Cleo went still, then slowly turned.

Damian stood by their booth.

Black suit, perfectly tailored. Tall, straight-backed. Cold, controlled. He didn't belong in this chaos—like something untouchable dropped into the middle of it. Everything else faded next to him.

Stella sucked in a breath, instantly sober. She shot Cleo a panicked look, grabbed her bag, and bolted.

Now it was just Cleo and Damian, staring each other down.

And her hand—still hooked under that guy's chin.

Damian's gaze dropped to it. His eyes went dark.

He stepped in, grabbed her wrist, then flicked a freezing look at the guy.

"Get out."

The guy went pale. Him and the rest scattered in seconds.

Cleo yanked her hand free, rubbing her wrist, already red. She shot him a glare.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I should be asking you that." His voice cut cold. "Why are you in a place like this?"

"I felt like it." She shrugged, careless, defiant. "What's it to you?"

He studied her—stubborn, unapologetic, bold. His gaze darkened.

Before she could react, he bent and threw her over his shoulder.

"What are you doing? Put me down! You jerk!"

Furious, she pounded his back, kicking hard.

He didn't even slow down.

He carried her straight through the staring crowd, out of the club, and shoved her into the black Rolls-Royce at the curb.

"Drive."

"Yes, sir."

The car glided off. Cleo lunged for the handle, ready to jump.

"Cleo."

Damian grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the seat.

He stared at her, voice flat and cold. "How long are you gonna keep this up?

"You're about to marry into my family. I gave you the house rules. One clause—home before ten. No bars. No clubs. Nothing like this. Didn't you read it?

"You're not coming to places like this again. As for tonight, when we get back, you'll write a ten-thousand-word reflection. I want a full breakdown of what you did and why it won't happen again."

'Ten thousand words? House rules?' Cleo almost laughed, anger rising sharp in her chest.

In her last life, those thousands of rules had boxed her in for years. She'd lived like a puppet.

Not this time.

"Who the hell's writing your stupid reflection?" she snapped. "What do your rules have to do with me? I'm not marrying you."

The car went dead quiet.

Damian turned, sharp. His eyes locked on hers—disbelief, something darker underneath.

He held her gaze for a long beat, jaw tight.

"What do you mean?"

Cleo looked at him. The urge to tell him everything cooled just as fast.

He already hated how wild she was. If she told him now his perfect bride had been swapped in—wouldn't that be letting him off easy?

Her last life pressed in on her. Suffocating.

She drew a slow breath. 'Let him suffer a little.

'Let him sit with the idea of marrying me for a few more days.'

She shoved it all down and turned to the window.

"Nothing. I was just mad."

Damian watched her for a beat. The darkness in his eyes eased a little, but his tone stayed firm.

"Sit properly."

Even pissed, he sat ramrod straight, not a hair out of place. The memory of those suffocating rules hit her all over again.

She didn't move.

Instead, she slouched across the seat, kicked off her heels, and pressed her bare feet into the cashmere carpet. Then she rolled the window down and let the night wind tear through her styled hair.

Bold. Bright. Unrestrained. That was her.

Damian watched her—completely out of place in his perfectly ordered world. His brows pulled tight, but he didn't say a word.

The car stopped in front of the Carrington house.

Cleo pushed the door open and stepped out.

"Cleo."

Damian's voice came from behind her, cool as ever. "Ten thousand words. On my desk tomorrow."

Then he told the driver to go.

Cleo stared at the fading taillights, then kicked a stone hard across the pavement.

She pushed the door open and walked inside.

Harold, Rosalind, and Nora sat on the couch like they'd been waiting.

The second Harold saw her—the smell of alcohol on her, clothes a mess—his face darkened.

"Where the hell have you been? Coming back this late, looking like that—what do you think you look like?"

Cleo didn't even answer. She headed straight for the stairs. "I'm not marrying Damian anymore. Where I go, what I wear—that's my business."

Nora stood and walked over, barely hiding the excitement in her eyes. "Cleo, Dad said... you're giving the engagement to me. Is that true?"

Cleo looked at her—fake sweet, all sugar—and felt nothing but disgust. "Yeah, it's yours. Isn't taking other people's scraps your thing?"

"Watch your mouth!" Harold snapped. "A man like Damian is a dream match people would kill for! This marriage is a once-in-a-lifetime win for our family!

"I already spoke to the Jouberts about switching the bride. Compared to you, they're clearly happier with Nora.

"Just don't come crying when you regret it!"

Cleo let out a quiet laugh, voice steady. "Relax. I don't do regrets."

Rosalind sighed from the side, voice dripping fake concern.

"Cleo, I don't mean to criticize, but your temper's out of control. Without marrying into the Joubert family, what respectable family would even take you?"

Cleo's gaze snapped sharp, her eyes going ice-cold. "And who do you think you are, lecturing me? Some washed-up side piece?

"Maybe focus on your own daughter. Just because you stole something doesn't mean you get to keep it. Don't end up losing everything after all that scheming."

Rosalind's face flushed, then went pale. She had nothing left to say. Harold looked ready to blow.

Cleo didn't bother with another word. She turned and headed upstairs, straight to her room.

