Chapter 6 Reaping What One Has Sown

A hammering, splitting agony pulsed inside her head, sharp throbs hammering at her temples nonstop.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the infirmary seared her eyes, and every sound blurred, drifting far away as if through thick fog.

"Stand straight! Don't put on that weak act!"

Brian's voice echoed as though from miles off. He reached out, snatched Serena's arm, and hauled her roughly away from the metal cabinet.

Her body went limp as cotton from the fever; the sudden tug sent her stumbling forward, teetering toward the floor.

"Serena!"

Albert instinctively stretched out his arms to catch her, but another pair of hands moved far faster.

The infirmary door swung open from outside, and a tall, lean figure strode in, catching Serena's collapsing weight steady against his chest.

Serena's burning forehead pressed into the man's shirt, his fabric scalding beneath her overheated skin.

"Her own brothers?"

The man's deep voice rumbled, edged with restrained anger. "Can none of you see she's burning with fever, her skin flushed bright red?"

Serena's consciousness drifted in a hazy half-stupor.

That voice unlocked a sealed compartment deep in her memories—Silas Fitzalan.

One of only two people who'd ever shown her genuine kindness in her past life.

Silas worked as the school physician back then too. He'd defended her countless times on campus, only to be crushed by the Seymour family afterward: his medical license revoked, him driven out of Riverton City without a trace.

The other soul who'd stood by her was an elusive, reclusive figure in the figure skating world she'd never met face-to-face. When the plagiarism scandal ruined her reputation, he'd spoken up publicly to defend her—only for the Seymours to destroy his career entirely, dragging his name through the mud until he was disgraced beyond repair.

The second Silas's voice registered, a dull ache pierced Serena's numb heart, and her eyes stung hot.

She shed her very first tear since rebirth.

Silas lifted her gently into his arms and carried her horizontally to the examination cot.

He pressed a palm to her forehead, his brows knitting tight at the blazing heat beneath his fingers.

Her temperature was easily 103.64 degrees Fahrenheit.

Serena weighed almost nothing. Standing five feet five inches tall, she felt feather-light in his hold.

Hypoglycemia, compounded by years of untreated old sports injuries from relentless figure skating training—her body had been pushed far past its breaking point.

Silas turned, his gaze dark and heavy as it swept over Albert and Brian.

"Her fever hits 103.64 ℉, the scalp laceration is infected and inflamed, and she's collapsed from severe hypoglycemia." His eyes narrowed sharply. "None of these wounds appeared today. How could neither of her elder brothers notice a single thing wrong?"

Albert's features froze for a split second before hardening again. "Our family doctor examined her at home. He never mentioned such severe complications. Are you some actor Serena hired to stage this scene?"

"An actor?" Silas let out a cold, mocking huff. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his white coat, tapped open a video, and held the screen out before Albert. "Then look closely at this footage for yourselves."

The phone displayed security camera footage from the school entrance.

Every frame captured the truth crystal clear: Serena never laid a single finger on Tina. The girl had thrown herself backward unprovoked.

Brian's face drained of color instantly.

Tina perched on the edge of the exam bed, her complexion turning ashen as the evidence threatened to unravel her lie.

"That's not what happened at all! I merely lost my balance. I never claimed Serena pushed me—I kept telling everyone I fell by my own clumsiness…"

"You never spoke the accusation aloud, that much is true." Silas slipped his phone away, his tone flat and unyielding as he looked at her. "But you deliberately positioned yourself in a blind spot of the cameras, threw yourself backward, and let your friends spin the false narrative for you."

"That's a lie!" Fresh tears burst from Tina's eyes. She twisted toward Albert and Brian, her whole frame shaking with sobs. "Albert, Brian, I swear I'd never do something so cruel to Serena—she's always been so kind to me, how could I frame her?"

Albert stared at Tina's tear-streaked, miserable face and stepped forward to pat her shoulder reassuringly.

"I believe you, Tina."

Brian recovered his bearings quickly, his brow furrowing with suspicion. "Tina has always been soft-hearted, she's incapable of such schemes. You, on the other hand—"

He shot a venomous glare at Silas. "You're merely a school doctor, yet you come out of nowhere to target Tina. What ulterior motive are you hiding?"

Silas ignored their accusations entirely. He laid out disinfectant supplies and fever-reducing medicine, leaning down to clean Serena's infected wound.

Even half-unconscious, Serena winced sharply in agony, her fingers curling tight around the hospital sheet beneath her.

"Bear with it," Silas murmured quietly. "The wound's infected. If we don't clear the contamination fully, you'll be left with a permanent scar."

Albert and Brian stood frozen mid-step, caught between staying and storming off.

A crowd of curious students had clustered by the doorway, craning their necks to peek inside, whispers growing louder by the second.

"Did everyone see the camera footage? Tina threw herself down on purpose, Serena never touched her."

"Good heavens—does that mean every other incident was all her own staged drama?"

"Shush, keep your voice down. Two of the Seymour brothers are still inside."

Albert's expression turned thunderously ugly. He grabbed Tina's wrist. "We're leaving."

Brian shot Silas one last venomous stare before following Albert out of the infirmary.

Tina let Albert lead her by the hand, hobbling slowly with her head bowed, putting on such a delicate, wounded display that the onlooking students wavered in their certainty once more.

Who was really telling the truth?

The door clicked shut behind them. Silas hung an IV drip beside the cot and noticed Serena's eyes fluttering faintly—she was stirring awake.

"They're gone now."

Serena blinked her eyes open, turning them toward him, too weak to utter a single word past her parched throat.

Silas pulled out a chair beside the bed and sat down, both hands tucked into the pockets of his lab coat. "You're teetering on dangerous fever levels. Is this body of yours even worth anything to you?"

"…Thank you, earlier." Serena tugged at her cracked, dry lips in a faint smile.

Silas clicked his tongue disapprovingly, his frown deepening. "Don't get that wound on your forehead wet for any reason. Rest properly for the next few days—no strenuous physical activity whatsoever."

At those words, Serena strained to push herself upright. "I can't stop. I have figure skating practice to attend."

"Figure skaters rely entirely on healthy ankles and lumbar spines. Your ankles are already overtaxed and damaged. No matter how much natural talent you possess, you won't last another two years if you keep abusing your body like this." Silas's expression remained calm, yet his tone softened almost imperceptibly.

Serena fell silent for a beat. She tilted her head, studying Silas with new confusion—how did he know so many private details about her life and training?