Chapter 28 28
By the time midnight rolled around, I was convinced that Sugar had either lost her mind, or was secretly plotting to kill me through sheer exhaustion.
“Again!” she clapped her manicured hands like some demented ballet instructor, her diamonds sparkling under the chandelier light. “But this time—more sway in the hips, darling. You are not Marigold, the peasant with a limited wardrobe. You are Margaux, the scandal of every dinner party. If you do not look like you are plotting someone’s social downfall with every step, you are failing.”
I groaned, dragging the hem of yet another satin monstrosity down the grand staircase. This one was gold, glittering like I had just mugged the sun. “I swear, this dress is trying to eat me alive. If I trip and break my neck, you can just tell the king it was couture homicide.”
From the corner of the hall, Prince Leon leaned casually against a marble pillar, watching like he was both entertained and mildly horrified. Gregor was seated stiffly on a velvet chair, sipping wine like he was trying to drown his dignity in it.
Sugar ignored them. “Dramatic entrance!” she shouted again, throwing her arms wide like a Broadway producer. “Chin up! Eyes half-lidded! Pretend you smell something disgusting, like…cheap perfume.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “You mean like the one you wore at dinner? The one that made the dog sneeze?”
Leon choked on a laugh. Gregor coughed into his glass to hide his smile. Sugar gasped, clutching her pearls dramatically. “Blasphemy! This is imported from Paris!”
“Imported from a fish market more like it,” I muttered, stomping down the stairs.
“You stomped,” Sugar hissed, scandalized. “You are not Margaux, the construction worker. You are Margaux, the princess-in-waiting. Glide, Marigold! Glide like silk floating on scandal!”
“Oh, glide,” I mimicked in a high-pitched tone, then purposefully stomped harder. “Do you hear that, Sugar? That’s the sound of my dignity shattering with every step.”
She threw a feathered boa at me. “Drama! That’s what we need! Throw your shoulders back, tilt your head, act like every man here is beneath you.”
I tilted my head at Gregor, batted my lashes, and said in my best imitation of her voice: “Alpha Gregor, darling, do fetch me some foie gras. My delicate lips refuse to touch commoner food.”
Gregor actually choked this time, coughing into his hand. Leon muttered, “Stars help us,” but he was grinning.
Sugar, however, beamed like I had just delivered an Oscar-worthy performance. “Yes! That’s it! Foie gras! Margaux does not eat scrambled eggs, she eats truffle-infused soufflés that cost more than your rent!”
“My rent is zero, thanks to this kidnapping vacation,” I shot back.
“You’re welcome.” She tossed me a makeup brush like it was a wand. “Now sit. Time for contouring lessons. Margaux’s cheekbones are so sharp they could cut glass. Yours…” she squinted at my face. “…well, we’ll just create illusions.”
I plopped into the chair and rolled my eyes. “Great. Turn me into a Renaissance painting, why don’t you.”
Half an hour later, my face felt like a wall mural, my head was heavy with hairpins, and I was holding a champagne flute filled not with champagne but sparkling water because apparently we were practicing “toasts.”
“To Daddy’s bank account!” Sugar declared dramatically, raising her glass.
“To Hermes bags I don’t own!” I countered, clinking with her.
Gregor raised his brow. “Do people actually toast to…handbags?”
“Yes,” Sugar said without missing a beat. “And you would know if you ever dated a woman who wasn’t allergic to sunlight.”
Gregor glared at her. Leon smirked. I almost spit out my sparkling water.
Then came the food roleplay. Sugar had the kitchen staff bring out a silver platter with caviar, macarons, and tiny slices of wagyu beef—just for practice.
I poked at the caviar with my fork. “These look like frog eyeballs. Do I just…smile and pretend I’m thrilled about eating fish eggs?”
“Not just smile,” Sugar corrected, snatching my fork. “You must purse your lips like you’ve tasted better, but you’ll allow this because you are merciful. Like this.” She popped one into her mouth, chewed dramatically, then sighed as though her entire existence was suffering.
I copied her, exaggerating the sigh. “Darling, if this isn’t aged in gold dust and tears of orphans, I simply cannot.”
Leon actually laughed out loud at that one, shaking his head.
By three in the morning, I had marched down the stairs seventeen times, practiced five different fake accents (“Margaux doesn’t speak, she purrs,” Sugar had declared), thrown a fake tantrum about a scuffed Louboutin heel, and learned how to faint gracefully into a chaise lounge.
My body ached. My head was pounding. My dignity had packed up and left the mansion hours ago.
But Sugar? Sugar was positively glowing, like she’d just hosted the best sleepover in history. “Perfect,” she whispered, patting my cheek. “Tomorrow, you’ll be the perfect Margaux. The king won’t know what hit him.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, collapsing onto the nearest sofa. “But my back will.”
