Severin wasn't stupid. The moment he realized he could fall asleep in the same room as Isolde—even without sex—he knew something was off. He had fucked countless women, and not a single one of them had ever made him fall asleep as Isolde did.
Severin always thought logically. There was no such thing as coincidence. His insomnia had gotten worse over time—relentless, unforgiving. His brain refused to relax, always on high alert. After nearly dying multiple times, Severin had trained himself to stay aware even with his eyes shut.
Isolde wasn't special. It didn't make sense that he could suddenly sleep soundly because of her. That wasn't logical. So he started looking for the real reason.
His first theory? Maybe he'd been drugged. But Severin never consumed anything carelessly. Then he wondered if Isolde had injected him with something—but no, that didn't hold either. Severin would've known. He was hypersensitive—even to the sound of movement. He would have noticed a needle piercing his skin.
It was also ridiculous to think he could sleep that well just because Isolde reminded him of his younger self, broken and at rock bottom. That alone wasn't enough. He wasn't naive. Isolde wasn't special just because she had a tragic past that echoed his own.
His suspicion shifted—away from Isolde herself and toward those around her. And the one constantly orbiting Isolde since her arrival at the entertainment house? His sister.
His half-sister. Same blood, different womb.
But Severin couldn't get Isolde out of his head. He couldn't stop himself from trying to solve the puzzle that was her. Everything fit too perfectly to be random. And he hated that.
He hated having his mind cluttered with questions about her.
So he pulled away. That's exactly what Lucien wanted, to get him hooked, tangled in a mystery he couldn't ignore. That's why Lucien sent Isolde here and went out of his way to find a woman who looked like Renata. Why did he make sure her backstory mirrored Severin's own? To trigger something. To bait him. Severin could already see the direction this game was heading.
Lucien had given up trying to find Severin's weakness, so now he was trying to create one using Isolde.
Severin scoffed. What a fucking joke. If Lucien thought a woman like Isolde could become his weakness just because of a few shared traits, then he was a damn fool. Severin wasn't that weak. It wasn't that soft.
He didn't even blink when he killed his mother. Or when he slaughtered the rest of his family. Or when he murdered Renata, Lucien's little sister, with his own hands.
Severin would prove to Lucien that he couldn't be broken. That no matter how many times Lucien tried, he would fail again. He'd play the game. He'd go along with it. But in the end, Lucien would be left with nothing. Severin would never fall, no matter how carefully he crafted the plan or how many bodies were sacrificed to make it work.
Not by Lucien's hand. And not by Isolde's either. Lucien sent here the pretty little tool to do exactly that.
"Call Corvin. Tell him we've secured the eyes he wanted." That was the first thing out of Severin's mouth as he stepped out of the car and approached Malric and Ivan, who were both smoking.
"So," he added, cold eyes flicking between the two, "which one of you is ready to operate on Corvin's wife?"
Ivan raised both hands and shook his head. "It'd be an honor to help someone as high up as Mr. Corvin, but I'm sitting this one out. That man's obsessed with his wife, doesn't like her being touched by any other man. And I happen to like having my hands attached to my body."
Severin's gaze shifted to Malric, who blew smoke from her nose and gave a slight nod. No words were needed. Malric already knew the task was her. Ivan was right. Corvin wouldn't let a male doctor lay a hand on his wife. Malric was the only female doctor here.
"Oh, Severin," Malric said, stubbing her cigarette into the ashtray and glancing up. "There's something I need to talk to you about. Got time for a one-on-one in your office?"
Severin cleared his throat and walked ahead without answering. Malric turned to Ivan briefly, patted his shoulder, and then followed behind.
As they passed through the hallway, Severin headed straight for the elevator. But Malric's attention was yanked away by a loud crash from Room 429.
Instead of following Severin into the elevator, Malric veered toward the noise. Severin raised an eyebrow, clearly annoyed by the distraction. He stepped out and followed Malric, who was now shouting at the door.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!"
Malric's voice echoed down the hallway. Severin's brows drew together in irritation as he stepped closer to see what the chaos was about.
His jaw clenched when he saw Tiffara on the floor, whining in pain, blood trailing from a gash on her forehead.
Severin walked past Malric, approaching Tiffara. He tilted her chin up with two fingers, his cold grey eyes scanning the blood on her face.
"Why the fuck were you so careless? Your face is your fucking selling point. You should've known better than to let that pretty face get marked." He examined her forehead. The cut wasn't deep but would scar if not treated properly.
"She hit me with the candle. The glass from it cut my forehead." Tiffara said, crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks. Severin wasn't fucking stupid. He knew exactly how this happened. Tiffara brought this on herself.
