Chapter 5: The Price of Survival

When I woke again, it was daylight. Two little housekeepers were by my side. Their faces brightened when they saw me.

They startled and called out.

"Mrs. Hayes is awake!"

Julian wasn't in the house at that time. After the doctor left, I sent the housekeepers out and sat alone in the room. The quiet pressed in.

I leaned on the bed railing, closed my eyes, and thought of the words in my dream. They echoed, haunting and sharp.

In that darkness, I might not have been able to think, but now—"Mrs. Hayes"?

No matter what, I should understand now. The pieces clicked into place, cold and clear.

The failed succession must have made the patriarch see through his favored sons. Among them, the most prominent, third son Carter Hayes, never hid his ambition for power. The heir's desperate move was probably his doing.

The patriarch surely knew—if Carter inherited, none of the other siblings would survive. So, the urgent call summoning Julian to the family office—what was discussed in those five days isn't hard to guess.

Among the heirs, Julian had the gentlest temperament, never overstepped in recent years, but was not weak or incompetent.

If it was him, perhaps he could keep both sides safe. I hoped so, anyway.

If I could think of this, how could Carter not? The danger was real.

I didn't know what answer Julian gave in those five days, but Carter's decisiveness and action clearly exceeded expectations.

That cornbread—Victoria—the one meant to die wasn't Victoria, but the patriarch.

The pumpkin pie I ate wasn't meant for me, but for Julian.

The successor, the third son, Julian, Victoria—all full siblings. Now only Julian was left alone. My chest tightened with grief.

I didn't know how he would feel, just as I couldn't express my own feelings now. I felt hollow.

"Regret it?" Someone stood by my bed, looked at me with pity. "Still in pain? Suffered for nothing. Why not listen to me earlier? Such a temper—what a pity for my good knife."

I looked over—it was the person from my wedding night. My heart didn't even race this time. I was too tired.

He was strange, but now too many strange things had happened. I'd died once, so seeing him again, I wasn't startled.

"I didn't go against my heart. There's nothing to regret," I said, my voice flat.

"If you go against your heart, just bear it. Are there always opportunities? If I were you, I'd try one by one—it's a good deal," he said, crossing his arms, his tone full of regret. "Who you kill may not matter. In families like this, lives are cheap. See? If you don't do it, someone else will."

"Do you think they're really heartless?" He stepped closer. "It's just a matter of opportunity."

"Now, do you still want to leave? My offer still stands, but will Julian let you go?" He sneered, tapped my bedhead. "Julian should light a candle here—what's the use of praying to gods? You are his guardian spirit. You took the poison for him, made him head of the family."

"If not for you, he wouldn't have survived. If he hadn't withdrawn, how would the heir have panicked and made a move?" He leaned on the bed rail, bent down, his eyes close, aggressive. "If he wasn't truly innocent those three years, would the patriarch have favored him, causing Carter to lose control?"

"See," he was inches from me, the two blue marks under his eyes glowing faintly. "You've made a mess of everything."

I couldn't answer. In the end, I only said bleakly, "Is that so."

"Of course not," he smiled slightly, straightened up. "Of course not."

"See, you doubt my good intentions but believe groundless words so easily," he softened his tone. "Change that. It's not good."

"If you really had such power, why would you still be lying here?" He whispered, "Take care of yourself. We're both unlucky, drifting wherever fate shoves us—why take on so much?"

"Enough, Bailey," he smiled lightly, reached out to me. "Instead of being entangled, better to go home."

Almost as he finished, the door was suddenly pushed open. Julian stood there, hand gripping the doorframe tightly, unable to hide his ecstatic joy, yet hesitant, as if afraid this was just an illusion.

"Bailey?" He finally spoke, softly calling my name, his voice trembling.

"Won't you come over?" I tried to smile at him. "Let me see you, okay?"

He strode over and hugged me tightly. His arms were desperate and warm.

As the door opened, that person disappeared again. I didn't know if Julian heard the conversation or how much, but he asked nothing.

He held me, just kept saying: "Thank you for waking up. I'm so glad you're alive. I only have you, Bailey. I don't know what to do. What should I do?"

His voice sounded so sad, fragile, lost. I wanted to reassure him, but the words stuck in my throat.

It must have been very cold outside. He had lost too much—the successive losses made him helpless before the changing seasons. His ears were still red from the cold, his body cold too.

His tears fell on me, hot and wet—even through my clothes, I could feel it. I stroked his hair, trying to comfort him.

Just like in that darkness, they fell into my palm. The memory stung.

I sighed, sat up from his arms, cupped his face, gently wiped his tears. His eyelids were too thin, trembling, red, tears falling one by one. He held my hand, his fingers cold. I squeezed back.

Like holding a piece of fine porcelain—quiet, fragile, every move could shatter it, yet desperately dependent, close to me.

I looked at him—"Mrs. Hayes," "Mrs. Hayes"? How did it come to this? What should I do? What can I do? The questions echoed in my mind.

"Better to go home," but how can I leave him? How can I let him be alone? My heart ached with the thought.

I struggled too long, but had too little time to choose. Before I could decide, winter brought the coldest day.

The sky was gray, frozen like a giant curtain of ice. I shivered, pulling my blanket tighter.

The church bell tolled through the city, snow flying. I watched it swirl past the window.

The patriarch died. The news hit like a blow.

Julian took over the company. Everything changed in an instant.

I had not yet accepted the title "Mrs. Hayes," and suddenly, I became the head of the family. The weight of it pressed down on me.

"The lady of the house is rightfully named, the mother of the family, holding the keys, presiding over the household."

Sounds grand, doesn't it? I almost laughed at the absurdity.

Holding the keys, presiding over the household. All I really wanted was peace.

The household is my husband's domain.

I stood by his side, looking down from the high landing, music drifting, the vast crowd—I didn't know what to do. My palms were sweaty.