As Lila/Ava stepped through the grand, arching doorway of the Main Hall, her transformation into a werewolf villainess became terrifyingly real. Her heightened omega senses were immediately overwhelmed. The vast chamber was a cacophony of sound and scent: the rich, heavy perfume of a thousand expensive colognes and evening gowns clashed with the deep, earthy undertones of powerful Alpha pheromones.
The music, a smooth, classical piece played by a live orchestra, was almost swallowed by the low, continuous growl of high-society chatter. But what truly paralyzed Ava was the invisible pressure of dominance in the air. As an Omega, her body was acutely sensitive to dominant Alpha energies. She felt a subtle, involuntary tremor in her muscles, a deep, primal urge to lower her head and avoid direct eye contact. She mentally recited her old math formulas, trying to drown out the internal biological command to submit.
I just need to stay upright. Don't look at anyone. Don't let your eyes glaze over. Don't show weakness.
The threat of the Alpha voice, a command woven into the tone that compelled lower ranks to obey, was always present in the book. It was supposedly punishable to use it unfairly, but Ava knew from reading that such rules were merely words when power and desire were involved. She prayed mentally to the Moon Goddess she didn't believe in, begging that she wouldn't get into any trouble that evening.
Her father, Alpha John Blackwood, a massive and imposing man even without his wolf form, moved through the crowd with the natural ease of royalty. He began the endless cycle of introductions, proudly presenting Lila to his allies and friends—other powerful Alphas and their families.
"My daughter, Lila. She's attending the Academy starting tomorrow," her father would boom, holding her arm a little too tightly.
Lila forced smiles onto her beautiful face, repeating polite formalities until the muscles in her jaw ached. She felt exposed and overstimulated. The sheer volume of dominant pheromones—all swirling together like a suffocating, intoxicating smog—was making her head swim.
"Excuse me, Father, Mother," she finally managed, forcing a polite tone into her voice. "I just need a moment of air. The hall is a little overwhelming."
Her mother, Hannah Blackwood, immediately looked concerned. "Of course, darling. Take five minutes. We'll be right here."
Nodding stiffly, Lila walked away, consciously keeping her pace slow and measured to avoid appearing frantic. Her internal goal was the corner of the hall where the lavish food displays were arranged—a place where people were usually too distracted by canapés to engage in conversation.
She was focused on navigating the sea of expensive silk and tailored jackets, but her clumsiness—a persistent trait from her old body that had sadly transmigrated with her soul—betrayed her.
She misjudged a step and bumped squarely into someone emerging from the crowd. "Sorry… I am so sorry," she quickly apologized, instinctively lowering her gaze, the Omega conditioning already overriding her conscious mind.
She looked up, immediately halting her apology. Standing before her was a man who looked like he'd been carved out of marble and polished by the Moon Goddess herself. He was tall, perfectly proportioned, with thick, messy brown hair and eyes the color of warm honey. He wore a tuxedo that screamed wealth and casual dominance.
A hero type, Ava's reader brain registered instantly. The kind of man who looks perpetually windswept and noble.
He was holding a flute of champagne, which thankfully hadn't spilled. He smiled at her, and the effect was devastating—warm, genuine, and utterly captivating.
Lila was ready to continue walking, muttering an "excuse me," when his smooth, strong voice stopped her cold.
"You are Lila, right? Lila Blackwood."
Lila's step faltered. Did the original owner of this body know this man? Did I somehow skip a crucial plot point? She turned back, her mind racing.
"How do you know my name, Mr…?" she asked, hoping he was just a random acquaintance.
That smile, the one that broke hearts and drove plots, returned. "Everyone here actually knows about you and your… character," he said, saying the last word with a humorous, almost teasing tone. "And it's Harry. Harry Westwell." Ava's eyes widen in shock.
Ava's internal scream was a silent, supersonic shriek. NO! The one I wanted to avoid is standing right here, talking to me, and he's even more handsome than the book described! ESCAPE ASAP!
Just as her survival instinct was about to send her sprinting, the hall lights dimmed, shifting from bright crystal white to a soft, romantic gold. The orchestra transitioned seamlessly from classical to a slow, sultry waltz. The couple's dance had begun.
Lila immediately seized the distraction. "Excuse me, Mr. Westwell, I—I see my mother," she lied with practiced urgency, not waiting for a response. She hurried away without looking back, dodging couples taking to the floor, her wine-red gown a blur through the glittering crowd.
She didn't stop until she reached a thick, decorative column near the edge of the hall, tucked away between two immense velvet drapes. From this sanctuary, she risked a glance back. Harry was looking around the crowd, a small, puzzled frown on his perfect face, before shrugging and walking away toward the center of the room.
Ava let out a silent, shaky sigh. My luck is truly atrocious that I bumped into the one person I needed to avoid immediately. But now that I think about it, the original Lila Blackwood had a truly terrible reputation. Maybe no side characters will dare approach me to bully me, except, of course, the leads and… the villain. Her bad reputation had accidentally become her Villainess Shield.
From her vantage point, she saw the plot continue without her. Harry was speaking to a beautiful, unassuming girl with eyes full of quiet determination. Rose Williams. They were dancing.
How did they meet this quickly? Ava pouted, momentarily forgetting the mortal danger she was in. She had missed the setup scene!
She watched the romantic dance unfold, feeling like a reader watching a deleted scene.
In the book, Rose and Harry were supposed to meet formally when their parents introduced them, which had clearly already happened. Then, a rude, peripheral male character was supposed to approach Rose for a dance. Rose, being uncomfortable with the guy's aggressive stares and touch, couldn't refuse him because she was alone. During the dance, the awkwardness would increase until the partner exchange occurred. Rose would be briefly relieved, but then, right as the music shifted for the second exchange—
There!
Lila watched, completely mesmerized, as the clumsy male acquaintance tried to pull Rose back aggressively. Suddenly, a commanding figure—Harry Westwell—cut through the movement. He grabbed Rose's waist, his hand strong and proprietary, and spun her away from the unwanted partner and directly into his own arms.
"Sorry, you looked very uncomfortable with that guy," Harry said, exactly as he did in the novel.
Rose, surprised at first, then smiled relievedly, a blush blooming on her cheeks. "It's okay… and thank you for helping me."
They started dancing, perfectly synchronized, eyes locked. They truly looked like a match made in heaven—the dominant Alpha hero and the strong, independent heroine, their combined presence radiating a warm, powerful energy.
At the corner of the hall, Lila was fan-girling internally. That! That is the moment! See, this is why I loved this story! The tension, the heroic rescue! They look so perfectly romantic! I can't believe I'm seeing this scene live!
Just as the romantic intensity peaked, a sudden, devastating force slammed into Lila's senses.
It was a scent—ancient, deep, powerful, and overwhelmingly dominant. It cut through the cloying perfumes and the competing Alpha pheromones like a shockwave. It felt like being hit by a sound barrier. The sheer weight of the aura compressed her lungs, making it impossible to breathe deeply. The Omega within her screamed, a raw, terrified sound, demanding immediate and absolute submission.
Her knees buckled instantly, and she had to grip the pillar to avoid collapsing. A wave of ice-cold terror washed over her, making the blood pound in her ears. For a brief, terrifying instant, her vision blurred, and the chocolate brown of her eyes flashed to a shocking, unnatural blue—a residual, uncontrolled reaction of the Omega to the ultimate power.
Then, just as suddenly as it hit, the scent vanished, like a spotlight being violently switched off. It was gone, leaving only the mundane smells of champagne and regret.