Chapter 6: When the Story Catches Up

Spring came, flowers bloomed everywhere. The world felt bright and foreign.

Julian had only me as his wife, already bearing great pressure—I wasn't unaware. I saw the strain in his eyes.

But as head of the family, Julian could not have only one. I knew that well. The knowledge sat heavy in my stomach.

Flowers bloomed on every tree, filling the house and gardens with color. The faces of beautiful women under the flowers grew more numerous, fragrance lingering, bright as peaches and roses. I felt invisible among them.

They came to greet me. The leading woman, even with her head lowered, was so beautiful it made one love her. I looked at the pink peony in her hair, feeling lost for a long time.

"Raise your head," I said softly. "What is your name?"

"Your servant," she slowly raised her face, her beauty like a polished pearl, shining in the hall. "Ariana Vega from Santa Fe, greets Mrs. Hayes."

Ariana Vega, Ariana Vega. My heart skipped. I knew that name.

My throat tightened, incredulous—I remembered her name. Ariana Vega, later Mrs. Vega. This is a name from the original book, a character from the text. I felt a chill.

She was the second original character I met after Julian, then the third, fourth, fifth—like clouds blown in by distant winds, one after another. The story was catching up.

Julian was too busy. I rarely saw him. The days grew long.

The days here were long and hard to pass. Sometimes I would talk to them, watch them play chess or the piano. The sound echoed in the empty rooms.

I sat there, looking at their faces. The original was lengthy, overly detailed—I knew which mistress drowned, who was the one who went mad after losing her child. I also knew who liked lemon bars, whose handkerchief was always embroidered with bluebirds.

I knew all this—the book told me. Their every day, every second of their future, but not a word, not a sentence, told me what I should do. I felt lost.

Then, the heroine arrived.

I first saw her in Ariana's room. At that time, she was still a maid. I recognized her as she served me tea. My hands shook as I took the cup.

She was like a rose—a frozen rose, immortal beauty, yet as if the warmth of breath would make her wither. I felt both awe and pity.

I had thought, if I met the heroine, what would I do? Now, faced with her, I had no idea.

But when I really saw her, I felt cold and powerless inside and out. My heart felt like stone.

I didn't know how I took my leave from Ariana. On the way back, one hallway after another opened. The road was too long, too quiet, the moon hazy. I stumbled, numb.

The moon hung in the sky, silent. I thought of last year's Thanksgiving—the last time I saw Victoria. The memory stung.

The grand sky, the vast night—she was so small, waving to me. My vision blurred with tears.

I stopped, and only then understood why she didn't appear in the original. The realization hit hard.

She died before it began. The truth was sharp and cold.

Now? All the main characters were present, the stage set, the timing right. I felt the story closing in.

The story began. I felt it in my bones.

But me?

I stood here, lost—who am I? The question echoed, unanswered.

The first time Julian stayed in another woman's quarters was the fifth day after the spring festival, during the falling blossoms. My heart twisted.

I knew this day would come. If he wanted the family to run as usual, he had to be a patriarch as usual. I braced myself.

I sat by the hallway, sleepless all night, watching the moon set in the west. A cold wind blew, dawn approaching, dogwood blossoms in the courtyard like snow. My hands trembled.

I thought of the first time I saw Julian, standing under the flowering tree, turning back, wind filling his sleeves. The memory was both comfort and torment.

I reached out—petals fell into my palm, cool, soft, almost imperceptible. I clung to the sensation.

Almost imperceptible.

My teacher once told me, the only thing always loyal to you is your mind. I clung to that thought.

My faithful memory once again chose to stand by me.

I froze, unable to breathe—I remembered who I was. The realization made my skin crawl.

In the original, there was indeed a wife, but so little was written—almost imperceptible. I was a ghost in my own story.

In a novel that described even an accessory or dessert in detail, she didn't even leave a name. The cruelty of it stung.

I am her—even I forgot she existed. The truth settled like a stone in my stomach.

The entire novel, her description was just a passing sentence, and that sentence was about her death.

"Found, suicide by hanging in the woodshed."

When I returned to my room, Julian was already sitting at the table. Maybe he thought I hadn't woken, or didn't know how to face me, so he didn't come in. He'd set out a small bowl of oatmeal to cool for me. When he saw me, he carefully blew on it and handed it to me.

"Your stomach is weak—can't eat anything too cold, but I was afraid it would get too hot." He said softly, almost humbly. "I wanted to wait, didn't know you were up so early."

"You," I said, "you don't have to do this."

"I want to, Bailey," he paused, forced a smile. "Haven't we always done this?"

I knew—he wanted to tell me nothing would change between us.

I wished I could believe him, but I only felt my heart cold as ice, barely beating. I turned away.

I was too tired.

His face, his voice, almost drove me mad. I wanted to scream.

"Bailey," "Bailey," he called me. Last night, who did he call like that?

And in the future? His future—I know it clearly, don't I?

I just wanted to shout, just wanted to say, whatever drama or plot, just get it over with—please, I beg you all. My hands shook.

I knew it was wrong. I shouldn't hate someone for what might be.

But a year ago, I couldn't imagine him staying with another, just as now, I couldn't imagine my lover, standing before me, would soon kill me.

"Found, suicide by hanging in the woodshed"—how could I not mind? He knows best that I'm timid, afraid of pain, afraid of the dark. He knows I want to live—so is that why he did it?

"I have no appetite," I could only say. "Please, leave, okay?"

I was trembling, using all my strength, hands on the table just to keep my composure—not to lose control or faint from the storm of humiliation and anger. My nails dug into the wood.

He stood helplessly, wanting to help me.

His hand was cold—when it touched me, I only felt disgust. I flinched away.

"Let go of me," I backed away. The porcelain bowl was dragged off the table and shattered. "Get out, get out."

Julian lowered his hand, stood there in silence. His face was unreadable.

I didn't want to look at him, turned and walked into the room. The door closed with a finality that made me ache.

In the evening, he came again.

He stood outside the door, wanted to say something—I closed the door. The click echoed in the quiet.

I knew this wasn't the best solution. If I wanted to survive, I had to use my feelings while they still existed, not make him hate me. But I couldn't do it.

If I had to spend the rest of my life pleasing others just to survive, pretending nothing happened, pretending to be virtuous, being just one among many, vying for his favor, always on edge—I'd rather he kill me now. The thought chilled me.

But besides that, what else can I do?

I didn't know. My mind spun with possibilities, none of them good.

I had no answer. No one could tell me. I felt alone.

I hadn't spoken to Julian for a long time. The silence grew thick.

Sometimes he came to my door. I sat inside, saw him—he just stood under the porch, silent. The weight between us was unbearable.

This house was too big, now even quieter. Looking out, it seemed endless. The walls pressed in.

Sometimes, walking in the halls, I thought of years ago—my girlish days with Victoria. The memory was bittersweet.

Born here, died here. Victoria, when I told her, "I can only choose one between power and myself," she held my hand. Her touch was warm, her understanding complete.

She could understand my feelings, but I would never have Victoria again. The loss was sharp.

Once, I happened to see him—across house gates and endless roses. I stood far away, saw him come out of the hall. Ariana held his coat, walking behind him, looking up at him, smiling as she spoke.

Under the roses, Julian was tall—he had to lower his head slightly to listen to her. My heart twisted with jealousy and resignation.

She was so beautiful, so smart—it was no surprise she would become the heroine's biggest rival. I couldn't blame him.

I knew, even if Julian didn't love her, he would eventually get used to her presence. The thought stung.

I stood far from them, the scent of roses drifting across the courtyard. I breathed it in, feeling both longing and loss.