The air in the library was thick with the scent of old paper and anxiety. Dust motes floated in the lamplight like silent witnesses to the panic swelling inside my chest. The title page of the latest chapter still glared back at me from the screen on the antique desk—"Serena: Episode 31 — That's Enough. Take It Off."
A title that suddenly felt like a cruel omen.
I stood beside the telephone table, the ancient receiver still warm in my hand. I hadn't even realized I was gripping it so tightly until the faint ache in my fingers caught up with me. My blue eyes narrowed, fixed on the heavy curtains trembling from the rumbling storm outside.
"I see. So you spoke with the chef here... and informed him that Serena can't eat peaches," I murmured, my tone flat, almost eerily calm. I had taken precautions. I always took precautions. Telling the staff about her severe allergy had been the first thing I did when we arrived.
Then—
SWAAAAA.
A violent curtain of rain slammed against the windows, the downpour so heavy it swallowed the world outside. The thunder rolled low, like the growl of something ancient and hungry.
And inside me, something dropped. Hard.
Then the chef's earlier words replayed in my head.
Clear.
Sharp.
Fatal.
"She ate the peaches?"
The words clawed out of my throat before I could stop them.
"You said she was allergic to them… Severely allergic."
A soft gasp.
The woman from the call stood in the archway, still holding her notepad. Her hair was tightly pulled back, but a few strands clung to her temples from rushing around. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise.
"Oh, Sir," she said, stepping forward uncertainly. "You haven't returned to your room yet, I see."
I stared at her—no, through her—my mind racing.
She swallowed, wringing her hands. Moments ago, she had been repeating what the chef conveyed:
Serena's dessert plate. A slice missing. A peach slice.
Her expression shifted—first confusion, then something uglier.
A calculating downturn of her lips.
"What? I don't understand what happened," she muttered. "Is her allergy a mild one? Something manageable? That doesn't give me a lot of information to hand over…"
Then a low click of her tongue.
"Tsk. I was hoping this would fetch me a pretty penny too."
My blood ran cold.
The chef, somewhere behind her, stood stiff as iron—his jaw clenched, eyes lowered. He had done his part. He had passed the warning.
She had twisted it for her own gain.
My gaze snapped back to her.
The puzzle pieces clicked together with horrifying clarity.
She wasn't worried about Serena.
She was irritated that the crisis wasn't lucrative enough.
But the worst part?
Not her greed.
Not her betrayal.
Not even the chef's helpless silence.
It was the fact that Serena had eaten the peach.
And Serena—
Serena's allergy was not mild.
My breath thinned to a razor edge.
The air constricted.
The world shrank to a pinpoint of dread.
I didn't wait to hear another word.
My hand dropped the receiver—
CLATTER.
—echoing like a gunshot across the library.
My voice was barely audible, but every syllable shook like an earthquake.
"Where… is she?"
No one answered fast enough.
I moved.
The library blurred around me as I strode past them, the hard floor striking under my shoes in quick, lethal steps. The storm outside raged, but the one inside me was worse.
Serena ate the peach.
Serena's allergy is severe.
Serena could be—
No.
I forced that thought out, crushed it before it could finish forming.
I flung the door open.
I had to find her.
Now.
And God help anyone who stood between me and her.
The moment the woman disappeared past the archway, her perfume lingering faintly like a cheap attempt at sophistication, the façade of calm I had worn began to crack—only on the inside. My body remained a perfect sculpture of composed authority, but the storm beneath my ribs was violent.
I exhaled once, slowly, letting the faint hum of the antique chandelier settle around me.
The silence in the library felt predatory. Watching. Waiting.
So the chef hadn't been warned properly…?
Or he had been warned—but someone had tampered with the message.
No… someone tampered with Serena's safety.
My jaw tightened.
A soft echo of the woman's heels clicking through the hallway faded into the distance. Then it was gone, swallowed by the rain pounding relentlessly against the windows.
I looked at the phone again—the receiver still crookedly resting in its cradle, the cord loosely coiled like a snake. The head maid's voice replayed in the back of my mind:
"I told the chef myself—I warned him about the peaches."
And yet Serena's dessert plate…
A slice missing.
A peach slice.
I pressed my fingers against my lips once more—not out of habit this time, but control. To keep myself from walking out of this library, marching straight to the dining hall, and ripping the truth out of someone's throat.
Not yet.
The chef would talk.
Quiet kitchens always had loud truths hiding under them.
My eyes drifted to the doorway just as the soft rustle of skirts returned. The woman entered again, her posture a mixture of courtesy and discomfort.
