Patrick made his way to his bedroom, carrying Nasai as if she were the most delicate object to ever exist on the face of the earth. He held her so close that his heart quickened with every breath he took, inhaling her scent. That peculiar scent—so familiar, so known, so deeply desired.

  Upon reaching his room, he gently placed her on the bed without much effort. He moved to remove her mask but hesitated, instead brushing a few stray strands of hair to the side of her face. Finally, he withdrew in complete silence, taking a seat on the sofa opposite the bed.

  At the same time, Vincent stepped through the doorway leading to the bright, white room where Yuna had previously awakened. She was regaining consciousness, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment at being carried like a princess.

  “You can put me down,” she said, her voice shaky.

  “You’re not in any condition—”

  “There’s no need for you to keep carrying me. I can manage on my own,” she cut him off abruptly, her tone firm.

  “As you wish…” Vincent replied, irritated, as he let her drop to the floor, causing her to land hard on her tailbone.

  “That wasn’t necessary!” Yuna yelled, standing up while rubbing her sore backside.

  “I wouldn’t call that throwing you. I simply let you go,” he corrected, adjusting his jacket and running a hand through the rebellious strands of his hair. “Your endless insistence made it clear you had enough strength to stand on your own.”

  “No one asked for your help.”

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  “That’s not how I remember it…” he quipped playfully, a hidden smile tugging at his lips, making Yuna’s cheeks flush crimson.

  And it was true—at those moments when she thought all hope was lost, one of the few people she could think of was him. She hoped, just as he had last time, he would appear with his coppery hair and deep olive eyes to save her from disaster.

  “Besides, you should be grateful. Carrying you is exhausting,” he teased, rubbing his shoulders as if to ease imaginary tension.

  “I don’t care,” she muttered, trying to hide the blush creeping up her face. “Where’s the exit?”

  “You’re more scatterbrained than I thought,” Vincent remarked more seriously. “Aren’t you going to ask about your sister?”

  “Nasai…? Where is she?”

  “She’s safe, here in the mansion. But she’s weak. I doubt she’ll wake up anytime soon.”

  “We’re going home…”

  “You can’t,” he interrupted her with sudden gravity.

  Meanwhile, in the youngest Dokovic’s room, Patrick sat in conflict, unsure of the cause. Even though part of him longed to discover the identity of the woman lying in his bed, another part resisted removing her mask. But he needed to know—he had to confirm whether that peculiar, familiar scent belonged to her.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, it was true. Maybe what his eyes had seen on that snowy night wasn’t just a dream. That beautiful girl with dark skin, holding a black umbrella and wearing a linen dress with floral patterns—was she real? Whatever she was, Patrick had to be certain.

  He rose from the gothic-style sofa and approached the bed where Nasai lay. As his hand moved closer to her mask, Annie was crossing the hallway, heading to the grand sitting room where Ronnie awaited.

  “That look—is it because of Patrick?” Ronnie asked, noticing the sorrow etched across her face.

  “…You’ve known Patrick longer than I have,” Annie said as she walked into the room, taking a seat on the sofa next to Ronnie’s. “Do you know what happened to him? The real story?”

  Ronnie’s usual playful expression vanished in an instant. His breathing slowed, and he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

  “I can tell you,” he said slowly, as though the memories still haunted him, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. “But you’re not going to like what you hear…”