The chandelier above her head glimmered like a constellation of icy stars, but Allison barely noticed the beauty. She was too busy staring at the girl in the mirror.
Too skinny. Too soft. Too easy to kill.
In the novel, Elara Voss died in exactly fourteen days. The "Wine Incident" was the trigger, a public humiliation of the female lead, Clara, that finally pushed Dante Moretti to eliminate his "obsessive" fiancée.
"Not on my watch," Allison whispered. Her voice sounded different. mellifluous, like dark honey, but her thoughts remained sharp, clinical. She didn't just need a plan; she needed a character shift that wouldn't get her locked in a psych ward.
She turned from the mirror and stumbled toward the massive mahogany door. Her legs felt longer than they should be, and the heavy silk hem of her gown caught under her heel.
The Maze and the Mockery
She yanked the door open and practically fell into the hallway. Two guards, tall, stone-faced men in tailored black suits, snapped to attention. Their name tags read Demetrius and Gino.
"Good morning, boys!" Allison chirped, throwing them a bright, slightly too-wide smile.
Demetrius blinked, his hand twitching toward his holster in pure confusion. The "Old Elara" never acknowledged the security; she treated them like furniture. "Uh... Good morning, Miss Voss. Are you... alright?"
"Never better! Just looking for the... uh... the place with the food? The kitchen?" She waved a hand vaguely, intentionally appearing scatterbrained as she tripped over her own feet again. "I think I turned left in my sleep. Or was it right?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She began fumbling her way down the corridor, trailing her fingers along the silk-flocked wallpaper to feel for hidden latches or service exits. She walked into a closet, backed out with a nervous laugh, and then tried a door that led to a linen cupboard.
Behind her, she heard the muffled sound of Gino snickering.
"Is she drunk already?" Demetrius whispered.
"Maybe she finally snapped," Gino replied with a low, mocking chuckle. "Let her wander. As long as she doesn't break the vases, who cares?"
Allison ignored them, her eyes darting everywhere. Grand staircase to the left. The West Wing is restricted—noted. No windows in this stretch—bad for a jump, but good for a hideout. Every time she "accidentally" opened a door, she was checking for back stairs, service elevators, or basement access. She was a nursing student; she knew how to read a floor plan under pressure.
The Spy in the Room
"Elara?"
The voice was like a blade of ice. Allison spun around to see Martha, the head maid and Dante's silent spy. Martha was short and sturdy, her eyes like two black beads that saw through everything.
"Martha! My favorite person!" Allison exhaled, leaning against a marble pedestal for support.
Martha's gaze traveled from Allison's messy hair down to her bare, clumsy feet. "You are wandering. And you are... loud. Did you have a nightmare?"
"No, actually. I had a realization," Allison said, her voice dropping an octave as she steered Martha back toward her bedroom. She needed to handle the spy now.
Once inside, Allison sat on the edge of the bed and sighed, looking up at Martha with a vulnerability that was half-fake, half-real.
"Martha, tell me the truth," Allison started, picking at a loose gold thread on the duvet. "Does Dante hate me?"
Martha stiffened, her professional mask tightening. "The Master is a busy man, Elara. His feelings are..."
"Non-existent? Cold? Murderous?" Allison cut her off with a sad, dry laugh. She looked Martha directly in the eyes. "I realized something today while staring at the ceiling. I've spent years chasing a man who wouldn't even step over my body to get to a meeting. I've been a fool, haven't I?"
Martha hesitated. This wasn't the dramatic, screaming Elara she knew. "You have been... dedicated, Miss."
"Dedicated? No. I was obsessed. And I'm done," Allison said, standing up and walking toward the vanity. She picked up a piece of dark chocolate from a silver tray and popped it into her mouth. Calories. I need the energy to run. "From now on, Martha, I don't want to see him. If he's in the dining room, I'll eat here. If he's in the garden, I'm in the library. I want to focus on... my health."
Martha's eyes narrowed. "The Master will find your sudden change... suspicious."
"Then let him," Allison shrugged. "Let him think I've lost my mind. It's better than losing my life over a man who doesn't even know my favorite color."
The Vanishing Act
For the next three days, Allison became a ghost.
Whenever she heard the heavy, rhythmic tread of Dante's boots in the hallway, she ducked into the nearest servant's passage or bathroom. She spent her mornings in the library, but the moment the sensors indicated the study was occupied, she vanished through the back door.
She was even more careful with Clara Valen.
On the second afternoon, she spotted the "Clara valen" walking through the rose garden—pale, delicate, and looking every bit like the innocent noble she was supposed to be. In the book, Elara would have rushed out to insult her, triggering Dante's protective instincts.
Instead, Allison retreated deep into the shadows of the balcony, pulling the velvet curtains shut. She watched Clara from behind the glass like a scientist observing a dangerous specimen.
Stay away from the Heroine, stay away from the Hero, she chanted.
She began taking her meals in her room—heavy creams, pastas, and rich desserts. She needed to lose that "fragile" look and build actual stamina. She did light calisthenics behind locked doors, counting her breaths in the silence.
But her avoidance was starting to vibrate through the mansion. The staff noticed. Martha's reports were getting longer. The guards stopped laughing and started looking confused.
By the fourth night, the silence of the mansion felt heavy. Allison sat by the window, nibbling on a butter croissant, her eyes on the clock.
Ten days left until the Wine Incident.
She had successfully avoided every meeting. She hadn't seen Dante's face once. She was becoming a mystery in her own home.
But as she reached to turn off her lamp, she heard it.
A sharp, authoritative knock on her bedroom door. Not the soft, hesitant tap of a maid.
"Elara. Open the door."
It was Dante. And he didn't sound happy about being ignored.