"Sir," she said, folding her hands before her. "The chef will be here shortly."
I nodded. "Thank you."
She smiled politely, but there was a stiffness around her eyes. A tell she probably didn't realize she had.
A tell that said she was worried—maybe not about Serena, but about what I would discover.
I stepped forward, closing the distance by a few paces, not enough to be aggressive… but enough that she felt the weight of my attention.
"I appreciate how promptly you informed me," I said softly.
Her shoulders twitched. "O-Oh, of course. I just… wanted to ensure everything was in order."
"Mm." My gaze sharpened. "Then I'm sure you understand why I want every detail clarified."
For a brief second, she looked like she wanted to retreat.
But before she could speak, footsteps echoed from beyond the hall.
Heavy.
Measured.
Approaching.
The chef.
The woman stepped aside as a middle-aged man in a pristine uniform appeared at the entrance. His hands were clasped before him, his expression carefully blank—but his eyes flicked, only once, to mine.
And that was all I needed.
He knew.
Something had happened.
Something he didn't know how to explain.
"Sir," he greeted, bowing slightly. "You wished to see me?"
"Yes," I replied, my tone low but clear. "There are a few questions I'd like to ask regarding tonight's meal."
He stood straighter, awaiting the interrogation.
Behind him, the woman hovered nervously like a shadow waiting for judgment.
I stepped closer, my gaze unblinking.
"Let's talk… about the dessert."
Both of them stiffened.
Exactly as I expected.
The hostess's presence loomed beside Phil like a shadow, her elegant façade thinning at the edges. She kept smiling, but her fingers dug slightly into the fabric of her dress, betraying the strain beneath the surface.
Phil's lie hung in the air like smoke—thin, wavering, and painfully obvious.
"A mistake, you say?"
My voice was low, calm, but the calm that comes before a blade is drawn. The crimson glare of the thoughts storming behind my eyes was impossible to hide.
Phil swallowed.
His Adam's apple bobbed once.
Twice.
His hands fidgeted with the hem of his apron.
"S-Sir, I… yes, it was—"
"It wasn't," I said sharply.
Phil froze.
The hostess's smile cracked—just a hairline fracture—but it was enough.
I took a step closer, letting the chill in my gaze sink into them both.
"The head maid's instructions regarding the peaches were explicit."
Another step.
"Clear. Detailed. Impossible to misunderstand."
Phil's breathing hitched. The hostess subtly stiffened, her nails digging into her palm.
"And yet…" My head tilted, voice softening in a way that was infinitely worse than shouting, "…the dessert was served exactly contrary to her warning."
The hostess opened her mouth to speak—perhaps to steer Phil back into the script she had forced onto him—but she hesitated when she saw my eyes shift to her.
Just a shift.
Barely a degree.
But it was enough to silence her.
Phil's lips parted, trembling with a confession that wanted to escape but couldn't—not with her beside him.
The hostess cleared her throat lightly, attempting to reclaim control.
"I'm sure the chef simply misheard—these things can happen in a busy kitchen, you know how—"
"Phil."
His head snapped up immediately.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.
"Did you receive the call from my head maid directly?"
Phil's fingers twitched.
The hostess stepped half a pace forward, panic sparking in her gaze.
"He DID. Yes—he already said he—"
"I'm asking him."
Phil looked at her.
Then at me.
Then down at the polished library floor as if it could save him.
"…N-No, Sir," he whispered, his voice cracking. "She… she didn't speak to me directly. The call came to the office first and was… passed along."
The hostess's pupils constricted sharply.
There it was.
The piece I already knew—but needed spoken aloud.
My stare fixed on the hostess like a vice.
"You handled the call."
The hostess stiffened, but she managed a brittle laugh.
"Oh? Me? No, I—well, yes, I answered it first, but—"
"You relayed the information to him."
Her throat tightened visibly.
"I—I passed the message on exactly as I was told."
Phil's voice came out in a small, frightened squeak.
"She… she told me it wasn't serious. That it was only a mild allergy. She said… it wouldn't be a problem."
The hostess shot him a glare sharp enough to slice his jugular.
But the damage was done.
My pulse roared in my ears.
The room shrank.
The storm outside thundered.
Serena ate the peach.
Because someone decided to gamble with her life for… what? A favor? Leverage? Money?
Phil stepped back instinctively as my expression darkened—not with rage, but with something colder.
"Thank you," I said to him quietly.
He blinked, surprised.
I turned away from them both, already striding for the door.