He knew her too well: jealous, possessive, always attacking the women he slept with. She acted like she owned him just because he rarely treated her like shit. Because she brought him a profit, that was it.
His eyes slid to Isolde and then down to the floor, shards of broken glass and the remnants of a shattered candle, the same kind he'd used to torture her the first time he touched her. The kind that dripped hot wax and made her scream.
His gaze rose again, locking onto Isolde's bruised, battered face. Something in him flared—annoyance, maybe. Irritation that this woman had wormed her way into his life left him with too many questions.
Questions like how Lucien had found someone with a similar past. Questions like why she was the only one who could make him sleep. Questions Severin didn't want in his fucking head.
There is nothing special about this fucking woman, and Severin wasn't about to let Lucien's little plan succeed.
He raised his hand and slapped Isolde hard across the face, not for Tiffara's sake, but to vent the frustration that wouldn't stop gnawing at him. The same fucking frustration that came every time he caught himself wondering why the hell he could sleep so soundly around this cursed woman. It was a small, stupid thing, but it pissed him off. Severin didn't do "unexplained."
"Don't let something like this happen again, I don't like chaos over trivial shit." He turned on his heel, yanking Tiffara by the wrist as he approached Malric, still standing by the door.
"Treat her. Make sure the wound doesn't leave a scar." Severin glanced at Tiffara, who was smiling at him despite half her face being smeared in blood.
"Don't let this shit happen again, Tiffara. Don't start chaos over nonsense. If your face gets damaged, I'll have no choice but to replace you. Your value is in your beauty. If that's gone, then you're useless to me."
Severin wasn't bluffing. Tiffara's only value came from her pretty face and perfect body. If either got damaged, he wouldn't need her anymore. Dozens of other beautiful women lined up to take the spot of Severin's so-called favorite.
"I'll head to your office after treating Tiffara," Malric said, then left down the hall toward the underground storage area, where the medical supplies were stored.
Severin made his way back to his office, but his thoughts were still tangled, still stuck on the same goddamn question. Even after slapping Isolde, the irritation hadn't faded. That woman... ever since she showed up, his mind had been a fucking mess.
.
.
.
"Tiffara's wound is treated," Malric reported after entering Severin's office. The cut on her forehead is deeper than I expected. It'll likely leave a scar. But it's small. Once it heals, she can cover it with makeup or grow out her bangs."
She sat down in the empty chair across from Severin. "But that's not what I came here to talk about. I want to discuss you."
Severin raised an eyebrow. "Me?"
"Your condition has improved a lot. The dark circles under your eyes are fading. Have you managed to fix your sleep issues?" Malric studied his face. Just a month ago, Severin looked worn down, sharp stare or not, and exhaustion was written all over him. The dark bags under his eyes, the even shorter fuse... all signs of a man burning out from no rest.
"I'm glad you're finally managing your sleep," Malric continued. "Especially since you refused the sleeping meds I prescribed. I get it, you need to stay alert so no one stabs you in your damn sleep. But you're forgetting that lack of sleep can kill you too. Your body's exhausted, and instead of resting, you've been out there beating and killing people like a maniac."
She crossed her arms. "I'm saying this because I don't want you dead. If you die, I'm fucked. The cops will come for me next. You know how many corpses, and still-breathing humans. I've operated on illegally since I decided to work under you, Severin?"
Severin scoffed. "I'm not that easy to fucking kill. Is that all you wanted to say?"
He stood up as Malric gave a nod. The clock showed it was already past the entertainment house's opening. Tonight, both Tiffara and Isolde were supposed to be on stage, dancing like usual. After that, Severin would go to Isolde's room to fuck her, like he always did.
But not tonight. Tiffara's wounded forehead and Isolde's bruised, battered body made it impossible. Neither of them could perform. Isolde's absence didn't matter much, and she wasn't important to the business. But Tiffara? She brought in customers and cash. No, Tiffara meant a major loss in profit.
And Severin blamed Isolde for that, even though he knew damn well Tiffara had started the fight and Isolde had only defended herself.
There was no reason for Severin to take Isolde's side. She was just a prisoner here. He didn't go to the main hall to watch the dancers tonight. Instead, his feet carried him straight to Room 429. He opened the door without knocking.
Isolde needed to be punished for the money he lost today. Severin would hurt her, fuck her rough until she cried and begged. She was probably already shaking in fear, knowing exactly why he'd come.
But instead of seeing that familiar fear in her eyes, Severin was met with something else: defiance. That sharp fucking glare. Like she dared him to try. And it made his blood boil.
How fucking dare she. Did she forget her life was still in his hands?
