Chapter 290

Daphne

What are the odds that the love of my life, in this lifetime, would be my sister-in-law?

Vivienne.

Look at her. In this life, she has a dusting of freckles across her nose, honey-brown hair that falls in soft waves, and the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

It’s still her. I’m always amazed at how the core of her remains—the same soul, the same essence—wrapped in slightly different packaging. The same familiar face, but with subtle, beautiful tweaks here and there.

"Yeah, she’s the one," Olga says, her voice warm with pride, interrupting the silent current running between us.

I reluctantly let Vivienne’s hand go, the ghost of her skin lingering against mine.

"Thank you for enduring Mother’s treatment," I say, forcing a light tone, making a joke to shatter the intensity.

She smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out. "It’s fine. I love spending time with Olga."

My own plans crumble right there. I was ready to retreat to the sterile silence of my apartment after dinner, to regroup and strategize away from this emotional landmine.

But there’s been a change of plans. I will live in the Han mansion now.

***

Vivienne

The day goes as expected,polite conversation, exquisite but tense dinner, the careful dance of politics and family pride. Just one tiny, tiny thing stands apart.

My sister-in-law.

I don’t know whether I was imagining it, but throughout the evening, her eyes would occasionally meet mine. Not by accident. Not a glance. A look. Solid, intentional, and unnervingly direct.

I’m no stranger to an Alpha’s gaze....the worst part is I... didn’t hate it.

*

I help Olga place the dishes for breakfast, and everyone files into the dining room.

The other guests left last night, so it’s just the family now: me, my in-laws, Damien, and her.

I take my seat. Damien sits next to me, his posture perfect, his presence a quiet weight. At the other end of the table sits Olga, a gentle smile on her face. Directly opposite me sits her. And at the head of the table, Bernard Han presides, a king in his own castle.

Small talk begins, light and brittle.

"Mum, this tastes amazing," she says, her voice cutting easily through the clink of silverware.

Olga beams. "As much as I would love to take credit, this was all Vivienne."

She looks at me. Really looks. Her gaze isn’t fleeting—it settles, curious and appraising.

"Well, great job, sister-in-law."

I offer a small, tight nod, and she looks away, but the space between us feels charged, as if her glance left a mark on the air.

The conversation drifts to business, to polls, to the city. My eyes, against my will, are drawn to her hands.

They rest beside her plate, so elegant—long, pale fingers, clean and strong. I watch as she taps one finger lightly, thoughtfully, against the polished wood.

"I refuse to get involved in politics," she says, her tone flat and final.

Silence crashes over the table. The cheerful clatter of breakfast stills.

Bernard sets his fork down with a soft, deliberate click. "I’m not asking you to be involved. I’m asking you to help your brother."

She doesn’t flinch. "And I’m saying no. I reached my current level without a single drop of aid from you, or from him." Her words are calm, but they land like stones in the quiet room.

Damien shifts beside me. Olga’s smile has vanished.

"I’m not saying I won’t be of aid," she continues, her gaze steady on her father. "But if you think it’s obligated, or expected... I will not."

The air is so thick I can barely breathe. I look down at my plate, but all I can see are those long, pale fingers, resting so still, so sure, while the whole table trembles with the aftershock of her last statement.

Bernard Han’s expression doesn’t change, but a cold displeasure settles in his eyes.

"Daphne," Bernard’s voice is low, a controlled rumble of power. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"This is a family matter. It’s not about obligation. It’s about legacy. About ensuring the Han name continues to hold influence where it matters."

"And my legacy," she replies, taking a slow sip of her coffee, "is building things. Not propping up political machines. Your polling is down, Damien, because your policies are out of touch with the city’s actual needs. Throwing money at the problem—my money—won’t fix that. It’ll just be a temporary Band-Aid."

Damien’s jaw tightens. I can feel the anger radiating from him.

"My policies are sound. The opposition is running a smear campaign, and the public is swallowing it."

"A smear campaign you’re failing to counter effectively," she says, her tone dismissive, as if stating a simple, inconvenient fact.

Suddenly, the intricate pattern on my porcelain plate becomes the most fascinating thing in the world.

I focus on the gilded edges, the delicate brushstrokes of a painted flower, anything to avoid the ice cold atmosphere now frosting the dining room.

Olga, bless her, lets out a soft, distressed sound.

"This is not a conversation to have at dinner time." Her voice is a gentle but firm lifeline thrown into the icy waters.

The rest of the meal passes in a silence so profound it rings in my ears.

The clink of silverware is deafening.

The scrape of a chair leg against the floor is a minor explosion.

I keep my head down, pushing food around my plate, my appetite vanished.

And yet, I can’t help it. My gaze keeps drifting, pulled by a magnetic force I don’t understand, to the other end of the table.

To her.

She looks so similar to Damien. Of course she does—they’re twins. They share the same stark, elegant bone structure, the same dark, intense eyes, the same full mouth. But that is where the resemblance ends.

Where Damien’s handsomeness is polished, a curated part of his public image, hers is... raw. Unapologetic.

It’s in the way she holds herself, not with political posture, but with the loose-limbed grace of a predator at rest.

Several times, my stolen glances at her intersect with her own. She doesn’t look away. She holds my gaze, her expression unreadable, and each time my heart beats a hundred times faster.

I genuinely don’t understand why I’m like this.