Although I had already come face-to-face with both the male and female leads earlier tonight, destiny apparently wanted to raise the stakes, because now Zion's mother herself was striding toward us across the gilded foyer. My impulse was to cry without tears, to fold up like damp origami and vanish.
" …Is this your wife?" she asked, eyes narrowing in my direction like twin rapiers testing a stranger's mettle.
"Yes, Mother," Zion answered in his clipped, minimalist way.
I stood rigid beside him, palms sweaty, stomach flipping. Without warning his arm slipped around my waist, drawing me snug against his side. The sudden pressure startled me so much I jerked, nearly losing my balance in the merciless stilettos I had been forced to wear all evening. I desperately wanted to kick the high heels off, yet Zion's mother was inspecting me from glossy hair down to aching toes, so removal was impossible.
For all her beauty—high cheekbones, impeccable posture, a silver gown that whispered old money—she radiated intimidation. Her gaze sliced through my borrowed poise. Did she truly not know who her son had married? Or was this grilling deliberate? Goosebumps patrolled my arms.
Zion chuckled softly. "Mom, please don't scrutinize my wife like that."
Heat flooded my cheeks. My wife. The phrase on Zion's lips should not have fluttered my heart, yet it did.
"And why can't I?" his mother countered, tone arch.
"She's shy, Mother," Zion replied, amusement dancing across his normally glacial features. He glanced down at me, eyes gleaming, as if challenging: See? I've got this.
"What reason is she to be shy? I don't bite," the older woman declared, irritation surfacing in the crisp diction.
Zion smiled. "She was just thinking how beautiful you are, Mom."
I blinked at him, baffled. What on earth was this man inventing? Granted, she was beautiful—terrifyingly so—but still.
Silence expanded. Zion's mother inhaled, held the breath as though assessing whether to accept the compliment, then exhaled in a cool stream.
"By the way, what brings you here, Mom?" Zion asked lightly, as if we stood in a garden rather than a fraught drawing room.
"Well, you refused to introduce us properly," she answered, voice sharpening, "so I decided to visit my son and his secret bride myself."
A bad premonition slithered over my skin like cold silk.
"I already told you—" Zion began.
"Pssh, hush, Zion," she clipped, waving a slender hand. Her stare returned to me. "Is your wife deaf? Or mute perhaps?"
Fake-coughing to steal time, I squeaked, "H-Hello, ma'am. Good evening."
"Oh… she actually talks," Zion's mother remarked, eyebrows hitching.
Zion laughed again, low and warm. "Mom."
"You should escort your wife upstairs to change," she ordered abruptly.
My eyes widened, flicking to Zion for guidance. He inclined his head. Taking the cue, I hurried to the staircase, nearly sprinting. Once inside the sanctuary of my assigned bedroom I slammed the door—perhaps too loudly—and leaned against it, breathing hard.
"Zion's mom is so—" I whispered, stopping short of the word scary in case attentive ears lurked.
After a calming moment I showered, slipped into cotton pajamas, and skipped the hair dryer because the noise grated on frayed nerves. Sitting on the mattress, I tried to recall details from My Lily concerning Zion's mother. The serialized novel had painted her as formidable. Even Zion's cold father reportedly bowed to her will. Neither she nor the Cartridge patriarch approved of Carlo or Lily; in fact, Zion's mother was rumored to spearhead efforts to undermine the entire Ville clan. Though the chapters offered scant genealogy, they emphasized that the Cartridge family ranked among the country's most powerful clans, with Zion—the only direct heir—as de facto head. Why, then, did he vanish from later story arcs? A dangling mystery the author never resolved before I… died.
"I forgot that!" I murmured, smacking my forehead. If Zion is clan head, that makes me—by marriage—headmistress. The concept sent a chill skittering down my spine. I needed a strategy to placate my terrifying mother-in-law.
Time slid by; eventually my hair air-dried. I stretched out, intending to extinguish the lamp, when the door creaked open. Zion entered, fingers tugging at his loosened necktie, eyes dark and unreadable.
"W-W-What are y-you d-doing i-in m-my r-room?" I stuttered, pulse leaping.
He shut the door, walked forward with graceful lethargy. "Naturally I have to sleep in our bedroom. Besides, my mom is staying over."
Our bedroom? Was he joking?
"W-What d-do you mean, our bedroom?" My voice cracked like cheap porcelain.
He halted directly before me, bending until our faces hovered a mere whisper apart. I froze—unable to retreat, unwilling to faint.
"This was my bedroom before you became my wife," he murmured. "As newlyweds we share a room—good for appearances, good for our future." His black-lacquer eyes scanned mine, then dropped to my lips.
In peripheral vision I watched his Adam's apple glide. The room felt hushed, my heartbeat roaring. His mouth moved—words shaped but unheard, drowned by my own frantic pulse.
"Mom—ashjkndb…" the syllables blurred.
Long lashes, sculpted brows, lips tinted like ripe cherries—his features were carved perfection. A fleeting thought ignited: What does he taste like? The moment the reckless notion formed, Zion closed the gap and pressed his mouth to mine.
Soft. Warm. Alarmingly sweet. My brain blue-screened. When he pulled back the world snapped into focus. He had actually—undeniably—kissed me.
H-He kissed me!
Heat flared across cheekbones to earlobes, a wildfire of embarrassment and bewilderment. My heart hammered so loudly it might summon the whole household.
"W-W-What a-are y-you d-doing?" I gasped.
Zion remained close, breath brushing my skin, voice a husky rumble. "Convincing my mother we're a real couple," he said. "And perhaps convincing you as well." A ghost of a smile curved his lips.
Words abandoned me. My brain cycled through panic, attraction, confusion. He straightened, tugged the tie free, then unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt with leisurely precision, as though my bedroom were a five-star hotel suite.
"I'll change in the bathroom," he said. "When I'm back, let's rest. Tomorrow will be brutal; Mother intends to evaluate you over breakfast."
That snapped me out of trance. "Evaluate?"
"She believes suitability is proven through etiquette, conversation, and backbone," Zion explained while disappearing into the en-suite. Water began running.
I plopped onto the mattress, limbs noodle-soft. Kissed by the villain, contested by the heroine, interrogated by an iron-willed matriarch—this was no longer the book I had casually scrolled through on a phone screen. It was my life, tangled, breathing, dangerous. Somewhere in that tangle lay answers: why Carlo seemed entwined with my accident, why I possessed Ally Cole's body, why Zion—cold, powerful Zion—sometimes treated me like porcelain and other times like a necessary chess piece.
The bathroom door clicked; Zion emerged in black sleep pants and a plain tee, hair damp, demeanor relaxed yet alert. He dimmed the lamp, slid beneath the sheets beside me, and—after a beat—drew me gently toward his chest.
"Sleep," he whispered. "You'll need strength."
Pressed against the steady thrum of his heartbeat, I closed my eyes. Tomorrow I would face the Cartridge matriarch and, sooner or later, unravel the secrets that had hurled me into this unfinished story. Tonight, however, I let the villain's warmth lull me. For the first time since awakening in this borrowed existence, I felt strangely—dangerously—safe.