Severin pulled out his folding knife and pressed it to her neck, the usual threat, expecting her to flinch, to pale and shake like before. But this time, Isolde grabbed the blade and plunged it into her own throat.
Severin reacted on instinct, reaching to pull the knife back, but she shoved it in deeper, dragging it until it slipped from her neck and clattered to the floor.
Blood sprayed across Severin's face. His eyes widened in sheer panic as crimson poured from the wound. Isolde staggered backward and collapsed, and Severin stood frozen, watching her bleed all over her clothes, all over the fucking floor.
Fuck. He hadn't expected her to go this far.
He should've backed off. He should've let her bleed out. Let her fucking die. But his body moved on its own, his hands clamped down on her throat, trying to stop the blood.
What the hell was he doing?
What was the value of this dying woman that made him, Severin, kneel in front of her, screaming at her to stay awake, begging her not to die?
Was it because of what Malric said? Because she was the reason he could finally sleep without pills? Because Severin didn't want that pounding in his skull to return?
No. That wasn't enough. Sleep wasn't a good enough reason for Severin to be on the floor, screaming for Nikhael and calling him to help carry this woman to Malric so she could be treated.
Even as he pressed down on her wound, Severin's mind was racing, questioning the one thing he couldn't fucking understand.
Why the hell was he saving her?
This woman he'd wanted dead from the start. This woman he'd broken, tortured, tormented, pushing her until she'd snap and end her own life. And now she'd done it. And he was trying to stop it.
Was it that fucking miserable face of hers?
Why was Severin so furious?
Was it her past? Was it because she reminded him of himself?
Severin looked down at Isolde's pale face, her skin drained of color from blood loss. Her eyes had the look of someone who just wanted to be free—the same look Severin once saw in the mirror, staring back at him when he was thirteen.
Back when he wished he hadn't been born, just because his father never acknowledged him. Back when he wished he'd been born from the woman his father loved, maybe he'd be treated the way his father treated his two other kids.
Back when he was worn out from training with his father's men training, that was just an excuse to beat him because they couldn't lay a hand on his father, so they took it out on the boy who looked just like him.
Every time his father punished his men, they paid Severin back in bruises. And his father looked the other way. Even when his body was covered in cuts and bruises, he didn't give a damn.
But his two siblings, his father's favorites, the ones born from the woman he adored, they couldn't even get a fucking scratch without the whole house going on lockdown.
That look in Isolde's eyes was exactly how Severin had looked before he met fear and before his fury became a fire that wouldn't stop burning.
She couldn't die like this. Not like this, pathetically, after having her body and soul torn apart. The pain she'd been through should've made her stronger like him.
She didn't get to die before punishing this fucked-up world. Severin hated people who just sat and whined about fate instead of clawing their way out of it. And that's what she was doing now, giving up.
Severin had gone through worse. And he stood tall. He fucking destroyed anything that got in his way.
Isolde had no excuse. She couldn't be weak. Severin despised weakness. She needed to live.
That was all that echoed in his head as he ran through the underground halls, carrying her unconscious, blood-soaked body in his arms. He burst into the operating room, shouting Malric's name.
Malric, who'd been examining a corpse, jumped when she saw Severin and Nikhael barging in with Isolde in their arms, dripping in blood.
"W-What the hell happened?" Malric asked as Severin laid her down on the patient's bed. "Did you kill her? Are you asking me to harvest—"
Before he could finish that sentence, Severin had a gun pointed straight at his head. That same blood-covered hand now gripped a firearm like it was the only thing anchoring him, eyes blazing with fury.
"SAVE HER!"
Malric rushed to the bed, checking over Isolde's vitals. Her eyebrows shot up.
"She's not breathing," he muttered—loud enough for Severin to hear. And immediately, the cold metal of the gun was pressed against his forehead.
Malric met Severin's eyes. His jaw was clenched, eyes bloodshot. And the hand holding that gun... was it shaking?
When Malric looked closer, he saw Severin's lips move. A threat. Low. Clear. And fucking serious.
"If this bitch dies, I swear to fucking God I'll kill you too, Malric. Right here, right now. If you can't save her, I'll blow your fucking head open." Severin growled, his voice low and lethal, making Malric snap her focus back to Isolde.
Her gloved hands trembled something that had never happened before, not even during illegal surgeries or under pressure. But this was different. This was Severin.
Severin only lowered the gun from Malric's head once Malric managed to stabilize Isolde. She was still unconscious, barely hanging on, having lost too much blood. She needed a transfusion and fast.
Fuck it—Severin didn't care if she didn't wake up right now.
What mattered was—she didn't die.
Isolde wasn't dead. Not yet.
She could die later. But only when the time was right. Only when Severin gave her permission to.
…