Chapter 347

Vivienne

I look at the wedding preparations in dread.

It’s like being on a train racing toward the edge of a cliff, and I can’t stop it. I can only watch in horror, feel the ground crumble beneath me, and wait for the fall.

It doesn’t help that Daphne isn’t around. She’s on her a business trip, no calls, just occasional texts that feel like placeholders. Miss you. Thinking of you. Busy day.

I’m angry. But what do I want her to do? Stay here and give me her blessings?

That’s selfish, Vivienne.

"You’re ready."

The attendant pulls back the curtain. I step out of the dressing room in a cloud of white silk and lace, and both Olga and my mother immediately start fawning.

"Oh, Vivienne." My mother presses her hands to her chest. "You look beautiful."

"The dress is perfect," Olga agrees. "Damien won’t know what hit him."

I stand there, turning slowly, letting them see the train, the bodice, the delicate embroidery. I nod at the right moments. Smile when they expect it.

But I’m not here. I’m somewhere far, far away from this shop, this dress, this life.

The wedding is set for two weeks from now. Two weeks after that is the election. Everyone is busy. Damien is campaigning. Olga is planning. My mother is glowing.

And Daphne is gone.

I don’t remember trying on the other dresses. I don’t remember choosing this one. I just follow along, letting them decide, because I don’t care anymore.

Shoes. Bouquet. Veil.

Next. Next. Next.

It’s all I can do.

*

We stop at a random cafe. My mother wants tea. Olga wants pastries. I want five minutes alone.

I slip into the bathroom, splash water on my face, and immediately realize I’ve ruined my makeup. Great. Just great.

I pull out my bag, start fixing it. Mascara. Concealer. The careful construction of a woman who has everything under control.

The bathroom door opens.

Fuck me.

In staff uniform, Damien’s lover walks in.

I don’t acknowledge him. Just keep touching up my makeup, pretending he’s a stranger, pretending my heart isn’t racing.

"Congratulations." He leans against the sink, arms crossed. "I heard the wedding is finally happening."

"Thank you."

He studies me. "I was starting to think you would never get married."

I don’t look at him. "Don’t worry. You can continue being his favorite little toy even after the wedding. I’m not possessive."

He laughs. It’s not a nice sound. "I’m not interested in married Alphas."

"Just the ones with fiancées?"

He goes quiet.

I finish my mascara, cap the wand, start packing up.

"I don’t see what’s so special about you." His voice is different now. Sharper. "You’re not even that pretty."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. A cat fight. In a cafe bathroom. Just what I need.

I won’t humor him.

"I would say the same," I keep my voice cool, "but seeing as it’s not just my fiancé you’ve got wrapped around your finger, I suppose you’re in a position to make such judgments."

"I’m not talking about Damien."

I freeze.

"Whatever." I reach for the mascara brush, try to place it back in its holder—

"Daphne doesn’t love you."

The brush snaps in my hand.

Mascara bleeds across my fingers, black and sticky.

"What did you just say?" My voice is steady. Too steady.

He smiles. It’s ugly.

"I’m glad you’re getting married. That way, Daphne will have to give up on you. She’ll finally look at other Omegas." He tilts his head. "After all, you’ll be legally family."

I look at my hand. Mascara smeared across my palm. The broken brush in pieces on the counter.

Leave her alone.

The words are in my head. I don’t know if I said them out loud.

"You have no right to tell me that." He pushes off from the sink, steps closer. "After all, you’re nothing more than her sister-in-law."

I don’t feel myself move.

I don’t feel my hand connect with his face.

I don’t feel my fingers twist in his hair, yank his head back, watch his eyes go wide with shock.

Daphne is mine.

The thought is a roar in my ears.

How dare he. How dare this bitch want her.

I don’t remember being dragged away.

I don’t remember Olga’s voice, sharp with alarm. My mother’s hands on my shoulders, pulling me back. The cafe owner, shouting something about calling the police.

I don’t remember any of it.

*

"How could you act like that in public, Vivienne?!" Damien’s voice booms through the kitchen.

Be composed, Vivienne. Be calm.

"The elections are coming up. How could you act so disrespectfully?!" He’s pacing now, his face red, his hands gesturing wildly.

My eye twitches.

I shove the cutting board off the counter. Vegetables scatter across the floor. A glass bowl shatters. The sound is loud, satisfying, not enough.

"Was I supposed to just stand there and let your fucking slut disrespect me?!" My voice tears out of me, raw and unfamiliar. I don’t recognize myself right now.

The kitchen falls silent. Servants freeze in the doorway. Damien stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.

This might be the first time I’ve ever screamed at him. First time I’ve screamed at all in the Han mansion.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he shouts back.

"What? You think you’re the only one with vocal cords?!" I’m shaking. My hands are shaking. Everything is shaking.

I’ve been so irritable lately. Moving through bouts of depression and anger like weather I can’t control.

One moment I’m fine, the next I’m this—a stranger in my own body, watching myself from somewhere far away.

The servants start clearing the mess. Damien turns away, muttering under his breath. Something about me being a crazy bitch. Something about regretting the engagement.

"Yeah?" My voice is too loud. "I regret it too. The proposal should have gone to the better twin."

He freezes. Turns.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

"I said Daphne is the better twin."

The words hang in the air like smoke.

Then Damien lunges. The servants grab him, hold him back. He’s shouting, spitting, calling me names I’ve never heard directed at me before. I don’t care. I grab a knife from the counter—just to hold, just to make him stop, just to have something solid in my hands.

"You think I’m scared of you?!" I wave it in his direction. "Come at me?!"

More hands grab me. Servants on both sides now, pulling me back, pleading with me to calm down. I can’t calm down. I don’t know how.

"Lady Vivienne, please—"

"My lady—"

"You insane bitch!" Damien shoves free of the servants holding him.

Something snaps.

I shove off the hands holding me back. The knife is in my hand. My vision is red. My thoughts are a scream.

If he’s dead, I can be with Daphne.

If he’s dead.

If he’s dead.

If he’s dead.

I swing the knife for some reason the action is farmiliar, as if wielding a knife with intent to kill is something that I usually do.