Vivian woke to the soft light of the afternoon filtering through her curtains. The morning had already slipped past unnoticed, and the events of yesterday pressed heavily on her mind. Helen and Mary had anticipated this, and the chamber was already warm with the faint scents of bath oils and lavender, the evidence of their careful preparations.

Her maids guided her gently, taking over each step:

A long, scented bath, calming her muscles and clearing the residue of yesterday’s tension.

Hair styled and pinned, each curl arranged perfectly, the golden threads catching the light.

Layers of clothing and gowns, embroidered and fitted, with jewelry and insignia placed meticulously to reflect her status.

Makeup and final touches, applied delicately by Mary, ensuring her appearance matched the dignity required for the Grand Ball.

A light meal and tea, set nearby to restore some energy without burdening her before the evening.

Through it all, Vivian moved half‑absentmindedly, letting the rituals carry her body while her mind churned over yesterday’s events. The lingering memory of the fight with her father pressed heavily on her—how she had only wanted to walk away, to distance herself from him and the suffocating air of that hall. But no one believed her. Not her father, not the guards. Her cries—wordless, tearless—had been mistaken for rebellion.

When they locked her back inside her chamber, fury had overtaken reason. She had torn at her own beddings, the canopy, the sheets—anything within reach—to braid them into a makeshift rope. She hadn’t planned to flee the estate, only to escape the weight of those walls and their accusing silence. For one reckless moment, she had even gripped the window frame, the wind tugging at her hair, and wondered what freedom might feel like if she could just lower herself far enough to breathe again.

The cold air hit her like freedom itself. For one blissful moment, Vivian thought she’d escaped the suffocating rituals, the maids’ hovering hands, her father’s voice echoing like iron behind her ribs.

Of course, irony had other plans.

Running to find an isolated place to calm down, she stumbled—quite literally—into the horse stable. The smell of hay and leather greeted her like judgment. She groaned. Perfect. Out of every corner of this cursed estate, I find the one filled with witnesses and manure.

She turned to leave, only to spot two guards patrolling the courtyard. If they saw her outside her chambers, there would be another incident report before dawn. So she ducked back inside, dusted her gown, and pretended she belonged there.

A stallion huffed from the nearest stall, its ears flicking toward her. “Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, stroking its muzzle. “I’m hiding, not stealing you.”

For one quiet minute, it almost worked—the stable, the horse, the stillness. Then came the unmistakable shriek.

“The bedding rope! The Lady—she’s escaped through the window!”

Vivian froze. Mary’s panicked voice rang through the courtyard like an alarm bell. Footsteps thundered toward the stable.

She sighed. “Of course.”

Moments later, she was discovered crouched beside the stallion, hand mid-pat like a child caught stealing cookies. “I was not planning to ride it,” she tried to explain, but the guards only exchanged horrified glances while Mary sobbed in relief.

Honestly, I wish I had ridden it. At least then this disaster would be worth the trouble.

Within minutes, she was hauled back to her chamber—again—with Mary and Helen assigned as her personal watch. They took turns fussing, apologizing, and trying to distract her until she gave up defending herself.

By the time the candles burned low, Vivian had talked herself in circles and fell asleep like a prisoner who’d argued her own innocence into exhaustion.

The memory faded with the sound of rustling fabric. Vivian blinked, the weight of yesterday dissolving into the soft hush of the present. She was back before the mirror, Mary fastening the final clasp at her waist while Helen adjusted the fall of her sleeves.

“Easy, my lady,” Helen murmured. “You’ll crease the silk if you keep moving.”

Vivian exhaled slowly. Each detail, each motion performed by the maids—her bath, her hair, the layering of gowns and jewelry—now felt like the bars of a gilded cage. The memory of yesterday’s misunderstanding, combined with the suffocating weight of expectations and her uncontrollable scent, made the noble rituals feel heavy, mechanical, almost alien to her own will.

By the time the carriage was lined before the mansion steps, Vivian’s patience had thinned to a thread. The thought of sharing a ride with her father—after everything—set her teeth on edge.

She turned to the nearest coachman, voice even but clipped. “Prepare another carriage. I’ll be riding separately.”

