of Lady Gretel with her red hair catching the sunlight.

The Duke’s eyes swept over her, and with a subtle gesture, he dismissed several members of the group. Vivian noticed immediately that their robes and bearing resembled those of the Magic Tower—a few looked like high-ranking clergy in ceremonial attire, though notably without crosses or other religious symbols.

The remaining figures were the Duke, Lady Gretel, and Dr. Alvaro.
Dr. Alvaro stepped forward, his crisp white coat immaculate, and inclined his head politely.

“Good morning, Lady Vivian. I trust you are feeling well today?”

Vivian nodded, forcing a smile.
“Yes… thank you, Doctor. The tea and breakfast were… satisfactory.”

When she turned toward her father, she straightened her posture and offered the minimal courtesy expected of a duke’s daughter—a measured dip of her head, nothing more.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “The house seems very lively this morning.”

Dr. Alvaro inclined his head again, his expression professional but calm. “Indeed, my lady. The estate runs smoothly. All preparations for the upcoming ball are proceeding as scheduled.”

Vivian hesitated for a moment, then spoke carefully, keeping her tone respectful. “Doctor… if it is not too much trouble, may I inquire about the results of the blood I sent to the Magic Tower? I… I would like to know if there have been any findings regarding my condition.”

The room fell quiet for a heartbeat. The Duke’s eyes narrowed, and his voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the air like a whip. “Vivian, you will not speak of such matters unless instructed. Your curiosity in these things is unbecoming and shows a lack of discipline. You are not to question the procedures set by your superiors, nor do you presume to seek information that has been deemed unnecessary for you at this time.”

Vivian’s hands tightened on the edge of her sleeve. She lowered her gaze slightly, forcing herself to remain composed, but the sting of the scolding burned through her. Unbecoming? Lack of discipline? I am asking because I need to understand what is happening to me… yet he treats my concern as immaturity.

Dr. Alvaro’s expression remained calm, but there was a subtle flicker of unease in his eyes as he avoided looking directly at her. Lady Gretel’s red hair caught the sunlight as she stood silently, observing the exchange, her expression unreadable.

I am his daughter. I deserve an explanation, yet I am treated as a child… “I just want to know why this is happening to me, why my own scent is affecting others, why it did what it did—I saw it with my own eyes!”

Before she could continue further, the Duke’s voice cut through, sharp and authoritative. “Vivian! Your concern over such matters is improper. Speculation and complaints have no place for a lady of this house. You will control yourself, and you will follow the measures set for your own… protection. Do you understand? Discipline and composure are what define you, as a de Guzman.”

Vivian’s fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve. Her chest burned with a mixture of indignation and suppressed fury. Composure? My own father cannot even trust me with information about what is happening to me… and he lectures me on control as if I am some delinquent child?

She gritted teeth, This… this suffocates me. He cannot see what I struggle with, what I truly am. And yet he dares demand perfection?

Lady Gretel’s eyes flicked between father and daughter, her red hair glinting in the sunlight. She said nothing, but the weight of her gaze added another layer of pressure, another silent reminder of the expectations pressing down on Vivian.

As the Duke’s words echoed in the hall, something snapped in Vivian’s mind—a fragment of a memory she had never fully recalled. She saw it clearly: the Duke’s office on a stormy day, the thunder rattling the windows. The confrontation had been almost identical.

Vivian had pleaded for answers about her own scent, asking why she was forced to take suppressants and blockers constantly, why the condition had not been fixed. And instead of answering, her father had scolded her—calling her immature, unladylike, and insubordinate. The words had escalated into a furious argument that left her chest aching with helplessness.

Finally, Vivian could take no more. She had stormed out, racing through the halls to the stables. Guards called after her, trying to stop her, but she was determined. She leapt onto a stallion and rode into the storm, urging it forward through the rain and mud. Roots and rocks rose unexpectedly from the ground; the horse stumbled and skidded violently.

And then, for the first time in that memory, she had smiled. Not out of joy, but out of surrender. She released her grip on the reins and let herself be thrown, feeling a strange exhilaration in relinquishing control for a moment.

The memory hit Vivian like a thunderclap, overlaying the present. The same arguments, the same scolding, the same helplessness—and now, she could feel the echoes in her own body, her pulse, her uncontrollable scent, and the suffocating weight of expectations pressing down on her.

Dr. Alvaro noticed the subtle change in her expression and instinctively stepped closer, reaching out a hand toward her head. Before he could touch her, Vivian slapped it away sharply, her voice trembling with fury and fear: “I don’t want to be touched by you!” The words had a strange familiarity, as if they had been said before—an echo of the past—but she ignored the sensation of déjà vu.

The Duke’s voice thundered through the hall, breaking the tense silence. “Vivian de Guzman!”

Vivian’s gaze snapped to her father, icy and unflinching. Her words carried a weight only she fully understood: “Vivian? The Vivian you are calling… is dead.”

To Vivian, it was literal—the past self, the past Vivian, was gone, erased by events she had lived and remembered.

But for those who heard her—the Duke, Lady Gretel, Dr. Alvaro, and even her maids—the meaning was chillingly ambiguous.

Vivian pressed on, her voice firm, almost accusatory: “You killed her.”