Sarima shifted on her bed, discomfort twisting deep in her stomach. Nausea lingered heavy and persistent as she stared at the thin strip of light slipping through the curtains. She turned again, gripping her pillow tighter when a cold breeze seeped into the room. Rain must have fallen last night, she thought sluggishly, her thoughts feeling slow and distant.
For a while, she just lay there, weak and too drained to fully move. The fever had eased; she could feel the burning ache gone, but what remained was a hollow exhaustion that made even breathing feel deliberate. Her fingers brushed her arm, goosebumps rising instantly.
Eventually, she forced herself up. She sat for a moment, letting her mind catch up with her body, then reached for the jug on her bedside table and drank slowly, grounding herself in something real again.
Her eyes drifted across the room aimlessly and stopped.
At the foot of her bed.
A white envelope.
Sealed.
Tied with a red ribbon.
Her breath stalled.
Red ribbon.
In two years, there had never been a ribbon.
She moved before she could overthink it, snatching it up with the intent to throw it away like the others, like she had trained herself to do. But her hand stopped midair.
No. She shouldn't read it. She had stopped reading them for a reason, because they got into her head, because something about them always lingered longer than she wanted it to.
Still, her fingers tightened, and the silence in her mind deepened dangerously.
Slowly, she opened it.
The handwriting inside was calm, controlled, familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten.
"I know you would read this one, Sarima."
Her chest clenched.
"It was very reckless of you to get sick because of me. I would never want you to hurt yourself… and deep down, you know this."
"Don't let this repeat itself."
A hollow laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it.
He wouldn't want her hurt, and yet he was the only one who ever made her feel it in ways she couldn't explain.
Her eyes moved faster now, almost against her own control.
"How would you like me to deal with Luke Houston?"
Everything inside her went still.
So it wasn't in her head. It hadn't been paranoia.
He was there. Somewhere. Always.
Her grip tightened on the letter as she lowered herself slowly in front of the mirror, her reflection feeling unfamiliar.
"Do not stress about meeting me. You will… when the time comes."
Her throat went dry.
"There's always a time when husband and wife meet."
Her breath caught.
"Afràtos."
The word lingered, strange and soft, almost tender in sound, wrong in a way she couldn't immediately place.
She grabbed her phone with slightly unsteady hands and searched it. Fluffy. A word used to describe food.
A quiet, disbelieving laugh left her lips.
"What…?"
Her thoughts began to shift, slipping at the edges. She shook her head quickly. No.
She dropped the letter and then saw it.
A hamper, neatly placed beside her bed, filled with white chocolate, her favorite.
She didn't move for a long moment, just stared.
A slow realization settled into her chest.
He didn't just watch her. He knew her.
She fell back onto the bed, exhaling shakily, but a knock pulled her back into reality.
"Come in," she said, forcing her voice steady as she sat up.
The maids entered with fresh bedding.
"Miss Sarima, your mother requests your presence in the dining room for lunch," the head maid said politely.
She nodded absently, but her attention drifted to the trash can.
Before she fully thought about it, she was already moving, digging through it despite the way the maids went quiet behind her. She found it—the last letter—crumpled but intact.
Relief hit her too fast.
She rushed into the bathroom and locked the door behind her, sitting on the edge of the bathtub as she unfolded it carefully.
Then she read.
"You looked at the sky today."
"You always do that when you're thinking too much."
"Like the clouds might answer you."
"They won't… but I would."
Her breathing slowed without permission.
"I stood closer than you think."
"Close enough to hear your breath hitch when the wind touched your neck."
Her fingers tightened.
"You thought it was the cold."
"It wasn't."
Her heart skipped.
"They don't deserve to look at you like I do."
"I like you better when you're unaware."
"Softer. Easier to protect."
A shiver ran through her.
"Don't be scared when you start noticing me."
"It just means you're finally paying attention."
"Yours, always."
Silence swallowed the bathroom.
Her heartbeat was too loud, too aware of itself.
She pressed her lips together, trying to push the feeling down, but something inside her had already shifted—and she hated how easily it had.
She turned on the shower.
Warm water poured over her skin, grounding her, drowning everything else.
She closed her eyes.
Then—
A hand touched her shoulder.
Her eyes snapped open.
She turned sharply.
Nothing.
She shut off the shower immediately.
Silence crashed in.
No maids. No movement. Just her breathing.
She inhaled slowly, exhaled, but her mind no longer felt fully hers.
She dressed quickly in control instead of comfort, a black short flare silk dress, white furry slippers, and a leg chain. Then she left her room.
The hallway felt longer than usual, quieter, heavier. A maid followed silently behind her.
At the dining room, voices filled the space before she even entered.
She stepped in and paused then walked in properly and took a seat beside her brother and opposite Oliver.
The Ellisons.
No one had told her.
They never did.
"Your daughter has grown into a beautiful young lady," Mrs. Ellison said warmly.
"Indeed," her father replied.
"How many years has it been?" Mr. Ellison asked.
"Five," a deep voice answered.
Sarima looked up.
Oliver Ellison met her gaze and smiled.
She returned it automatically, then looked down at her plate, cutting into her steak even though she had no appetite.
Her mother was already watching her, measured and disapproving. Her brothers sat composed, perfect, untouched.
It was easy to see who didn't belong.
"They were so close when they were little," Mrs. Ellison said with a soft laugh.
"That's what makes the best pair," her mother replied.
"Their wedding would be the talk of the year," Mrs. Ellison added brightly.
Sarima's hand stilled.
Wedding.
The word settled slowly.
Her grip tightened around her fork.
Not because of Oliver.
But because for a brief, unsettling moment, she wondered what he would do.