Every step was precise, controlled—yet propelled by the unmistakable urgency mounting in my chest.
"She ate the dessert," I said, not bothering to hide the lethal edge anymore. "And she has a severe allergy."
The hostess's face drained of color.
Phil's breath stuttered.
My hand landed on the doorframe, gripping it like an anchor.
"Do not follow me," I warned without turning back. "And do not lie to me again."
Then I stepped out of the library.
Whatever they saw of my face in that last second—the ice, the fury, the fear I didn't allow myself to feel—made them both fall silent.
The clock in the hall ticked once.
Once more.
Then I moved.
I needed to find Serena.
Now.
Before the consequences of their negligence caught up to her.
The silence that fell after my final words was suffocating.
Phil lifted his head only enough to see my shoes, his breath shallow, his fingers trembling where they clutched his apron. The confession he had spilled—messy and panicked—hung in the air like a crack in glass, one that exposed far more than he intended.
The hostess froze for half a second, her lashes fluttering as the reality of what he had just exposed sank in.
The warning was clear.
The peaches had been served anyway.
And Phil's attempt to salvage the lie had only tightened the noose around her.
My cold stare sharpened, slicing through the fragile layer of deceit still clinging to the room.
"You believed my wife liked peaches," I repeated softly, each syllable carved with deliberate menace. "When you had been told she cannot eat them."
Phil swallowed hard.
The hostess immediately pounced, her voice rising in its carefully orchestrated outrage.
"Oh my GOODNESS, Phil! How could you possibly mishear something so serious—?!"
It was too dramatic.
Too fast.
Too practiced.
A performance meant for deflection.
But I didn't give her my attention. Not when Phil's eyes, wet and desperate, flickered up to me—silently begging for something I could not give him.
An absolution.
A shield from the consequences of the woman who controlled him.
He would get neither.
Instead, I tilted my head slightly, letting the weight of my next words fall like a guillotine.
"If your account is correct," I said, voice cold enough to frost the glass windows, "then the failure originated from my own staff. That will need to be investigated thoroughly."
The hostess stiffened just as I intended she would.
Phil blinked in panic, his fear spiking at the thought of someone innocent—someone in my service—suffering consequences for his coerced lie. His lips parted, desperate to amend his story, but I held up a hand.
Enough.
My gaze drifted from him to the hostess. Slowly. Deliberately.
Her smile faltered as if my eyes alone were too heavy to withstand.
She stepped forward.
Trying to regain control.
Trying to sound concerned.
"I'm so sorry, Sir," she said quickly. "Truly—this is terrible. Is Serena all right?"
Her question hung in the air—sharp, intrusive, dripping with a curiosity that had nothing to do with worry. She wanted information. Leverage. She wanted to know the value of what she'd almost acquired.
I let a long silence stretch.
Her smile twitched.
Phil shivered.
I gave neither of them an answer.
Some things were not for them to know.
Especially not her.
I let my expression harden—no fury, no shouting, no theatrics. Just a cold, lethal silence that made both of them flinch.
Then, at last, I spoke:
"I will handle this."
Four simple words.
But the tone behind them carried an unmistakable warning.
I turned away from them, my coat shifting with the suddenness of my movement. The library door loomed ahead, and every step I took felt heavier with urgency.
My mind had already left them.
Serena.
Peaches.
A severe allergy.
She might be—
No.
I forced the thought down before it could finish forming.
I had the truth I needed.
The warning was given.
It was ignored—or sabotaged.
And Serena was now at risk because of it.
My hand closed around the door handle.
Without looking back, I delivered my final, wordless verdict—a sharp, cutting glance over my shoulder. The kind that made both of them stiffen as though struck.
It told them everything.
What they had done.
What it meant.
And that any further lies would be dealt with—thoroughly.
I pulled the door open.
I didn't hesitate.
I didn't breathe.
I needed to go to Serena.
Immediately.
Before this night took a turn I could never forgive.
The hostess's question—"Is Serena all right?"—hung trembling in the air like a thread pulled too tight.
I allowed the silence to stretch, letting it sink into the bones of the room.
"…?"
Even Phil dared to look up, breath caught.
Then—
"What are the two of you talking about?"
The firm, authoritative voice sliced through the tension.
Harold, the master of the house, stepped into the library, his presence dominating the threshold. His eyes flicked between his hostess—her face paling by the second—and me, still standing in controlled stillness.
The hostess whirled around so quickly her skirt fanned.