The man hesitated, uncertain. Before he could answer, a calm voice cut through the air like silk drawn over ice.

“Why are you asking for another carriage, my dear?”

Vivian froze. That voice—elegant, amused, carrying the effortless authority only true nobility possessed.

When she turned, her breath caught.

The woman standing beside her father was breathtaking familiar. Hair black as midnight fell in sleek waves over a gown the color of deep wine; her eyes were colder than sapphire, sharp enough to cut through air. Every gesture, every breath radiated composure—grace carved into flesh. Vivian couldn’t place the memory, but her body reacted before her mind did. For a heartbeat she simply stared, caught between recognition and unease.

The woman’s gloved hand rested lightly on the Duke’s arm, the image so natural it made something hot coil in Vivian’s chest. Fury and disbelief tangled together, jolting her fully awake from her dazed irritation.

“Who,” Vivian asked quietly, the question trembling on the edge of disbelief, “are you?”

The coachman nearly dropped dead on the spot, his face draining of color. Beside him, Mary let out a high-pitched squeak that could’ve shattered glass. That was all the confirmation Vivian needed—she’d made a very big mistake.

Every hair on the back of her neck stood up in alarm.

Before she could retreat, the woman stepped forward, seized her by the ear, and dragged her toward the carriage with terrifying grace.

“Ow—ow—ow! That hurts!” Vivian yelped, stumbling as the woman yanked her inside. Even her father, the ever-imposing Duke, stood frozen on the steps, watching helplessly with the pitiful eyes of a scolded puppy.

The carriage door closed with a quiet click that sounded far too final. Inside, the air felt colder.

“I may have been away from the estate,” the woman said at last, her tone smooth but cutting, “but forgetting about me is unacceptable, dear.”

That single word—dear—once filled with warmth, now carried the quiet threat of a predator addressing its prey.

“Eli, honey,” the Duke began, voice careful, almost pleading. “There’s something I must tell you in person.”
He didn’t sound like a Duke at all—more like a man praying not to be skinned alive.

Eli’s cold eyes slid toward him, her expression carved from ice. Then she turned her head, slow and deliberate. “Explain.”

The Duke swallowed. “Vivi had an accident—”

“Don’t call me Vivi, old man,” Vivian cut in, still bristling with fury despite the instinctive fear crawling up her spine.

Eli’s face tilted upward, graceful and venomous—like a serpent deciding whether to strike. Her gaze flicked between Vivian and the Duke. “Explain,” she repeated, her tone colder, sharper. This time it wasn’t a question—it was an order.

The Duke lowered his head slightly, defeated. “She… lost her memories.”

The Duke drew a slow breath, voice unsteady for once. “Eli… I wanted to tell you sooner. Gods know I did. But you were at the border, and if you’d heard this there—if it pulled your focus for even a moment—” He shook his head. “I couldn’t risk it. Not with the situation out there.”

Eli’s features, carved from ice just moments ago, fractured. The cold composure melted away, revealing a flash of raw, terrifying maternal instinct. Her sapphire eyes went wide, the calculation replaced by pure, stunned disbelief.

"She... she lost her memories?" Eli whispered, the sheer force of her Alpha presence momentarily dissolving into a trembling sound. Her gloved hand now hung uselessly in the air, a breath away from touching her daughter's cheek. For the first time since her arrival, Eli looked not like a predator, but like a woman who had just received a fatal blow.

The care was agonizingly clear; even Vivian was shocked by the profound change in the woman before her.

Then, the shock morphed instantly into scorching fury. Eli didn't just turn on the Duke; she lunged. She seized the lapels of Cassmir’s velvet coat, dragging him forward until their faces were inches apart. Her voice, usually a smooth blade, cracked with unsheathed venom.

"You let this happen?" she snarled, the question an accusation that shook the carriage. Her Alpha scent—electric night air and damp stone—didn't just suppress; it lashed out in sheer, dominant rage, filling the carriage and sending a physical shockwave through the air.

Cassmir shrank under the onslaught, the great Duke reduced to a beaten dog. "Eli, honey, it was an accident—"

"An accident!?" Eli spat, shaking his lapels once, hard. "Cassmir de Guzman I leave my daughter in your care for less than a year, and you allow her to suffer an injury so profound it erases who she is? What were your useless guards doing? Where was her physician? Where were you, Cassmir? Basking in the glory of the Dukedom while your only child was in the care of your negligence!"