Leon finally stepped forward, his hand brushing Sugar’s shoulder as he kissed her cheek, murmuring something I didn’t hear. She giggled, swatting him away, while I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck.
“Of course,” I groaned into a pillow. “Romantic whispering while I’m over here dying of contour poisoning. Truly, a vacation for the history books.”
Sugar only smirked. “You’ll thank me when you’re wearing a tiara, darling.”
“Or when I’m in a coffin,” I mumbled.
Gregor POV
Morning in the mansion was supposed to be peaceful. Sunlight streaming in through the tall windows, the smell of coffee and warm croissants, maybe even some silence. But no—peace was a myth when Sugar was in charge.
She clapped her hands like the self-appointed director of this ridiculous theater troupe. “Today’s lesson,” she announced, twirling dramatically in her silk robe, “is how to act like you’re a couple madly in love. Swooning, longing gazes, the occasional almost-kiss. The whole kingdom must believe in your passion, or we are all doomed.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “Excuse me?”
Prince Leon didn’t even blink, just sipped his drink as though she’d said something perfectly reasonable. And Marigold—or rather, Margaux—was already groaning into her toast. “Oh, come on. Didn’t we suffer enough last night? I fainted on command six times.”
“Yes, and you fainted like a corpse, not a duchess,” Sugar snapped. “Now up! Both of you. Stand closer.”
I watched as Leon set his cup down and walked toward Marigold. My wolf growled low in my chest the second he brushed her hand.
Too close. Far too close.
I could feel it—my wolf straining against me, itching to lunge, to rip him away from her. And when Leon tilted her chin up, leaning in like they were about to kiss, my vision blurred red.
A hiss escaped me before I could stop it.
Sugar’s head whipped toward me instantly. “Alpha Gregor,” she said sweetly, with that lethal edge only she possessed. “Stop your wolf before you pounce on my mate.” She lifted a brow, her hand planted on her hip.
Leon froze mid-lean, his lips a breath away from Marigold’s. She blinked between us, wide-eyed, biting her lower lip like she was caught in the middle of some scandalous play.
“I am not jealous,” I bit out, voice rougher than I intended.
“Oh no?” Sugar’s tone was pure mockery, eyes glittering. “Then why are you hissing like a kettle left on the stove every time Leon gets within breathing distance of Margaux?”
“Marigold,” I corrected automatically, the name slipping past my lips before I could catch myself.
“Margaux,” Sugar snapped, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at me. “We practice, remember? No slip-ups. The kingdom won’t care that you’re broody and possessive if you get the names wrong. To them, she is Margaux, the spoiled heiress. Not Marigold, the sassy peasant with an attitude problem.”
“I heard that,” Marigold muttered.
“Good, darling, now pout about it like a brat,” Sugar shot back, before flicking her eyes to me again. “Honestly, Alpha, you’re the one failing this lesson. Leon and Margaux are doing beautifully. The longing looks, the tension, the spark—”
“Spark?” I growled, low enough that my wolf rattled beneath it.
“Yes, spark. Don’t glare at me like that. You can’t deny it, even if you scowl holes into the floor. And if you don’t stop, the only thing sparking will be your claws against the prince’s face.” She smirked, deliberately stirring the pot.
Leon cleared his throat. “This is training, Gregor. Nothing more.” He released Marigold’s chin slowly, as though to prove his point. But even then, he lingered a fraction longer than necessary, and my wolf snarled again.
“I said I’m not jealous,” I muttered, though it sounded unconvincing even to my own ears.
Marigold—Margaux—crossed her arms, sass dripping from her every word. “Well, if you’re not jealous, then you shouldn’t mind me pretending to be madly in love with the prince. It’s all acting, right? Just like when Sugar made me scream at a pair of Louboutins last night.”
“Exactly,” Sugar said smugly, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Alpha Gregor, perhaps you should go…walk off your wolf. Take a lap. Or ten.”
“I am not taking a lap,” I snapped.
“Then sit there quietly like a good boy while your prince pretends to seduce my fake cousin.” She raised her brow higher. “Or would you rather continue growling and confessing your feelings in front of the royal heir?”
The room went dead quiet. Leon’s eyes flicked to me, sharp and unreadable. Marigold was blushing so hard she looked like she’d swallowed fire, and Sugar…Sugar just smirked, her eyebrow arched like she’d just won a war.
My jaw tightened. I said nothing. But inside, my wolf was restless, clawing, howling, cursing the prince for being allowed so close, for touching what—who—he should never touch.
I wasn’t jealous.
Except I was.
And Sugar knew it.