"Welcome, Madam. This is SS Group—Shine and Glamour."
The boutique gleamed with glass walls, crystal lights, and mannequins dressed in couture. Sally lifted her chin, scanning the room like a queen surveying her court.
"I want the most elegant and expensive dresses you have," she said coolly. Then, with a dismissive flick of her hand, she added, "Just show her some cheap ones."
"Yes, Madam," the attendants replied in unison.
Rose picked up a dress at random and headed quietly toward the fitting room.
When she stepped out moments later, the boutique fell into stunned silence.
The dress clung to her frame as if it had been sewn for her alone—soft, flowing fabric that highlighted her elegance without trying too hard. Her skin glowed, her posture instinctively graceful.
"You look so beautiful," one of the workers breathed.
"That dress—it was made for you," another added, eyes shining with admiration.
Sally's smile vanished.
"I want that dress," she said sharply.
The attendant hesitated. "I'm sorry, Madam. That piece is a one-of-a-kind original. Only one was made."
"Then it should be worn by me," Sally snapped. "I'm the original heiress."
She turned to Rose, eyes blazing. "Go change. I want that dress."
"But, Madam," the worker said carefully, "it fits her perfectly—"
"Do you dare go against me?" Sally cut in coldly.
"N-no, Madam," the workers murmured.
"I'll change," Rose said quietly.
She turned back to the fitting room, selecting a few random dresses without protest.
Later, as they left the boutique, despite Matilda's presence, Sally deliberately shoved her shopping bags into Rose's arms—heavy, cutting into her palms.
Halfway down the walkway, Sally stopped abruptly.
"My foot hurts," she said lazily. "Massage it."
Rose froze.
"Get down," Sally ordered. "On your knees."
Slowly, Rose lowered the bags and knelt. She reached for Sally's shoe, hands steady despite the humiliation burning through her chest.
"That's your place," Sally said softly, cruelly. "At my feet."
She lifted her foot toward Rose's face. "Next time you try to steal the spotlight—or take something original—remember this."
Her lips curved into a vicious smile. "You're the fake. I'm the real deal."
After a moment, she pulled her foot back. "Let's go. It feels better now."
Rose stood silently, rage and shame twisting inside her—but she swallowed it all down.
When they returned home, Rose went straight to her small room. She locked the door, pulled out her phone, and called her best friend.
"Who does she think she is?" Callista's furious voice exploded through the line. "How dare she treat you like that?"
"Apparently, she's the real one—and I'm the fake," Rose said bitterly.
"She's a bitch," Callista snapped. "If I were there, I'd beat her to a pulp."
For the first time that day, Rose smiled—small, relieved, real.
"Did you upgrade the program?" Callista asked.
"Yes."
"Good. But I spotted a virus trying to break through our firewall," Callista added. "I'll handle it."
Rose exhaled. "Thank you."
"Now get ready for your party," Callista teased.
Rose ended the call and collapsed onto her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. The banquet loomed ahead, heavy and unwelcome. Parties always reminded her how small her status was—how she was forever labeled the fake, the substitute, the inconvenience.
She buried her face into the mattress.
Dametriu's face surfaced in her mind.
Unlike the others, he never judged her—never cared whether she was real or fake, heiress or nothing. He simply cared.
What will I do without you?
His words echoed softly in her memory.
Rose smiled.
Back at the Hale family's mansion, the air in the study was thick with restrained anger.
"Grandpa," Uncle Louis said coldly, breaking the silence, "don't you think you trust Rhaegon Hale too much?"
Grandpa Phillips did not look up from the documents in his hand.
"You can clearly see how flirtatious he is with women," Uncle Louis continued, his voice rising. "How can you entrust the entirety of Essence Group and Hale Corporation to someone so immature? He's reckless. Unstable."
He clenched his fist. "I deserve that position. Yet you never consider me. Even when my brother was alive, you always favored him over me."
Grandpa finally lifted his gaze.
"If you have even the slightest doubt," Uncle Louis pressed on, "then entrust the company to me. I'll manage it until Rheagon is truly capable. Once he matures, I'll step aside and hand everything back to him."
A faint smile curved Grandpa Phillips' lips—cold, knowing.
"A scorpion never forgets its nature."
Uncle Louis stiffened. "This is how you speak of me? I am a Hale—the second master of the Hale family."
"Dad," he said bitterly, "I am your son. Your flesh and blood. How can you call me a scorpion and place your trust in your grandson instead?"
Grandpa's voice hardened.
"After Emilio and Lisa died, Rheagon was barely more than a boy. Yet in less than six years, he rebuilt Essence Group and expanded Hale Corporation into what it is today."
He leaned back slowly. "Brilliant. Calculated. Mature."
"How do you expect me to ignore that?"
Uncle Louis scoffed. "You trust him too much. Mark my words—Rheagon Hale will be your downfall one day."
"Enough!" Grandpa Phillips slammed his cane against the floor. "Leave."
Uncle Louis's jaw tightened. Without another word, he turned and stormed out.
Left alone, Grandpa sighed.
"Rheagon was never fond of women," he murmured to himself. "After his parents' death, he became infamous—a playboy, a heartbreaker."
His eyes darkened with memory.
"But I will not deny how deeply he's matured in business."
"He raised his three younger brothers alone. When I fell ill, he became the backbone of this family."
He shook his head faintly. "Yet he refuses to settle down. Always surrounded by women—but never close enough to speak of marriage."
A soft step sounded at the door.
Rhaegon walked in—tall, composed, unreadable.
At the doorway, he crossed paths with Uncle Louis.
Their eyes met.
A silent clash.
Uncle Louis walked past without a word.
"Grandpa," Rheagon said calmly.
Grandpa Phillips looked up at his grandson, his sharp gaze softening—just slightly.
Grandpa Phillips lifted his cane—and without warning, struck Rhaegon lightly on the arm.
"So," he snapped, eyes blazing, "you've become the infamous playboy of DemanViel and beyond."
Rhaegon didn't flinch.