Lyra's Pov Genevieve's tea tactics had become a symphony I could conduct with my eyes closed. The feigned illness came first—a delicate hand pressed to her temple during breakfast, a whispered confession that she hadn't slept, that the stress of "everything" was taking its toll. In my first life, I'd rushed to her side, offered comfort, brewed her the chamomile tea she claimed would soothe her nerves. This time, I watched her sway slightly in her chair and felt nothing but cold recognition. "Genevieve, you look pale," I said, my voice dripping with practiced concern. "Perhaps you should rest. I'll have the kitchen prepare you some ginger tea—it's wonderful for settling the stomach." She blinked, clearly thrown by my offer. In my first life, I'd been the one to brew her tea, the one she'd used as a shield to hide her poison behind kindness. Now I was turning her own weapon back on her. "That's so thoughtful, Lyra," she murmured, recovering quickly. "But I couldn't possibly i
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