She wasn't there.
Allison wasn't.
At least—not where she was supposed to be.
The banquet had already started.
The doors to her room burst open.
A rush of footsteps. Fabric. Panic.
"Lady Elara!"
"All apologies, my lady. we should have prepared you earlier!"
"We are terribly sorry!"
Allison blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Her mind lagged behind reality, still wrapped in sleep.
She was sitting upright on the bed, her body heavy, her thoughts sluggish—still dressed in her thin nightgown, her hair tucked messily beneath a bonnet.
"…Huh?"
The room spun slightly.
Oh.
Right.
Banquet.
Death.
Her eyes widened. then immediately softened as something else clicked.
Wait…
She slowly smiled.
Bright. Harmless. Innocent.
"No... no, no worries," she said, waving her hand lazily.
Her voice was light.
Too light.
Because inside—
This is good.
This is perfect.
If I arrive late… I can avoid everything.
Martha did not smile.
She stepped forward and yanked Allison out of bed with brutal efficiency.
"My lady, there is no time."
"Wai...!"
Allison barely managed to steady herself before she was shoved toward the bathroom.
A second maid. clearly specialized. followed immediately behind, already rolling up her sleeves.
Thirty minutes later.
Allison emerged.
Drenched.
Scrubbed.
Stripped of sleep and comfort.
Her skin glowed unnaturally smooth, her body oiled, perfumed, polished like she was being prepared for display.
Hands moved over her quickly drying her, dressing her, tightening, adjusting, pulling.
She felt like an object.
A doll.
A sacrifice.
"Remind me again, Martha," Allison muttered, her voice slightly strained as the corset tightened, "why am I being stuffed and dolled up like a bag of chips?"
"It is the Don's orders."
Flat.
Final.
Unarguable.
Silence fell after that.
Only the sound of fabric sliding against skin.
Jewelry clinking.
Brushes against her face.
Then...
She stood in front of the mirror.
And froze.
"…Oh my God."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Her reflection stared back at her—
No.
Not her.
Elara.
But…
"Alison…" she whispered faintly, her fingers brushing her cheek, "…I can't believe we could be this pretty."
Her eyes widened slightly, taking in every detail.
"And we could afford to wear a dress like this…?"
The dress clung to her like it had been painted onto her body.
It hugged her waist tightly, dipped perfectly along her curves, accentuating everything she had once hidden.
Her chest rose slightly.
Full.
Firm.
Her hips curved outward in a way that felt almost sinful.
"…What is this?"
"Oh no…"
One of the maids suddenly gasped, her voice trembling.
"What are we going to do? My lady, the dress—it's too tight… we couldn't find anything looser…"
Her eyes filled with tears.
Her lashes trembled.
"I'm so sorry…"
Allison blinked.
Then tilted her head slightly.
"Don't cry."
Her tone was soft. Casual.
Unbothered.
Inside, her thoughts shifted.
The original Elara must have wanted to look extremely skinny…
But…
Her lips curved slowly.
This?
Her gaze dragged over her reflection again.
The dress molded to her like a second skin.
Not fragile.
Not breakable.
But...
Full.
Alive.
Dangerous.
She winked at herself.
"Only a goddess could be built like this."
Silence.
The maids froze.
One dropped the powder brush.
Martha's eyes narrowed slightly.
Before anyone could respond—
A knock.
Sharp.
Urgent.
A servant rushed in, slightly breathless.
"The Don has sent word."
The room stilled.
"You are to appear in the banquet hall within five minutes."
Allison didn't move.
Didn't panic.
Didn't react.
Just exhaled softly.
"…Of course he did."
She didn't want to go.
Every instinct screamed at her not to.
But Martha was already stepping forward.
"You will attend."
Not a request.
An order.
"And I will escort you myself."
The walk felt too short.
Too fast.
Too final.
She paused at the entrance.
Adjusted a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Dusted invisible lint off her dress.
Then—
Stepped in.
Silence.
Then—
Whispers.
"Oh my God… who is that?"
"She's… stunning…"
"I've never seen that kind of figure..."
"The other ladies are all so thin, but she...."
"She looks like a goddess..."
"Those curves..."
"Her chest..."
Allison kept walking.
Graceful.
Unbothered.
Untouchable.
Like she belonged there.
Across the room—
Dante sat in the shadows.
Watching.
His gaze dark.
Burning.
Unreadable.
Jealousy?
Hatred?
Something worse?
Allison reached the drinks table, scanning the glasses absentmindedly.
Okay… just stay low… don't cause a scene…
"Hey."
Her body jolted. That voice sounded familiar
Clara.
Of course.
Clara simply wanted to see the girl. the unknown one who had stolen the room without trying. The one who drew every gaze, every whisper, every breath… away from her.
Once, that light had been hers.
Now, it shifted.
And it shifted toward her.
Her fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into her palm as a quiet, unfamiliar feeling settled deep in her chest.
Who was she?
What did she have… that she didn't?
Because this wasn't something she could fight.
The girl hadn't taken the spotlight.
She had become it
Allison turned quickly.
"Cla... Lady Clara."
She bowed.
Perfectly.
Gracefully.
While inside....
I JUST GOT HERE—WHY IS TROUBLE ALREADY HERE?!
Clara froze.
Her expression flickered.
Confusion.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Elara…
Bow?
