The next morning I woke earlier than usual, the sky still a pale watercolor of peach and dove-gray. As I descended the grand staircase, I spotted Zion already waiting at the bottom landing, one hand leisurely tucked into his slacks, the other holding a sleek phone to his ear. Whoever was on the line received only clipped replies—a curt "Yes," followed by a quieter "Understood," and finally a decisive "Yeah." Then he slid the device into his pocket and turned his expressionless gaze on me.
"I see you're almost fully healed now," he observed, voice level, eyes noting my face with clinical precision.
I offered no comment, simply continued my careful descent until we stood eye to eye on the polished marble floor. His remark, however, was accurate; the swelling and discoloration that had marred my features days earlier had nearly vanished, leaving me looking—disconcertingly—like my original self. The improvement only deepened the mystery of why my appearance was changing at all.
"After breakfast you'll come with me to Cartridge Enterprise," Zion announced, already pivoting toward the formal dining hall. "I intend to introduce you to my employees."
The cavernous room fell silent except for the faint chime of silver cutlery striking china. I slipped into a chair opposite him. Butler Enrod soon appeared, hurried steps muted by the herringbone floor. He bent to whisper something in Zion's ear. Zion nodded once, set down his utensils, and fixed those dark eyes on me. Enrod, sensing the scrutiny, straightened and looked my way as well.
"What is it?" I asked, brows knitting.
"Madam, Vilacorp is hosting its corporate-anniversary gala this evening at headquarters. An invitation addressed to both you and the Sire arrived moments ago," Enrod explained.
I tapped a fingertip against my water glass, intrigued but cautious. "So… how exactly does that concern me?"
The butler exhaled and motioned discreetly for the uniformed servers to exit, leaving the three of us in private. The sudden confidentiality prickled my nerves.
"We have reason to believe Carlo Ville will attend the gala," Enrod said solemnly.
My breath stalled. Carlo Ville—the male lead of My Lily—here? Yet the novel never mentioned any Vilacorp celebration. Clearly the story's official timeline hadn't begun.
"Sire suspects a connection between you and Carlo Ville," Enrod continued, "and wishes to clarify the nature of your past."
Luckily, yesterday's encounter with Sanny had armed me with partial answers. "According to my friend, Carlo is… my ex," I admitted, careful to keep my voice steady.
Zion's attention sharpened at the confirmation. Unsurprisingly, his bodyguards had already briefed him about every word exchanged in the mall.
"The woman who spoke to you yesterday," Zion said, voice thoughtful rather than accusatory.
"Yes," I affirmed.
Silence stretched—a thin, humming wire—until Enrod cleared his throat. "Madam, concealing your identity will grow impossible. Carlo Ville is already investigating Sire's recent marriage. Confrontation is inevitable, most likely tonight."
Curiosity blossomed alongside apprehension. What did Carlo look like in real life? Former boyfriend or broken engagement—my own memory refused to clarify.
"So I need to be ready," I murmured, more to myself than to them.
Zion rose gracefully and addressed Enrod. "Arrange everything she requires for the gala," he ordered, then expelled a measured sigh before facing me. "Do not leave the grounds today. I'll collect you this evening and we'll arrive together."
With that he strode away, Enrod following at a respectful distance, leaving me alone amid porcelain and silence. I resumed breakfast—shoveling scrambled eggs felt strangely vital after an avalanche of revelations.
Later, I found Enrod in the living room speaking with four impeccably dressed professionals. He noticed me, smiled, and gestured. "Madam, these specialists have come to assist with your attire."
The tallest—a stunning figure in a tailored jumpsuit—stepped forward. "I'm Margaux," she declared with a bright grin. Though her features suggested she was biologically male, every gesture radiated feminine poise. The remaining trio introduced themselves, effervescent and welcoming. I shook hands. "Just call me Ally."
They laughed, an easy chorus. Enrod added proudly, "They each sit at the pinnacle of their respective fashion fields."
I glanced at the grandfather clock. "Do we have to start immediately? It isn't even nine."
Enrod adjusted his glasses. "Because Sire postponed the office introduction, these ladies will teach you essentials today."
My confusion deepened. "Essentials?"
"How to stand, glide in stilettos, maintain posture," Margaux chimed, twirling a manicured finger. "We'll drill basic ballroom steps, too, in case there's dancing."
I swallowed a groan but nodded. Enrod led us through corridors to a set of double doors. Inside stretched an opulent ballroom—the size of a school gymnasium, parquet gleaming beneath crystal chandeliers.
"Enormous," someone whispered.
"For large-scale functions," Enrod confirmed before retreating.
Training commenced. First, heel work: crossing one foot precisely before the other, shoulders back, chin level. The shoes pinched like medieval torture devices. "Confidence, Ally," Margaux coached. "Heels are a state of mind."
Hours crawled. We paused only for lunch delivered on silver domes. After the meal, I showered, briefly forgetting the looming gala because sheer exhaustion blotted out thought.
By four-thirty preparations resumed. My stylists dressed me in a classic beige sheath, hem grazing mid-calf, sleeves brushing the elbow. They coaxed my hair into a sleek bun and applied minimal makeup. Margaux winked at my reflection. "You're already gorgeous, darling—we refuse to paint a clown mask."
Her irreverence drew genuine laughter from my chest, easing tension.
When I rose, Butler Enrod stood waiting, immaculate as ever. "Madam, Sire is in the living room."
Margaux whispered, "Walk as we practiced," and I nodded, inhaling courage.
Zion faced away when I arrived, broad shoulders framed by a perfectly fitted tuxedo. Sensing my presence, he turned. His gaze swept from bun to heels, lingering for a charged second that ignited heat in my cheeks.
"You look… good," he said, softening the usual chill in his tone. He extended a gloved hand. I placed mine atop it, surprised by the steadiness of my pulse as he guided me outside to a black Rolls-Royce. He opened the passenger door with impeccable courtesy—only to slip inside wordlessly a heartbeat later.
I bit back a thank-you that now felt unnecessary and climbed in, lips quirking at his inconsistent chivalry. Enrod closed the door, gave a reassuring wave, and the car pulled away.
"I don't know whether you remember your ex's face," Zion began, voice glacial over the engine's purr, "but stay at my side tonight."
Questions crowded my tongue, yet I swallowed them; answers could wait until after the gala.
Twenty minutes later the car slowed beside Vilacorp's skyscraper. Floodlights illuminated a scarlet carpet flanked by photographers.
"We're going through there?" I asked, dread knotting my stomach.
"No," Zion replied. "I dislike unnecessary exposure."
Relief gusted from my lungs. The driver opened Zion's door, then mine. I stepped onto the pavement, instinctively smoothing my dress. Behind velvet ropes reporters shrieked names and camera flashes strobed like lightning.
"Link your arm with mine," Zion said quietly at my shoulder. I startled, then obeyed, sliding my hand through the crook of his elbow. Together we walked toward a discreet side entrance, away from the frenzy. Somewhere inside awaited Carlo Ville—the story's golden hero and, inexplicably, my former flame. Tonight, fiction and fractured memory would collide, and I had no idea which would survive the impact.