The ballroom glittered with chandeliers, masks, and empty pleasantries. It was beautiful, as always. And I had never hated it more.
I knew the story. Knew what was supposed to happen tonight.
This was the chapter where Evelyne would accuse Alaira of seducing the Crown Prince—publicly. Humiliating her. Earning the final strike from the court, and beginning her swift descent toward exile… and death.
But I wasn't here to play the villain.
I was here to break the script.
My gown was the same blood-red shade from the original scene, a symbol of Evelyne's pride. But the weight of it now felt more like a warning. I moved through the crowd, aware of the shifting glances, the murmurs. The Crown Prince was nearby, engaged in idle chatter. And Alaira…
There. Standing beneath the arched windows, wearing sea-foam green and looking more tense than any other noble here.
I approached her slowly.
She turned, eyes widening. But she didn't flinch. Not this time.
"Lady Evelyne," she said carefully. "I didn't expect you to—
"I'm not here to cause a scene," I interrupted. "I just want to talk. Privately."
The silence between us was brittle. She studied my face, searching for malice or performance. But she must have seen something different now.
"Very well," she said. "Let's talk."
We slipped away into one of the rose gardens, just beyond the music's reach. The scent of blooming nightflowers surrounded us.
"You've changed," she said softly.
"So have you."
We stared at each other, two women written to be enemies.
"You've been dreaming, haven't you?" I asked.
Alaira froze.
"The fire. The clock. You've seen it too."
"...Yes," she whispered.
So I wasn't alone.
Something—or someone—was interfering with this world. And both of us could feel the seams unraveling.