"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.

Cleo woke to the sharp bite of disinfectant.

She blinked, staring at the hospital ceiling.

Someone was holding her hand.

She turned her head. Damian sat beside the bed, his fingers wrapped around hers, eyes closed. Shadows hung under them.

He felt her move and opened his eyes instantly.

Their eyes met. He let go of her hand.

The fatigue—and that flicker of concern—vanished, replaced by his usual cool control.

"I already spoke to your father. He won't take this further. But Cleo, you need to promise me you won't hurt Nora again. She's your sister."

"Who asked you to apologize for me?" Her voice came out rough, dripping with mockery. "And that side-piece bastard thinks she's my sister? Please. In another life, she wouldn't mean shit next to me."

His brows pulled together, like he wanted to say more.

The door opened. A nurse stepped in.

"Mr. Joubert, the patient next door is unstable. She keeps asking for you."

Damian stood, smoothing his perfectly straight cuff.

"I'll check on Nora. She got hurt because of you. As your fiancé, it's only right I go see her."

Cleo's lips twitched. She turned toward the window.

"Go ahead. She's the one who fits you."

His steps stalled. He turned back, frowning. "What did you say?"

Cleo didn't repeat it. She yanked the blanket over her head, done.

Damian stared at her shut-down posture, pressed his fingers to his temple, then followed the nurse out.

Over the next few days, Cleo stayed in the hospital, healing.

Nurses came and went, swapping IVs, checking vitals, talking like she wasn't there.

"Damian Joubert's all over Nora Carrington. He's with her every day."

"Seriously. I heard she hates bitter meds, so he had imported fruit gummies sent over."

"If you ask me, they look perfect together. That's what a real match looks like."

They all assumed sweet, well-behaved Nora was the real fiancée.

Cleo listened, not even a flicker.

If anything, she almost laughed.

She wished they'd keep thinking that.

***

The day Cleo got discharged, Damian showed up.

He took the paperwork from the nurse, then looked at her—leaning back against the headboard, scrolling her phone.

"Get ready. I'll take you home."

"I'm not going back there." She didn't even look up.

His face darkened. "Stop being difficult."

He didn't wait for another no. He stepped in, grabbed her wrist—not hard, but controlled—and pulled her off the bed. Half guiding, half dragging, he got her out of the room and into the car.

The car pulled up at the Carrington house. Cleo shook off his hand and headed straight upstairs.

She pushed her door open—and froze.

Nora sat at her vanity, holding a sapphire necklace up to the mirror, light flashing off it.

The only thing her mom left her.

"Who the hell said you could touch my stuff?" Cleo's voice went ice-cold. "Put it down. Get out."

Nora flinched, then smiled. Instead of putting it back, she let it dangle between her fingers on purpose. "Your stuff? Let me tell you something—everything in this house is gonna be mine sooner or later."

"Guess that fall didn't teach you shit." Cleo stepped closer, eyes sharp.

"I slipped up last time." Nora let out a cold laugh. "You think I'm still scared of you?"

Before Cleo could fire back, Nora's gaze turned hard. She snatched a vase and slammed it on the floor. It shattered.

At the same time, she dropped right into the shards and screamed.

The crash had Harold and Rosalind running in.

"What happened?" Harold rushed in. He saw the broken shards, Nora sitting in the mess, tears shaking in her eyes—his face went dark.

Nora looked up, eyes glossy.

"Dad... I just wanted to look at Cleo's necklace. I didn't think she'd... push me..."

"Cleo!" Harold snapped. He didn't wait for an explanation. He stepped in and slapped her—hard.

The crack rang through the room.

Her cheek swelled fast, burning.

Cleo tilted her head, tasting blood where her mouth split.

She didn't cry.

She let out a low laugh.