But Wasn't I Dead?

Selena's POV

I don't know how long had passed. Maybe a few hours, maybe a day.

A man's voice sounded beside my ear. Somewhat sorrowful.

"It shouldn't have come to this."

Damian Cross. I recognized him.

"Sir, at the time Mr. Windsor signed the involuntary commitment order, legally we had no grounds to intervene..." This was another voice, probably his assistant.

"I should have found grounds." Damian's voice carried deep self-reproach. "Her mother entrusted her to me, asked me to look after this child. I didn't fulfill my responsibility. If I had intervened three months earlier, she wouldn't have been sent to that place. Today's incident wouldn't have happened."

My mother, at some moment I didn't know about, had entrusted me to this man?

But he was just a lawyer—what right did he have to say that if he had intervened, I wouldn't have been sent to that terrible sanatorium, wouldn't have died miserably? Who exactly was he?

I used all my strength to open my eyes.

Every breath through my throat felt like being cut by a knife. But I had to speak.

"Mr... Cross..."

Footsteps approached urgently. A shadow leaned down, and Damian Cross appeared in my field of vision above me.

"Miss Windsor?"

The light behind him was so bright it whitened my vision. I couldn't see much, only his lowered brow and eyes, brown hair disheveled from the fire's smoke, gray eyes as deep as the sea before a storm.

"Don't speak." He leaned closer, almost whispering, "You're badly injured."

No, I couldn't stay silent.

If I shut up now, there would never be another chance. I struggled to keep my eyes open, my throat producing muffled, breathy sounds.

He immediately bent down, bringing his ear close to my lips. I smelled the faint scent of smoke on him, and a crisp fragrance like fir trees. That scent reminded me of the air outside the sea of fire, but I could no longer reach it.

"It was Vera... Lillian..."

Every word was like being dragged from a wound.

"Who harmed me..."

Please hear clearly, please believe me.

"My mother... too..."

The hospital room was terrifyingly quiet.

The sound of the machines beat against my eardrums, as if counting down my life.

"Miss Windsor." In his gray eyes, shock and some deeper emotion churned. "I heard you."

I could only look at him, using the last bit of consciousness to squeeze two words from my lips:

"Please..."

Blood foam surged from the corner of my mouth, my vision beginning to scatter. I tried to reach for his suit sleeve, the last piece of driftwood a drowning person wanted to grasp.

Damian gently held my ice-cold fingertips.

Then I heard him say in my ear:

"What you've entrusted to me, I will certainly do."

This sentence was clear, solemn, like a contract carved into the soul.

The white ceiling began to spin, I closed my eyes and completely fell into darkness.

In that instant, all the pain receded like a tide.

The world became incredibly quiet. I thought I must be dead, falling into a vast white fog.

Was this heaven? Would I see Mom? I really missed Mom.

Would Mom forgive my ignorance and willfulness?

I called to her in the depths of my soul.

Mom, I want to go back to before.

The moment this thought formed, the surrounding white fog suddenly churned and tore apart. That peace no longer existed. A huge, irresistible force grabbed me, violently pulling me from the void, falling downward!

Endless falling. I don't know how long passed before my body crashed heavily onto something soft.

Beneath me were silk sheets, the air carried the fragrance of lilies.

I opened my eyes.

My vision was initially blurred, gradually focusing. An ivory-white ceiling, crystal chandelier, pale gold curtains. Sunlight leaked through the gauze curtain gaps, falling on the carpet at the foot of the bed like scattered gold.

I recognized this as my room, on the second floor of the Windsor mansion.

This dream was far too real.

This wasn't a hospital. There was no smell of disinfectant, no steady beeping of monitors, and no trace of that belated warmth when Damian Cross had held my fingers.

Just as I thought this was merely a beautiful illusion after death and prepared to close my eyes to continue sleeping, a gentle voice sounded beside my ear.

"Miss, you're finally awake."

I froze. This voice didn't sound like an echo in a dream—it was real, clear, carrying the warmth of concern.

I slowly turned my head.

The maid Anna was leaning over me, her face full of worry. "Did you not sleep well again last night? Mrs. Windsor said there's a very important dinner party tonight and asked me to remind you to prepare early."

Dinner party.

I hesitantly looked at the nightstand, where a silver-edged calendar sat.

The date was clearly printed: Thursday, June 14, 2018. The third day after my sixteenth birthday.

My breathing suddenly stopped.

This day, I remembered this day.

This was the day Vera first officially pushed Lillian into high society. It was also the first time I lost control in front of everyone, the beginning of being deemed "absurdly rude" by all.

But wasn't I dead?

I pinched my palm hard. It hurt. The clear pain made my whole body shudder.

Not a dream, or rather, the pain in dreams might dissipate, but memories wouldn't.

The burning in my lungs, the torn throat, every inch of skin kissed by fire, the light, cruel way Vera said "life has its accidents"—all were still carved into my bones.

I wasn't dreaming. I had come back.

I sat up abruptly.

Anna was startled by me: "Miss?"

I didn't answer her.

I threw off the covers and stepped barefoot onto the carpet. The soft wool wrapped around the soles of my feet, so real it made my scalp tingle. I walked step by step to the full-length mirror.

The girl in the mirror was also looking at me.

Her face was covered with heavy makeup. Eye shadow so garish it looked like she'd been punched, blush applied like a clown in a farce, lips a glaring red. The pink nightgown she wore was piled with lace and bows, childish and cheap.

This was me, sixteen-year-old Selena Windsor. Also the "rebellious teenager" Vera had carefully crafted.

She made me believe that this was youth, this was freedom, this was being different.

She taught me to wear the most unsuitable clothes, apply the most unsuitable makeup, appear at occasions requiring the most decorum, then stand gently beside me and tell everyone:

"Selena is just young."

In my past life, I actually mistook this indulgence for love.

I looked at myself in the mirror and suddenly smiled.

The smile had just reached my lips when tears fell first.

Anna stood behind me, asking cautiously: "Miss, are you alright? Should I call Madam?"

"No."

My voice was so cold even I found it unfamiliar.

Anna was stunned.

I picked up a makeup remover pad and wiped forcefully across my face.

Black eye shadow was smeared, leaving dirty traces on the white cotton.

That foundation, eye shadow, lipstick—layer by layer being wiped away.

The girl in the mirror gradually revealed her original face. Fair skin, delicate features, blue-green eyes especially bright from having just cried.

That wasn't a hopeless waste. That was Eleonora Windsor's daughter.

Mom, I've come back. In that white fog, I made a wish to return to before, wanting to return to a before that had you.

Sixteen years old—this point in time, though regrettable.

But if this was the opportunity you gave me, Mom, I wouldn't waste it again.

My phone buzzed. A text from Lillian.

"Selena, are you awake? I'm so nervous about tonight. It's my first time attending this kind of dinner party. You have to stay with me, okay?"

Followed by a sickeningly sweet heart emoji.

I stared at that line of text, my fingertips slowly tightening.

In my past life, this was how she walked to my side step by step, linking her arm with mine. Then in places no one could see, she pushed me toward the abyss.

And tonight was the first step.

There was one hour left until that dinner party.