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.

Chaos broke out below—screams, people shouting over each other.

Cleo stood at the edge, watching the crowd close in around Nora's still body on the lawn.

Nothing.

She smoothed her skirt, fixed her hair, picked up the shawl from the railing, then turned and walked for the exit.

She'd barely made it past the carved doors when a hand clamped around her wrist.

She turned—met Damian's eyes, dark with fury and disbelief.

He'd rushed over. His breathing was uneven, his gaze locked on her, his voice cold as ice.

"Nora fell from the balcony... did you do it?"

Cleo shook his hand off. "Yeah. So?"

His face darkened, anger flashing in his eyes.

"I told you to learn from Nora. This is what you got out of it?" His voice hardened. "You're out of control. Go back and apologize."

"Apologize?" Cleo laughed. "She had it coming. Me? Apologize? Try your next life."

"You're impossible." He cut it off and turned to the bodyguards. "If she won't apologize, she'll learn. Throw her in the reflecting pool. She doesn't get out without my say. Not until the reception's over."

"Damian Joubert! Who do you think you are? Don't touch me!" Cleo fought hard.

His grip tightened on her wrist, crushing. He stared straight at her, every word slow and sharp. "I'm your fiancé. Nora almost died because of you. If I don't deal with you, your father will do worse when you get home. You need to learn. This doesn't happen again."

"What fiancé? We already—"

She didn't get it out.

The bodyguards grabbed her. Ignoring the kicking and shouting, they hauled her to the pool and threw her in.

Splash.

The freezing water swallowed her whole.

Early spring. The cold cut deep.

Cleo broke the surface, choking, coughing, clawing for the edge.

The second she grabbed it, a bodyguard shoved her back under.

She tried again. And again.

Every time, they forced her down.

"Damian! You bastard! Let me out!"

Her voice ripped raw. The only answer—water crashing over her as she got pushed under again.

Her strength faded with each struggle. The cold seeped in, numbing everything.

Then a sharp ache twisted low in her stomach.

Her period hit.

Bright red spread through the clear water, blooming out until nearly half the pool turned crimson.

Her face went paper-white—cold, pain, all of it.

Through the blur, she heard a bodyguard on the phone.

"Sir, she started her period. There's a lot of blood... do we keep going?"

Silence.

Then Damian's voice cut through—cold, final.

"Continue. Otherwise, she'll never learn."

'Never learn?' So that's it. My defiance, my pain, my reasons—none of it matters. He just wants obedience.

The freezing water burned like fire, searing her skin, her chest.

A deeper despair hit—worse than the pain.

Tears slipped into the water, quiet, unnoticed.

She couldn't hold on anymore.

Darkness closed in. Her body went slack, sinking under the blood-stained water.