If Butler Enrod hadn't knocked, I might still be sitting here, staring blankly into space.
"Madam," he called through the door, "the Old Madam asks that you come down for dinner."
I let out a long sigh and glanced toward the window. Night had fallen—so late already? Knowing Butler Enrod was waiting, I forced myself off the bed and stepped into the corridor. His worried eyes followed every step.
"Are you all right, Madam?" he asked suddenly.
I only nodded and started for the staircase.
"Please don't mind what Sire said earlier," he continued in a near whisper. "He is… always that way."
A soft laugh slipped out. Why is Butler Enrod defending Zion to me, as if the man needs an advocate?
"It's fine, Butler. I should've behaved myself," I answered, adopting a serious tone as we descended.
Inside the dining hall I found Mama already seated beside Father-in-law. Zion's chair, at the far end, sat empty.
"You're finally here, dear!" Mama greeted, her voice bright.
I smiled back and took my place opposite them. Though Father-in-law is Zion's father, everyone treats Zion as the new head of the Cartridge clan. Traditions, I suppose.
"Drink my homemade soup, dear!" Mama said, sliding a bowl toward me—steaming chicken soup, by the look.
I stared, speechless for a heartbeat.
Father-in-law gave a gentle nod, so I accepted the bowl. "Thank you, Mama," I murmured, lifting it to inhale the aroma. Definite chicken. Figures—chicken soup.
Just then the doors opened again and Mama lit up. "Good thing you're finally here, son! I expected you earlier."
"I had an important meeting, Mom," Zion replied.
Uneasy, I glanced at him—and caught him staring back. His expression was unreadable as he sat at the table's head: Mama and Father-in-law on his right, me alone on his left, facing them.
While his eyes remained on me, I bowed over the bowl, cheeks burning. Zion's frown deepened; then he addressed his parents.
"Did you make that soup, Mom?"
Mama beamed. "Yes! I tried once before and failed, so today I asked your talented chefs for guidance."
"Those chefs flatter your mother," Father-in-law added, chuckling. "Her skills have finally improved."
Zion said nothing, brow still knit.
Mama cleared her throat and turned to me. "Dear, try my soup first. I made that bowl specially for you."
Sweet Mama—so unlike her son, conceived, apparently, during a storm of bad manners.
"Mom, she's allergic to chicken," Zion announced.
I stared at him, shocked; his face had darkened in my direction.
"Really, dear? Why didn't you tell me?" Mama's voice trembled with regret. "I'd have cooked beef instead!"
Guilt pricked me. I should have warned her—though this isn't my true body, I still don't know whether Mrs. Cartridge shares my real allergies.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," Father-in-law said. "I brought plenty of allergy medicine for our granddaughter."
Granddaughter? The word rang a bell; he'd mentioned it when I first arrived.
Mama huffed. "If Gelo weren't your cousin, I'd keep that child away from you. Imagine—a three-year-old who clings to you like glue!"
Father-in-law scratched his neck, embarrassed, and dispatched Butler Enrod for the medicine. The butler soon returned with a large glass of water, which he set before me. Without a word I swallowed the tablet—best to get it over with—and took a deep sip.
"Now, taste my soup!" Mama urged.
I dipped the spoon, blew gently, and brought it to my mouth. The chicken flavor was strong… but another taste dominated: an odd, numbing saltiness. I nearly coughed, grabbed my water, and gulped.
"Well?" Mama's hopeful eyes glittered.
I exhaled and looked around the table, finally meeting her gaze. She seemed so eager, so triumphant.
"It's delicious, Mama," I lied.
Across from her, Father-in-law gave a subtle shake of his head when Mama wasn't looking—urging me to maintain the little deception.
"See, Zion?" Mama crowed, swatting her husband's arm. "My special soup is delicious!"
"Yes, sweetheart, I heard," Father-in-law laughed. "Then eat more of it, Ally."
Tears of desperation threatened: more? The broth was practically brine!
"O-of course, F-Father-in-law," I stammered, cheeks aflame. What should I even call him? Sensing my confusion, he waved a hand.
"Just call me what you call your mother-in-law."
Mama clapped. "Say it, dear Ally!"
I inhaled, resigned. "…P-Papa," I managed.
Mama and Papa burst into hearty laughter. Zion, silent at the end, remained visibly tense, eyes flicking now and then to my bowl. I scowled and nudged the soup closer to myself—he wasn't stealing it, salty or not.
Remembering the etiquette Butler Enrod once explained—no idle chatter during family meals—I focused on finishing that wretched soup first, so Mama wouldn't wonder why I ignored it later. Plenty of exquisite dishes lay within reach, yet my appetite had drowned in saline chicken stock.
Through it all Mama kept smiling at me, then at Zion, who eventually sampled his own portion of her soup. I hadn't noticed she'd served him, too. Brave soul.
Dinner ended in silence. Zion finished first and rose; I followed a moment later while Mama and Papa exchanged meaningful glances, as though plotting. I pretended not to see, excused myself, and climbed the stairs to… our room.
Zion was nowhere inside when I entered, but a wave of heat struck me. I frowned— the air-conditioning was on, yet the temperature felt tropical. I grabbed the remote from the bedside table and cranked the setting lower.
"Why is it so hot?" I muttered, fanning myself. Sweat beaded on my skin as I paced before the vent. The heat only worsened, a strange, restless fire under my flesh. Fighting for breath, I tugged at my collar, then peeled off my shirt entirely.
The door banged open. I whirled. Zion stood there, chest heaving, sweat dotting his brow.
"What are you doing?" he snarled, but I ignored him, focusing on the useless air-con.
He shut the door and I felt his stare. Something inside me coiled and burned—an unfamiliar urge demanding release. Zion loosened his tie, panting harder, perspiration flowing. He shook his head, turned, and tried the doorknob again. Locked. He pounded the wood three times.
"Damn it!" he cursed.
I couldn't bear the fever anymore. Stripping off the rest of my clothing, I crossed to him, senses spinning. His throat bobbed as his eyes fixed on me; he shut them, muttering under his breath.
"P-please… h-help me," I begged, voice ragged. "I-I'm so… hot."
Reason vanished. I reached up, looped my arms around his neck, and pulled him close. His hands gripped my shoulders, the curse on his lips fading as I pressed my mouth to his, desperate for relief, clinging as though only his touch could cool the blaze roaring inside me.