The dining hall of the Vargaz estate was far too grand for a simple afternoon tea. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, scattering soft warmth across polished floors and elegant furniture. A table had been arranged near the center—delicate pastries, small sandwiches, and a pot of fragrant jasmine tea set neatly in place.
But the atmosphere was anything but peaceful.
Alira sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, back straight, shoulders tense. This was her first formal interaction with Damon's inner circle—his close relatives, high-ranking advisors, and a few long-standing business partners who had been personally invited to "meet the bride."
She wished she could disappear.
Madam Iris stood discreetly near the wall, overseeing the gathering with her usual composure. Several guards lingered outside the room, visible through the glass doors. And at the head of the table, Damon sat like a cold shadow carved from authority—silent, watchful, unreadable.
The first minutes were simple enough. Polite greetings. Measuring glances. Curious smiles that veiled suspicion.
Then the questions began.
"So, Helena," murmured a woman named Seraphine, Damon's aunt, swirling tea in her delicate porcelain cup, "we hardly saw you during the past three years. You must tell us—how was your time abroad?"
Alira's breath stalled.
Her mind went blank.
The tea cup in her hands trembled.
Abroad?
Helena had been abroad?
She should have known. She should have researched more. She should have asked more questions. But everything had happened too fast. She had barely had time to absorb her new life before being dropped into this suffocating room filled with people who knew Helena better than she ever could.
Damon's gaze flicked toward her—not helping, not saving her, just watching.
Waiting.
Alira forced a smile, but her voice wavered. "I… ah… my time abroad was… lovely."
Dead silence.
Seraphine lifted a brow. "Lovely? That's all?"
Alira swallowed hard. "Yes. I mean—there was a lot to see. And learn. It was… educational."
A few people exchanged looks. Seraphine leaned back, folding her arms.
"Educational? But Helena, my dear, you stayed with your relatives in Marseille. They always said you refused to leave the house."
Another relative chimed in, frowning gently. "Indeed. You wrote that the city felt overwhelming and that you preferred staying indoors. You also mentioned disliking crowds."
Alira froze.
Her pulse thudded painfully.
She had just contradicted everything Helena had told them.
"I…" she stammered, "I meant—lovely as in… peaceful. Quiet. I enjoyed the stillness, not the city itself."
More silence.
Seraphine narrowed her eyes. "That's odd. You told me last year that you hated stillness. You said it made your mind wander too much."
Her chest tightened.
She could feel Damon's scrutiny sharpening, like a blade held just above her skin. His fingers tapped once against the table—a soft sound that nonetheless cracked through her like thunder.
The advisors exchanged glances. Some curious. Some confused. Some suspicious.
Alira's palms dampened.
Think. Think. THINK.
She forced a nervous laugh. "Well, people change."
Seraphine's expression didn't soften. "In a year?"
Alira opened her mouth, but nothing emerged. Panic clawed at her throat. Tears threatened to burn behind her eyes, but she held them back with everything she had.
Damon remained silent.
Watching.
Measuring.
And she felt every second of his judgment.
Another man, Mr. Halden—one of Damon's oldest associates—leaned forward. "Helena, forgive my bluntness, but you used to write very frequently. You shared many details. And now you seem… uncertain."
His eyes narrowed. "Why is that?"
Her pulse spiraled out of control.
People waited. Expectation weighed on her like a mountain.
Finally, she forced a small, brittle smile. "It's been a stressful week. I'm still adjusting."
She hoped—prayed—it was enough.
A few nodded sympathetically. But most didn't look convinced.
Madam Iris, from across the room, gave Alira a subtle warning glance. Not comforting. Not encouraging.
Warning her to tread carefully.
The conversation shifted after a moment, but the room no longer felt warm. Every question that followed was gentle but probing. Every comment—harmless but sharp.
"What hobbies did you pick up abroad?"
"What books were you reading these days?"
"Did you ever visit the vineyard Helena mentioned years ago?"
Each one tightened the noose.
Alira answered carefully, vaguely, praying her words didn't contradict Helena again. But she could tell—they sensed something was off.
Even the air felt heavier, as if suffocating under suspicion.
When the gathering finally ended and the advisors began to leave, Seraphine placed a cool hand on Alira's shoulder.
"My dear," she murmured sweetly, "I hope your memory improves soon."
Alira stiffened.
Seraphine's smile lingered, delicate but sharp as glass.
"You wouldn't want anyone to think you are… someone else."
Her blood ran cold.
Seraphine drifted away, leaving Alira frozen in place.
One by one, the others departed, until the room was nearly empty.
Only Damon remained.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just sat there, one elbow propped on the armrest, fingers brushing his jaw thoughtfully.
Alira forced herself to stand. Her legs trembled as she turned toward the exit.
But Damon's voice cut through the air like ice.
"Stop."
She froze instantly.
Slowly, she turned back. Damon's eyes were dark, unreadable, but there was something new in them—something dangerous, simmering just beneath the surface.
He stood, walking toward her with slow, controlled steps.
When he stopped in front of her, she felt the air shift—charged, tense, suffocating.
"You lied," he said softly.
Her breath hitched.
He leaned closer, voice low, lethal. "Not just once. Several times."
Alira's knees weakened. "I—I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to?" His voice remained calm, but the underlying cold was sharper than any raised tone. "Or you didn't prepare enough?"
Her heart pounded.
His gaze locked onto hers, unblinking. "You will not embarrass me again."
The words were quiet, but the threat in them was unmistakable.
"If you make another mistake," he said, "people will start asking questions neither of us want."
Her breath trembled.
Damon straightened, towering over her.
"Fix it, Helena."
Her chest tightened painfully.
Because she wasn't Helena. And she didn't know how to fix something built entirely on lies.
But she nodded. Because what else could she do?
"Yes," she whispered. "I'll be careful."
Damon studied her for a long, chilling moment.
Then he turned away.
"See that you are," he said. "I don't tolerate errors."
Alira stood there, heart shattered inside her chest.
Because she realized something terrifying—
This mistake wasn't small.
People noticed.
Damon noticed.
And if she slipped again…
She wasn't sure what he would do.
But she knew one thing—
She could not afford to be Alira anymore.
Not if she wanted to stay alive.