"H-Harold?! Oh—oh! I— we— I mean…"
Her gaze darted between him and me like a trapped bird seeking any open window. She even let out a tiny, helpless, "Pardon?" as if praying the situation would reset itself.
But I didn't give her time to rewrite the narrative.
I turned my attention fully on her, letting a shadow of a smile curve my lips—a smile sharp enough to cut silk.
"I was referring to the coffee served for dessert."
Her entire body jolted.
"Ah— Th-that's—!" she sputtered, throat bobbing as she scrambled internally. That wasn't what he meant before! No—no, he meant peaches—didn't he?!
I stepped forward leisurely, my voice calm as glass.
"The head maid informed you that I don't drink sweetened coffee," I said. "And yet the one I was served tasted very sweet to me. Phil's dessert was flawless. It was the coffee served alongside it that was the problem."
Phil's eyes widened in stunned realization.
Harold's brows lifted slightly.
The hostess?
Her soul nearly left her body.
SHOOT! she screamed inside her own mind, every thought written clearly across her face.
She stumbled for an excuse—any excuse.
"I just… p-peaches came up, so I assumed you were referring to an allergy—!"
Her voice cracked.
Her reasoning collapsed.
Her desperation bled through her every syllable.
"Then…" she scrambled, "why did you say something terrible could have happened?"
That was her last lifeline.
Her last, pathetic attempt to drag the conversation back under her control.
I let my smirk sharpen, leaning in just enough to let her see how thoroughly outmatched she was.
"I get goosebumps on my arms whenever I eat or drink something sweet," I said lightly. "Getting goosebumps… doesn't that sound terrible to you?"
The sarcasm hit her like a slap.
She stared at me—no words, no excuses left—just raw horror and humiliation.
Does he already know what I was up to?!
Is he toying with me?
He's mocking me!
Her thoughts were practically screaming through her expression.
Harold looked between us, slowly piecing together the fact that she'd just fully exposed herself without me needing to accuse her once.
Phil shrank where he stood, praying the walls would swallow him whole.
I didn't spare either of them another glance.
They had already given me everything I came for.
Their panic.
Their lies.
Their guilt.
I had maneuvered them into revealing exactly what I needed—without ever mentioning the real danger: Serena's peach allergy.
The room had become a graveyard of their blunders.
Which meant my time here was done.
I stepped past them, my footsteps steady, purposeful, spine straight as a blade.
Not triumph.
Not victory.
Necessity.
I had confirmed the truth.
The warning had been tampered with.
And Serena—Serena could be in real danger right now.
The library door opened with a soft click as I pushed it.
I didn't look back.
Harold, the hostess, and Phil stood frozen behind me, marinated in fear, guilt, and confusion.
They could stay there and drown in it.
I had one priority now.
One name pulsing through my mind like thunder:
Serena.
I needed to find her.
Immediately.
CLACK.
The door clicked shut behind me, the sound unnaturally sharp in the dim room. For a breath, I lingered with my hand still on the brass handle, letting the silence settle around me. The corridor had been warm and bright; this room felt like stepping into a pool of shadows cooled by the storm outside.
The rain hammered harder against the windows—POUR—accompanied by the restless PATTER PATTER that filled every crevice of the room. Occasionally, a softer PITTER rolled down the glass like the traces of someone's fingertips.
I drew in a slow breath.
The conversation with the steward had been longer than expected—annoyingly long—and my thoughts had kept drifting back here. Back to her.
Is she asleep?
I stepped forward, eyes adjusting to the faint bluish light seeping through the sheer curtains. The four-poster bed stood like a ghostly silhouette in the center, veiled by thin gauze that swayed gently from the movement of air—or something else.
But something felt off.
I walked closer, each footstep a quiet thud against the polished wood. The curtains around the bed fluttered as the wind rattled the window, but the shape behind them was wrong.
Wait.
The bed was empty.
The blanket, still slightly indented, hinted she had been there moments ago. The curtain shifted, as though someone had just slipped away, fleeing to a corner where they thought I wouldn't look.
I followed the subtle signs, lips curling slightly.
So she didn't leave.
She just moved.
My eyes wandered to the coat rack.
Her white blouse hung there limply, still damp from the earlier rain. She had been struggling with those tiny pearl buttons for an embarrassingly long time before I left. But apparently, she managed after all.
So she really didn't want me touching the buttons on her back.
Noted.
But then—
Something flickered in the corner of my vision.
A shadow. A flinch.
I turned my gaze back to the gauzy curtains draped near the wardrobe. There—half-hidden—someone was crouched behind them. Clumsily. As though she believed the thin curtain could mask her presence.