She released him with a shove that sent him reeling back into the cushion. Her chest heaved. She looked back at Vivian, her eyes flooded with a complex mix of sorrow and protectiveness, her rage now focused outward, entirely on the Duke.

“Don’t worry, little one,” she murmured, her voice dropping back to a fierce whisper that was meant only for Vivian. “Your past is irrelevant. Your father has proven utterly incapable of protecting you. I’m home now. And whatever happens next, no one will ever hurt you again.”

Eli's hand—the same hand that had just shaken the Duke and seized Vivian's ear—moved, now stripped of fury. With impossible softness, she reached out and brushed the crown of Vivian’s head, slowly stroking a golden strand of hair back from her temple.

The woman who had just terrorized her father and threatened the stability of the Dukedom was now sitting beside her, petting her like a cherished, fragile thing.

The black-haired woman turned on the Duke, fury flashing behind her sapphire eyes. “Why did you not tell me when I arrived last night?”

Cassmir’s response came fast, almost pleading. “Eli, you were exhausted. You came home past midnight from the border—I couldn’t drop something like this on you then.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I meant to explain once Vivian joined us this morning, but she… reacted badly.”

Warmth radiated from Eli’s Alpha body, but her scent was the thing that shattered Vivian’s composure. A crisp night breeze wrapped in white florals—moon lilies and cold air—soft at first, then sharpened by the unmistakable edge of Alpha power. It flooded her senses, elegant and dangerous all at once. Vivian’s mind simply blanked, her defenses collapsing into a static hum as she stood there, unable to process the foreign, terrifying comfort of being protected by the last person she expected.

This isn't how the villainess script goes, she thought, but the thought was faint, smothered beneath the crushing weight of unconditional care.

Eli felt the minuscule shift beneath her fingers. The rigid tension in Vivian’s shoulder, held so tight by fear and defiance, finally gave way, her body sinking just a fraction into the velvet seat. The subtle loosening was all the permission Eli needed. Eli let her scent ease around her, no longer sharp with authority but gentle as a moonlit breeze, the cool hush of night air under a full moon wrapping Vivian like a silk cloak.

Vivian stared ahead, voice wavering with disbelief. “Are you… actually my mother?”

Eli’s hand slipped from Vivian’s hair, only to settle gently atop Vivian’s knee—a warm, anchoring touch that steadied them both. She shifted her gaze away from the girl and leveled a long, cutting look at Cassmir, who remained hunched under the weight of his own guilt.

“Yes, my little munchkin.”
Her tone melted into something soft and painfully real. “I am Elizabeth Danielle de Guzman.” She took a breath, letting Vivian absorb the truth.
“Your mother.”

Vivian could only stare, brain short-circuiting.

Holy— the villainess’s mom? She looks like the goddess of death. Anyone would line up to die for her. The thought hit so hard it nearly made her dizzy. No mother should be this breathtaking.

Eli’s lips curved in a small, cold flicker of pride. “You should know it’s true. Look at your eyes, little one. They are mine. That same dark, deep sapphire that refuses to release the light.” Her voice dipped, disdain clear. “Not like your father’s washed-out blue.”

She paused, her gaze distant, collecting the right words as if plucking cold stones from a riverbed. "I have been at the Western March," she stated, her voice returning to its low, authoritative pitch. "It is the last, ragged edge of the empire's land. The place where the borderlands bleed into the wilderness and where the peace your father enjoys is paid for, daily, in grit and coin."

She gave Cassmir a withering side-eye that needed no words to convey her contempt.

"I was commanded to the West to oversee the final defenses," Eli continued, her hand tightening subtly on Vivian's knee. "It is our land. And while your father remains here, managing balls and petty society drama, someone must be present to ensure that when the Empire faces an intruder, we don't just survive—we dominate."

Eli turned back to Vivian, her sapphire eyes steady and unwavering.
“I may have been away, but I have not been blind to the world. Tonight, no matter the crowd or the music, trust yourself—and let the evening unfold as you will.”