(Evelina's POV — Hartgrave Mansion, Hallway)
Lucien still stood there, half-pouting, half-trying to pretend he wasn't worried. The air between us buzzed—not with anger anymore, but something annoyingly close to… warmth.
Or indigestion. Hard to tell.
I narrowed my eyes. "You're acting strange."
He blinked. "Strange?"
"Yes. You carried me down the hallway like a discount superhero and screamed for a car like we were in an action movie."
His mouth twitched. "…You coughed."
"Lucien," I said, deadly calm. "You once watched me trip on a staircase and told me gravity was 'doing its job.' Don't act like a caring sibling now—it's confusing."
I know it sounds funny, but he really said that. Evelina's memories sometimes slipped into my dreams like bad reruns, and that line? Burned in bold.
Lucien's expression cracked for a second. Just slightly. Then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck—awkward, hesitant, human. "You were pale, alright? I just—didn't want to see that again."
That… again?
Before I could ask, he brushed past me, voice quieter this time. "Forget it."
I blinked, watching his back retreat down the corridor, his shoulders tense like he was carrying something heavier than pride.
[System: Affection +4 — Lucien Hartgrave: 7% → 11%]
I blinked again. "…Huh?"
What just happened?
I tilted my head, utterly baffled. "I guess… understanding a Hartgrave is tough."
With a soft sigh, I rubbed my temples and started walking toward my room. Enough family drama for one day.
"I should focus on getting that Mermaid Tears necklace," I muttered, letting the thought settle like armor.
***
[Evelina's Room—Later]
The soft click of the door echoed behind me as I stepped into my room.
Peace. Finally.
Or at least I thought so—until I heard a voice.
"Miss…"
I turned, my hand still on the doorframe. Standing in the hallway was an older woman—stern posture, gray hair tied in a neat bun, a lifetime of service pressed into the lines around her eyes.
The head maid. Margaret. The one who oversaw every servant in this mansion.
I didn't speak. Just looked at her. Cold. Detached. The kind of look that made lesser people remember where they stood.
She hesitated before continuing. "Miss, Madam has sent you—"
"I don't need anything." I cut her off smoothly, my voice soft but sharp enough to cut glass. "My stomach's already full... Too much spice and salt for one day."
Her eyes widened slightly, her composure slipping for just a breath. "Miss… I—I deeply apologize. I didn't realize what was happening in the kitchen. I should have—"
"You should have," I interrupted, my tone calm, cold, and deliberate. Each word landed like frost. "But you didn't, Margaret."
I tilted my head slightly, eyes flicking to the tray in her trembling hands. "So, I don't understand why you're standing here now… holding a plate of sandwiches I hate."
Her fingers twitched around the silver platter.
I took a slow step closer, gaze lowering to the cut triangles—white bread, pale cheese, and, of course… little green flecks mocking me from between the slices.
"Broccoli," I said softly, a bitter smile curling at the edge of my lips. "You remembered it perfectly."
Margaret blinked, confused. "Miss?"
I looked up, meeting her eyes with surgical precision. "Sera likes broccoli, Margaret."
A pause. The silence that followed hit harder than shouting. Then I added, quieter—too quiet. "So you got the wrong daughter again."
Her face drained of color as realization struck, but I was already moving.
I brushed past her. "Next time, make sure you know who you're serving," I said softly, almost kindly. "It'll save you from... misunderstandings."
Then—
SHUT.
The door closed behind her, final and sharp.
I leaned against it for a moment, the echo of her hurried footsteps fading down the corridor. The air in my room felt heavier, quieter—like the silence after a storm.
"Wrong daughter, huh?" I muttered under my breath, pushing off the door and walking toward my bed. "Story of her life."
I plopped down onto the mattress, the silk sheets cool against my skin. My body finally relaxed, exhaustion settling in like fog.
"God," I groaned, rubbing my eyes, "I really need sleep."
The ceiling stared back, indifferent and spotless, as I turned on my side. The mansion outside hummed with distant noise—servants scurrying.
And me?
I closed my eyes, letting my last thought slip out with a sigh. "Tomorrow's auction better be worth it."
The lights dimmed automatically. Silence fell. And for the first time that day, I didn't feel powerless.
Just… ready.
***
[Next Morning—Evelina's Room]
Sunlight spilled across the curtains like melted gold. The air smelled faintly of roses and wealth—specifically, someone else's wealth I was now forced to live inside.
I was already dressed. Black backless gown. Subtle, lethal elegance. Every step whispered quiet defiance.
And as I stepped out—
"Good morning, Miss Evelina," a maid greeted, her voice far too cheerful for someone who probably hated her job.
"Good morning, Miss."
"Good morning, Miss Evelina."
Their greetings followed me down the hallway like a chant, echoing off marble and glass. Every servant I passed straightened immediately, voices polite, eyes careful.
It was… strange. Eerily strange.
They never greeted Evelina like this before. Not when she was alive, not when she was breaking.
"The servants seem too cheerful for morning," I muttered.
"Indeed, Miss."
I turned. Margaret stood by the corridor arch, spine straight, eyes steady as always—the head maid.
Except this morning, her smile looked forced. Controlled.
I narrowed my eyes. "And why is that, Margaret?"
She hesitated only for a breath before answering. "Because, Miss… some of them are no longer servants here."
I stopped mid-step. "What?"
Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes flickered. "Madam dismissed every maid found involved in the… incident yesterday. She made sure they will never find work in another household again."
For a second, I said nothing. Just stood there.
"Am I supposed to celebrate this, Margrate?"
Her lips parted. "Miss… Madam was only trying to—"
"To what?" I cut her off, voice low but razor-sharp. "Redeem herself? Pretend to be a mother after the damage was done?"
Margaret flinched. Her gaze dropped, hands twisting nervously in front of her apron.
"She was… worried about you, Miss," she murmured. "Truly."
A humorless laugh escaped me. "Worried?"
I turned to her fully, a smirk curling on my lips like the edge of a blade. "Are we talking about the same Madam? The one who called me a monster? The one who said she regretted giving birth to me?"
Her eyes widened—panic flashing across her face. "Miss—Madam was angry then! You must understand, she—"
"Enough."
I raised a hand, silencing her instantly. My tone wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be.
"I don't have time for excuses or rewrites."
Her shoulders stiffened, the silence between us growing sharp and cold.
"I'm already late," I said finally, stepping past her. "So next time, Margaret, don't report every little thing to me. I'm not the mistress of this house."
She bowed her head quickly. "Yes, Miss."
I paused for half a second, watching her from the corner of my eye—the flicker of shame, of fear, of something almost like regret.
Then I walked away, heels clicking against marble—steady, unhurried, untouchable. Every servant who saw me that morning would whisper later that Miss Evelina had changed.
They wouldn't be wrong.
Because the old Evelina wanted to be loved. The new one only needed respect.