Call her Lady Clara?
The room erupted in whispers.
"Is that Elara?"
"She looks completely different..."
"Did she just bow?!"
"She even called Clara 'Lady'—"
"She looks… better than Clara…"
Color drained from Clara's face.
Allison smiled.
Soft.
Gentle.
Innocent.
"Oh, Clara… you look so stunning. I haven't seen you in a while."
The smile reached her eyes.
Pure.
White lotus.
"Th... thank you…" Clara stammered.
A sharp exhale sounded, Dante. a smile creeping on his face. He just watched expecting elara to react. He knew she hated Clara
He rubbed his temple, already irritated. She didn't react.
Then walked toward them.
His gaze landed on Allison.
Venomous.
Cold.
Searching.
"Everyone," he said smoothly, "to the high table."
Glasses were lifted.
Wine poured.
Tension thickened.
Dante picked up a glass.
Then...
Handed one to Allison.
Their fingers didn't touch.
But it felt like they did.
He raised his glass.
"I would like to make a toast."
The room quieted.
"I want to specifically toast… a two-faced ingrate."
A ripple of shock.
Allison's stomach dropped.
…Wait.
"I want to toast the kind of person who says one thing… and means another."
Her face burned.
"I want to toast someone secretly plotting something unknown."
Her grip tightened around the glass.
Is he… talking about me?
Dante's eyes locked onto hers.
Sharp.
Merciless.
"I want to toast the person who begged, cried, starved herself… and pleaded for this engagement...."
His voice dropped.
Dangerous.
"—only to suddenly want to annul it."
Silence.
Heavy.
Crushing.
"Elara Voss."
He raised his glass.
And drank.
Every drop.
All eyes turned to her.
Whispers exploded.
Judgment.
Mockery.
Speculation.
Exactly what he wanted.
Allison stood there.
Burning.
Exposed.
Humiliated.
Slowly—
She raised her glass too.
And drank.
Then she stood.
"I… need some air."
Excuse.
Escape.
Survival.
Gasps followed her.
"How could she—"
"After everything—"
"She wants to end it now?"
She didn't stop walking.
Back in her room—
Silence.
Stillness.
Safety.
She undressed slowly.
Piece by piece.
Like shedding a skin.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
Long.
Quiet.
Then...
"Do you think your master ever loved me?"
Martha froze.
That wasn't the reaction she expected.
Not anger.
Not rage.
Not tears.
She cleared her throat.
"The Don… is always very busy. And not good at expressing himself."
Silence stretched.
Long.
Uncomfortable.
Martha was still watching her.
Too closely.
Too carefully.
Allison turned her back to the mirror, fingers slowly reaching for the zipper of her dress.
She didn't rush.
Didn't panic.
Didn't react like Elara would have.
Because Elara—
Would have shattered tonight.
But I didn't die.
That thought echoed quietly in her chest.
Calm.
Grounding.
Final.
And then...
Another thought followed.
Darker.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
You were part of it too.
Her fingers stilled for just a second before continuing.
She didn't turn around.
Didn't look at Martha.
But she knew.
She knew everything.
Martha.
The loyal maid act.
The silent observer.
The one who whispered poison into Elara's ears.
The one who fed her ideas.
Do this.
Get rid of Clara.
You deserve him.
The one who slowly pushed her....
Closer.
Closer.
Closer—
To her death.
But Allison?
She didn't care.
Not anymore.
She slipped the dress off her shoulders.
Let it fall.
"At least…" she said softly, almost to herself, "I survived the night."
Martha's brows furrowed slightly.
That tone—
Was wrong.
Allison moved toward the bed, calm, distant, untouchable.
Then she spoke again.
"I have wasted a few years…" her voice was quiet, almost reflective, "…waiting and loving a man who wouldn't step over my dead body just to attend an important meeting."
Martha stiffened.
That—
That didn't sound like anger.
It sounded like…
acceptance.
"No… don't say that," Martha replied quickly, her voice unusually tight.
"You were just loyal. And compliant."
A pause.
Then—
A laugh.
Cold.
Sharp.
Unfamiliar.
"Loyal…?" Allison echoed.
She turned her head slightly, just enough for her profile to show.
Her eyes held no obsession.
No desperation.
No love.
"…Well."
A slow breath.
"That dog who would beg for even a bit of attention…"
She reached for her nightwear.
"…is dead."
Silence.
"I just want to live."
No tears.
No trembling.
No breakdown.
Just truth.
Allison slipped into bed.
Picked up a romance novel.
Opened it.
And started reading.
Like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn't just been humiliated in front of an entire hall.
Like she hadn't just declared the death of the woman everyone knew.
Martha didn't move.
Didn't speak.
She stood there.
Watching.
Waiting.
This is an act.
It had to be.
It had to be.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Searching for cracks.
For anger.
For obsession.
For even a flicker—
Of the old Elara.
But there was nothing.
Only the soft sound of pages turning.
Martha's fingers curled slightly at her sides.
Her chest felt… tight.
How…
Her thoughts trailed off, unsettled.
How could she change this much?
Her gaze lingered on Allison's calm figure.
Still.
Peaceful.
Detached.
And for the first time—
Martha felt something unfamiliar crawl up her spine.
Not control.
Not certainty.
But doubt.
Unease.
…How could she not care anymore?