amid the chaos,
amid the screaming storm inside Elizabeth’s mind—
something old slipped through.
Something forgotten.
Her previous life as So-rin.
Her breath stalled for a second.
She remembered rough hands that smelled of disinfectant.
Her father’s voice—calm, firm—
as he explained while she sat on a chair, her feet dangling above the floor.
“Medicine isn’t memorization. It’s connection.”
“Look at the body as a story—not as scattered symptoms.”
She steadied herself.
Wait—
Anemia.
The thought struck all at once.
The medication.
Dependence.
The pallor.
Chronic fatigue.
Collapse when the dose is missed.
She bent over him quickly,
pressed her ear to his chest.
His pulse was—
fast.
Far too fast.
And weak, as if slipping away from her fingers.
She swallowed.
First check—confirmed.
She lifted her head,
stared at him with cold focus,
as if she were no longer frightened Elise—
but the Elise who once stood behind her father, watching.
His body—
despite how thin he was—
felt heavier than it should.
She remembered.
“When a body feels heavier than its size…”
“…the blood isn’t doing its job.”
Her gaze swept over his skin.
Paler than usual.
Breathing uneven.
Pulse rapid and weak.
Cold extremities.
Cold sweat—
even though the storage room wasn’t warm.
She inhaled sharply.
So then…
She didn’t finish the thought.
She moved forward,
undid the top buttons of his shirt with practiced speed.
Removed his tie
and tossed it aside without a shred of hesitation.
In her mind, her father’s voice rang clear:
“If the fainting is due to lack of oxygen—”
“Lay the patient flat.”
She pulled him,
adjusted his position,
until he lay completely on his back.
She loosened his clothes for airflow.
Then—
she lifted his legs.
Lifted them high.
“To improve blood flow to the brain.”
She breathed deeply as she did so,
cold sweat beading on her forehead—
she couldn’t tell if it was his… or hers.
Then she paused.
Looked at his raised legs.
Looked at his sprawled body.
And muttered, half irritation, half grim pride:
“And this is my revenge on you.”
Then—
she planted his legs on her shoulders with both hands, gripping hard,
and began to drag him.
Dragged him—
with effort.
Step by step.
Keeping his legs raised as much as she could.
Her teeth clenched.
Her muscles trembled.
“Heavy… far heavier than you should be!”
She stopped for a moment,
panting,
then scoffed tiredly as she started dragging him again:
“I’m a genius, aren’t I?”
He didn’t answer.
But his chest—
rose a little more steadily.
His breaths—
still weak—
were no longer as chaotic.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye,
something in her gaze she still refused to name.
“Don’t you dare die now…”
she whispered.
“I haven’t signed the agreement yet.”
Then—
with the very last breath left in her lungs,
she finally reached the palace hall
The light here was harsher.
The hanging candelabras exposed his pallor even more,
and the coldness of his body became unmistakable—
dangerous.
She drew in a deep breath—
just one—
then screamed.
“HELP—!!”
Her voice echoed off the marble.
She didn’t wait.
She screamed again,
louder, hoarse,
as if tearing the palace open from the inside.
“HELP—!!”
A third time—
until her throat burned.
And in the next instant…
the silence shattered.
Footsteps.
Overlapping shouts.
Doors thrown open.
The guards arrived first,
freezing at the sight.
One gasped.
Another called for the physician.
Servants poured in from every direction,
in sleepwear,
hair disheveled,
eyes wide with terror.
Then—
the head butler.
Andrew.
He rushed out,
still in his night robe,
and in his hand—
a frying pan.
Yes. A frying pan.
You might wonder where he got it from—
honestly, so does she.
He stopped in the middle of the hall,
staring at the scene in complete disbelief,
then shouted:
“What in heaven’s name is happening here?!”
There was no order.
No reason.
Pure emergency chaos.
Adrian was carefully lifted from her arms,
hands multiplying,
commands colliding.
“Fetch the doctor!”
“Clear the way!”
“To the young master’s room—now!”
Elise remained where she was,
her chest rising and falling violently,
her arms suddenly empty,
as if she’d lost weight—
yet she felt no relief.
Only emptiness.
She heard the whispers.
How did he leave his room at night?
Was he wandering around?
Did he collapse in the garden?
Then a voice pulled her back to reality.
“Elizabeth.”
She lifted her head.
Andrew stood before her.
His eyes were sharp despite the sleep.
His gaze traveled from her head to her feet.
To her clothes—
masculine.
Improper.
Unexplained.
He asked in a dangerously calm tone:
“What are you doing here?”
Then immediately added:
“And what are you wearing?”
She stiffened for a fraction of a second.
A tiny moment—
but nearly enough to expose her.
Then—
her mind spoke instead of her fear.
She answered quickly,
her voice steadier than she felt:
“I heard rustling in the palace garden.”
She paused,
then continued as if it were obvious:
“I thought it was a thief…”
“And I wore these clothes because they’re easier to move in.”
She lifted her shoulders slightly.
Practical tone.
No drama.
“I went out to check…”
then added,
with carefully practiced surprise:
“And it turned out to be the young master… he had fainted.”
A brief silence fell.
Andrew stared at her.
Long.
Far too long.
Then he looked in the direction Adrian had been taken.
Then back at her.
He exhaled slowly.
“Return to your room.”
The tone allowed no argument.
“Immediately.”
She nodded.
Gave a shallow bow.
And turned away.
As she walked off,
the noise behind her swallowed the hall—
orders,
footsteps,
anxiety—
she pressed a hand to her chest.
Her heartbeat was feral.
And in her mind, one single thought remained,
clear, heavy, impossible to escape:
Now—
this is no longer just an agreement.
It’s a shared crime that began without a signature.
Comments (0)
See all