***

Early next morning, before Cleo was even awake, Damian showed up.

Same as always—cool, composed, flawless. First thing out of his mouth: "The reflection essay."

Cleo leaned on the doorframe, sleep shirt hanging loose, collar slipping just enough.

She yawned. "Didn't write it. Never will."

His face went cold, his voice sharper. "When are you going to learn to behave?"

"I was born this way." She held his gaze, eyes steady and defiant. "Behave? Not happening. I don't do control."

"You—"

Before it could snap, Nora stepped in right on cue.

She wore a simple, elegant dress, posture straight, smile soft.

"Damian, don't blame Cleo." Her voice stayed gentle as she handed him a neatly written letter. "She might've just been in a bad mood last night. I already wrote the reflection essay for her. Is this okay?"

Damian took it and skimmed. When he looked back at Cleo, the disappointment hit harder.

"Look at your sister, then look at yourself. Same house, same upbringing. Why can't you learn some basic sense from her?" His tone cooled. "Forget last night. Don't let it happen again. Go change. You're coming with me to a business reception later."

"Nope." Cleo didn't hesitate. "Not going. Take Nora. She fits your standards better, right?"

Damian's brows pulled tight. "Cleo. You're my fiancée."

The words hit sharp.

There it was. He wasn't marrying her because he wanted her—just because the engagement was set. The Joubert family didn't back out of deals.

It had nothing to do with love.

If he had a choice, he would've picked Nora a long time ago.

'Fine,' she thought. 'This time, you get exactly what you want.'

Nora jumped in, soft as ever. "Damian, maybe Cleo's not used to formal events. I'll go with her. If she misses anything, I'll remind her."

She took Cleo's arm and steered her upstairs. "Cleo, I'll help you pick something."

The door shut. Cleo yanked her hand free, eyes gone cold.

"No one's here. Who are you putting on a show for?"

The softness dropped off Nora's face, even if her voice stayed steady. "You're mistaken. I really do want us to get along."

"Get along?" Cleo let out a short laugh. "Not in this lifetime. Unless you're dead. Actually—even then, I'd celebrate on your grave. Might even bring your mom."

Nora finally cracked. "Don't push me. You think I like flattering you? Once Damian knows the bride is me, he'll be even happier. Someone like you was never worthy of him."

"Oh?" Cleo lifted a brow, stepping closer, voice edged with mockery. "Then why didn't you say that just now? Not confident? Or scared he'd call it off the second he realized it's you?"

"Stop lying!" Nora snapped, like someone just stepped on her last nerve. "If he knew, he'd be relieved the bride is me. I didn't say anything because I want it to be a surprise on the wedding day. So keep your mouth shut."

Cleo gave a faint smile. "Relax. Whatever games you two are playing, I'm not interested."

This time, she just wanted to be herself.

***

In the end, Cleo still got dragged to the reception.

The ballroom glittered—perfume, polished shoes, glasses clinking under crystal lights.

Cleo went bold in a red backless gown, a hard contrast to Nora's soft white dress.

When the opening dance started, Damian's gaze flicked between them—then he held his hand out to Nora.

Whispers rolled through the room.

"Isn't Cleo the fiancée? Why'd Harold bring the younger sister?"

"Isn't it obvious? He prefers Nora."

"Nora's graceful. Cleo's gorgeous, sure, but way too wild. Not exactly Joubert material..."

Damian acted like he didn't hear a thing. He looked at Cleo, voice flat. "You don't know this kind of waltz. Watch Nora. Learn something."

Then he led Nora onto the floor.

They fit—moving in perfect sync under the lights, pulling every eye in the room.

Cleo watched them spin. No jealousy—just annoyance.

She turned away, grabbed some food, then slipped out to the balcony for air.

The night air hit cold, easing the tightness in her chest.

Then footsteps.

Nora.

A faint flush still lingered from the dance, her eyes bright with triumph.

"Cleo, why're you out here alone? Couldn't stand watching us?" She stepped closer, pride barely hidden. "I told you—between us, anyone would pick the more proper one. Even Damian."

Her voice dropped, sharp and deliberate. "You're honestly pathetic. Your mom couldn't beat mine back then, and now you can't beat me. Guess it runs in your blood."

If it were anything else, Cleo might've let it slide.

But that crossed the line.

Her expression went ice-cold. No warning—her hand snapped out.

Smack.

Nora's head snapped to the side, a red handprint blooming across her cheek.

She clutched her face, staring at Cleo. "Y-You actually hit me?"

"So what?" Cleo stepped in, all sharp edges, her beauty gone ice-cold. "I could do worse."

She grabbed Nora by the collar and dragged her to the balcony edge.

"Who told you it was smart to provoke me alone?" Her voice cut clean. "You forget? I've been trained to fight since I was a kid. Taking down a fake like you is easy."

Nora glanced at the drop, her voice shaking. "Cleo! You wouldn't—"

"I'll show you what I would do."

Before she could finish, Cleo lifted her heel and kicked hard.

"Ah—!"

Nora's scream ripped through the night as she lost balance, slammed through the flimsy railing, and fell.