I lingered in the bathroom's steam-warmed glow, my skin still humming with a faint, telling sensitivity from last night's reckless indulgence in the tub.
Curiosity got the better of me. A flush crept back up my cheeks as I studied my reflection in the fogged mirror—eyes a touch too bright, raven hair falling in damp, tousled waves, my full curves glowing soft pink beneath the loose cream lounge shorts and tank top.
Awkwardness settled over me like a second skin. My body, for all its alpha designation on, showed none of the stereotypes. Breasts heavy and responsive, hips curving wide and sinful, that lingering slick ache between my thighs—it all mimicked the structures of any woman, which made it a bit weird.
Wasn't it confusing, even for an alpha like me? What set me apart beyond faint pheromones and instincts that flickered more like embers than wildfire? Whatever the answer, yesterday I'd unravelled like a teenager, fingers deep and desperate.
It was reckless, but human. I mean, we all like to feel the sensation of erotic pleasure, don't we?
Shaking my head to scatter the lingering echoes, I put the brush back in its place as I padded downstairs barefoot, the Persian runner plush and forgiving under my toes.
Sunlight streamed through the bay windows, pooling golden on the floors of the kitchen. Breakfast waited simple and steady on the island—a bowl of thick Greek yogurt swirled with honey and bursting red berries, slices of toasted sourdough slathered in almond butter, and a fat mug of black coffee steaming bold and bitter.
I ate slowly, fork piercing fruit with deliberate care, tart-sweet flavours popping on my tongue as my mind churned through the mess of self-doubt. Decision-making had never been my strong suit, and I knew it down to my bones.
After weeks holed up in Willowbrook like a wounded animal, I'd flung open the gates to a stranger—Hellen Jacksen—and inked a partnership on the spot. Then the factories turned out to be crumbling ruins, riddled with rust and sabotage that reeked of Viktor's handiwork.
Idiot moves, every one of them. Yet that was the human way, wasn't it? We stumble forward blindly, making mistakes in the most uncertain way, learning only when the ground gives out beneath us. Although, I am deep buried inside the ground, aren't I?
Honestly, the fear gnawed deepest when I thought of the plot itself—the invisible strings of this world tugging me back into its drama. That day scared me so much that I did a lot of unexpected things. But what would you expect from a novice like me? Maybe the OG Emily would have handled everything, but not me.
I haven't studied at some fancy college—don't have any degrees. Only have ideas and dreams. Yes, it would have been better if I had ignored Hellen—maybe I didn't have to be so stressed if I had refused her proposal.
But opportunity comes only for a single time. It will never knock on my door twice.
I was the side villainess, the stalker shadow meant to fade or fall. Part of me wanted to stay buried here forever—my offshore money would have been enough to let me sustain. But how long could I pace these same floors, watching dust motes dance in the light?
Stagnation would rot me faster than any risk. Motion was survival, mistakes and all. Still, my actions heavily depended on my predecessor's character. I have tried to mimic her almost everywhere, which was quite unsuccessful as my own character slithered in through the cracks.
Those years as a barista in my past life had carved sociability into me like a second nature. While I can stay isolated, and remain alone with my thoughts—I still like to socialize. Long shifts behind the counter, juggling steaming lattes and small talk with strangers—moms venting about chaotic school runs, people barking orders for black coffee no foam, shy omegas slipping tips with a blush and a compliment on my scarf's drape.
I'd memorized their quirks, turned grumps into regulars with foam hearts in their caps. On top of that, my stints as a 'unsuccessful' actress—yes, I tried to be an actress—small theatre gigs, indie shorts—had sharpened my eye for reading rooms, slipping into skins as fluid as silk.
Crowds handed me stories on silver platters—whispers in line about stiff gowns that bound too tight, magazine pages ripped out mid-shift with runway critiques, overheard complaints that carved needs into crystal.
All my knowledge came from piecing together fragments—books devoured in stolen post-shift hours, dog-eared fashion magazines, binged shows and interviews, endless eavesdropping on real lives.
Direct experience?
None.
No atelier hours under master cutters. But indirect sources ran deeper, more reliable than any textbook. People betrayed their needs without words—through slumped shoulders in bad fits, eyes lighting up at perfect drapes, offhand rants that begged for solutions.
"Pockets deep enough for a phone but still feminine," one mom had sighed.
"Breathable layers for a hot day that don't turn into sweat traps," a woman murmured.
"Why are these dresses so damn rare? We need them cheap for real life," an aspiring actress grumbled over her espresso.
Yogurt bowl scraped clean, coffee drained to bitter dregs, resolve settled heavy in my chest as I took a deep breath. I owned my idiocy—the impulsive invites, the blind leaps—but it fuelled the fire inside me now.
Fear of the plot? Yes, it still coiled tight in my gut like a living thing, cold fingers wrapping my ribs every time Lily's face flashed in some tabloid memory. This world wasn't mine—not truly. I was the interloper. The plot's strings yanked hard, pulling me toward ruin or redemption arc I wanted no part of.
Will I succumb to it?
I don't know.
Could I outrun it?
Maybe.
Shadows stretch long but thin; speed and cunning shredded them before it would trap a person in their trap.
So, the question is—will I be trapped?
Who knows? But for now, I will wait for Hellen to come to the mansion for hearing my pitch.