Chapter 3: I can cure you

“Seems you’re finally understanding your place here. Good girl. Make the bath perfect—I’m looking forward to it.” Isolde’s lips curved into a triumphant smile as she turned to leave.

I held my own smile, wider, sharper, and far more enigmatic. “I hope you’ll still be smiling later, Isolde.”

The servant beside me looked unsettled. “Madam, should I handle it instead?” she asked nervously, clearly noticing the strange glint in my eyes.

“No,” I said, rubbing my palms together as a grin tugged at my lips. “I’ll prepare the rose bath myself—for my beloved husband and his mistress.”

The poor woman looked confused. Normally, whenever Alina had done this, she was bitter and resentful. Why was I smiling? Why was I eager? She couldn’t possibly understand.

I set to work, carefully preparing the bathwater. When I entered the lavish bathroom, Isolde was already waiting, wrapped in smugness and false innocence. Her wide, doe-like eyes blinked at me.

“Alina, I’m used to being attended when I bathe. Can you stay and serve me?” she asked softly, like a lamb pretending not to be a snake.

“Of course,” I said sweetly, far too quickly.

Her expression relaxed into satisfaction, as though she’d just won a battle. Dropping the mask, her voice hardened into arrogance. “See, Alina? If you had accepted your place earlier, things would be much smoother for you. But don’t fool yourself. You won’t hold onto the title of Mrs. Blackwood for long. This house will eventually belong to me. Damian deserves only the best—and that’s me.”

She stripped, tossing her clothes at my feet like I was her servant. “Hand wash those,” she ordered.

Her arrogance was unbearable. She stepped into the bath with her usual smugness—until she shrieked. “Ahh!”

Her foot shot out of the water, shards of glass piercing her pale skin. Red streaks trailed down her ankle. The bathtub I’d prepared was filled not only with rose petals and steaming water, but also broken glass, hidden beneath the surface.

“You bitch!” she hissed, her face flushing scarlet. “You did this on purpose!” She raised her hand to slap me across the face.

But I caught her wrist mid-air, my grip unshakable. “Listen carefully, Isolde. Maybe I don’t know if I can hold this position forever—but as long as I’m alive, you’ll never take it from me. Don’t push me. I’m not the weak little fool you think I am. If you’re not afraid of death, try me.”

I released her hand, hooked her discarded clothing with my foot, and flung it straight into the toilet bowl. Her furious gasp filled the room.

Before she could strike back, voices and footsteps echoed outside the door. Quickly, her eyes glimmered with malicious glee. She grabbed my arm and deliberately threw herself backward, crashing to the ground as though I had shoved her.

Her cries rang out just as the door opened. “Damian! Alina pushed me! Why are you torturing me like this? What did I ever do wrong?”

I stood frozen as Damian stormed in, his dark eyes taking in the sight—Isolde on the floor, crying pitifully, the bathtub filled with dirty sludge and shards of glass, and me standing above her.

“God, Alina!” His voice roared like thunder. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you a witch? Haven’t you done enough?”

I looked him dead in the eye. “How long will you keep falling for her nonsense, Damian? Aren’t you supposed to be a genius?”

His jaw tightened, his contempt palpable. “You still don’t learn. Since you like your little games so much, why don’t you try one yourself?”

He seized my wrist and hurled me into the filthy bath.

The water was scalding, thick with mud, and littered with glass. I plunged beneath the surface, choking as foul water rushed into my nose and mouth. Sharp edges tore at my skin, blood seeping into the water until it swirled red around me, petals drifting like mockery.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry out.

When I resurfaced, gasping, Damian’s eyes flickered with something—surprise, maybe unease. He had expected me to collapse like Isolde.

Instead, I lunged forward, grabbed his collar, and yanked him into the tub with me.

He stumbled, crashing down, his body colliding with mine in the cramped space. His knees pressed between my legs, his hands braced on either side of me, and his lips brushed my forehead. The heat of the water clung to my soaked clothes, outlining every curve of my body.

The moment froze between us, hot and unbearable.

From the corner, Isolde’s jealous gasp cut through the haze. Her eyes burned red, her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. Then, with a pitiful moan, she collapsed backward in a faint.

“Isolde!” Damian jolted, tearing himself away from me. He scooped her up—her foot barely injured, her act flawless—and rushed out, leaving me dripping and bleeding in the tub.

I pushed myself up, my body stinging with cuts, and climbed out. Calmly, I rinsed my wounds, dressed, and left the bathroom without a backward glance.

Maribel’s gasp met me in the hall. “Madam, you’re hurt!” She hurried me onto a sofa, gently cleaning the bloody scratches. Her hands shook slightly as she dabbed the medicine.

“You seem distracted, Maribel,” I murmured, watching her face. “Haven’t been resting well?”

She sighed, her expression weary. “Lately I’ve been waking constantly, plagued by dreams. The medicine isn’t helping. Maybe I’m just getting old.”

I slipped a delicate vintage pocket watch from around my neck, letting it dangle between my fingers. “I can help you.”

Her eyes followed the steady swing of the watch as my voice softened. “Maribel, your eyes are heavy. You’re growing sleepy. Very sleepy.”

Her lids fluttered. The tension in her shoulders eased. “Next,” I whispered, “you’ll sleep soundly. No more bad dreams. Only peace.”

Within moments, she was breathing deeply, fast asleep. I tucked the watch away, exhaling slowly. Good people deserved kindness—even in this hell.

But just as I turned to leave, I spotted Isolde entering Damian’s room with a vial of sleeping pills in her hand. My brows furrowed.

“What’s she doing with those?” I asked a passing servant.

“Madam,” the servant whispered, “the master suffers from severe insomnia. He hasn’t slept in seven days. Doctors say if this continues, his life could be at risk. But no medicine works. They claim only Master Cole, the famous hypnotist, could cure him. But… the master despises anyone with the surname Cole, so he refuses help.”

My lips curved bitterly. Damian Blackwood—ruthless, powerful, untouchable—and yet sleepless, helpless. He could tear me apart without hesitation, but in the end, he was just another prisoner of his own mind.

“Damian,” I whispered under my breath, “you don’t know how lucky you are. I don’t use my hypnosis easily.”

But tonight, I decided, I would.

I strode into his room, leaning against the doorway, arms folded, a yawn tugging at my lips. “Severe insomnia can’t be cured with sleeping pills.”

Damian sat slouched in an armchair, exhaustion etched into his features, the air around him heavy with gloom. “Get out,” he growled.

Isolde shot me a glare, her voice shrill. “Alina, stop making a scene! He needs rest!”

I ignored her completely. My eyes stayed on him. “I can cure your sleep disorder.”

His face darkened, skepticism and anger flashing in his gaze.

“Alina…” he warned, his voice like steel. “For your own good, you’d better not be lying to me.”

I tilted my head, smirking. “And what if I can do it? What do I get in return?”