A faint smile touched my lips, though my tone remained cool, unreadable.
"What are you doing over there?"
I let the question hang for a moment, watching her freeze.
"And… were you the one who opened my suitcase?"
Slowly, painfully slowly, she emerged from behind the translucent fabric. The moment her eyes met mine, her entire expression trembled—panic rising like heat off the floor.
Her hands clutched the curtain as though it were armor.
Her breathing had turned shallow.
"I know," she whispered, the words tumbling out too quickly, too rehearsed. She swallowed, eyes darting toward the corner.
"I know it was wrong of me to open your suitcase without your permission. Sorry about that."
My gaze shifted deliberately to where she kept glancing.
Near the wardrobe: two leather suitcases.
Mine.
One of them wide open.
A piece of white fabric—a shirt—hung out like evidence she hadn't managed to hide in time.
"Why is my suitcase open?"
My voice was low. Calm.
But edged.
The apology meant nothing to me. What mattered was why she'd been digging through my things. What she had been looking for. What she had found.
She flinched, shoulders hunching, her fingers curling around the curtain fabric as though she needed something to hold onto.
The rain filled the silence between us.
She looked small. Guilty. Caught.
And yet…
Something about her trembling felt different this time—less like fear of me and more like fear of something she wasn't ready to say.
I took a step closer.
The storm raged louder.
Her eyes were huge—round, startled, and shimmering with that frantic mixture of guilt and defense that made lying impossible for her. She held the edge of the curtain halfway up her face like a flimsy shield, peeking out from behind it as if she'd been caught stealing from a pantry, not rummaging through my luggage.
"I know," she blurted again, voice tumbling over itself. "I know it was wrong of me to open your suitcase without your permission. Sorry about that."
Sorry.
That word irritated me—not because she said it, but because it told me nothing. I didn't want regret. I wanted reason.
I took a single step toward her.
STRIDE.
Her shoulders jerked.
Another step.
STRIDE.
She sank even lower behind the curtain, clutching it with white-knuckled desperation, the material wrapped tightly around her small frame.
Why are you hiding? What exactly are you trying to cover?
Her muffled cry—"Ack!"—was nearly comical in its panic, and I could practically see the words forming in her mind: Why is he suddenly coming closer?! As she scrambled, she tried to ROLL ROLL further behind the folds of fabric.
My eyes narrowed.
"Wait. Are you..."
I leaned in slightly, my voice dropping.
There—beneath the curtain—something white.
Not her blouse.
Not anything she had been wearing earlier.
Something of mine.
Her hands darted down, yanking the hem of the garment she wore, trying to pull it lower. "But—just hear me out first!" she stammered, her voice a plea, her body trembling with the effort of hiding herself.
No.
No, I wasn't mistaken.
My eyebrow TWITCHED, the realization hitting me like a spark.
"Wait. Are you…"
My gaze sharpened.
My tone hardened.
"...WEARING MY SHIRT?"
Her entire posture disintegrated.
Her eyes went wide—too wide.
Her mouth fell open.
"WAIT, WAIT! LISTEN—!" she squeaked, her voice cracking as she attempted a frantic explanation.
But she couldn't even stand properly.
She stumbled backward, losing her grip on the curtain. The heavy fabric slipped from her fingers like water, collapsing around her feet in a whisper of satin.
And there it was.
The proof.
My white dress shirt hung off her small frame—comically oversized. The collar slid down her shoulder, exposing the delicate slope of her collarbone. The sleeves swallowed her arms. The hem was long enough to brush the top of her thighs.
An unmistakably intimate sight.
She tried to recover—taking a clumsy step back.
But her heel caught the edge of the rug.
TRIP.
"EEK!" she cried, pitching backward, arms flailing uselessly as the world tilted for her in slow, helpless motion.
My irritation evaporated instantly.
Instinct surged.
I moved without thinking.
My hand shot out, cutting through the air.
I caught her—one arm around her waist, the other steadying her back, pulling her securely against me just before she would have crashed onto the floor.
"CAREFUL!"
My voice came out sharper, deeper, more urgent than I intended.
The storm raged outside—POUR, PATTER, PITTER—but in that suspended heartbeat, everything else was quiet.
Her breath hitched.
Her hands curled into my shirt.
Her trembling body settled in my arms.
And the scene ended there—
her weight pressed against me,
my hold firm around her,
the air thick between us with the discovery neither of us dared speak yet.
"That's enough take it off" i whispered against her ears.