The Secret of That Man She Sees -4-
I struggled to open my eyes. Even in my unconsciousness, I'd been crying—my eyes were still damp. A sigh escaped me. Part frustration, part the heavy weight of my body.
"Haa."
The room reflected in my barely open eyes was dark. Still night, it seemed. I didn't want to get up. I had no idea how to face Ricardo now, what expression to wear. Should I plaster on a dumb smile like I knew nothing? Or hang my head and beg forgiveness with a sullen gaze?
I didn't know. What should I do? I had to apologize, but no clear answer came to mind.
So many things I wanted to ask. If he was okay, if it hurt. But face-to-face with Ricardo, the words would probably die in my throat.
What should I do? Me.
A choked feeling welled up again, wetting my eyes.
"Cough... cough..."
My throat was parched. Seasonal change, maybe—felt like a cold coming on. My head burned with fever, snot dripped, forehead hot. Feverish. My heart a mess. Everything unsettled me.
"Cough... cough..."
Reaching for water on the bedside table. My short arm just brushed the handle, not quite reaching. I rolled on the bed, trying to stretch slowly toward the cup.
Ugh... uuugh...
Couldn't reach. The cold sapped my strength fast. One more desperate stretch—still no dice. I pulled my hand back onto the bed.
Fine, I'll skip it. No one dies from missing one glass of water.
I closed my eyes, seeking sleep, when a warm touch settled on my forehead.
"Thirsty?"
A familiar voice. Warm, gentle. Olivia's eyes flew wide. The last voice she expected.
Dizzy from the cold, eyelids heavy with sleep—but the man before her was vivid. Red hair, awkward smile. Her butler. Ricardo.
His hand on her forehead. One on his own, the other on her feverish brow, pondering deeply. Their eyes met, and he gave a small smile.
No telling how long he'd been there, but the bucket of ice water and wet cloth beside him said hours.
"...Ghost?"
Ricardo poured a glass from the table and offered it. Supporting her waist with one hand, helping her sit up familiarly. She bowed her head.
"No ghost. Handsome butler."
Words wouldn't come. She'd rehearsed apologies in the blue window's illusion. But seeing him now, her mind went blank as a fresh sheet.
"Awake now?"
"..."
She took the cup carefully. Its chill cooled her fever, easing her heavy heart a bit.
"Gulp... gulp..."
Ricardo watched her drink, then flashed an awkward smile.
"If you're hurting, just say so. Gave me a scare."
"..."
"Forehead like fire, crying in your sleep. Quite the shock."
"..."
Ricardo fussed. Say when you're sick. He'd been nursing her since late evening, it seemed. Up all night by her side.
Sorry. But defiance rose too. He never said when he hurt.
Gripping the cup, she grumbled curtly.
"Not sick."
Ricardo let out a hollow laugh. Dipped the warm cloth in ice water, muttering, "Thought you'd burned your hand, but sure, not sick." Wringing it out.
"Then why groan like that? Can't even drink water."
"Nightmare."
"Nightmare?"
He pondered, chin in hand, then smiled faintly.
"Dreamed Mikhail dumped you again?"
Urk! She snatched the cloth from her forehead. Raised it to hurl as usual—but that scene flashed in her mind. She stopped.
Ricardo eyed her with worry. Her odd behavior felt awkward, and she looked so sick.
Butler with zero acting talent.
Silence stretched. He swapped the cloth tirelessly; she surrendered to his touch.
4 a.m. Deepest night, sleep heaviest.
To Ricardo checking her fever:
"Go."
"Pardon?"
"Go. You're sleepy."
"Not sleepy."
As if. Dark circles to his cheeks, head nodding, slapping his face to stay awake—I saw it.
And it was awkward.
Brief silence filled the room. He gauged her face; sharing space felt off. No words came. Hard to start. Apologizing out of nowhere felt wrong.
Ricardo wrung the cloth again. Quietly changing it, he murmured casually.
"Miss."
"Yeah?"
"That..."
He trailed off. Long sigh, head bowed.
"Sorry."
"Huh?"
Straightforward apology. Her heart wavered. Why him apologizing? She should.
Seeing her confusion, he calmly confessed.
"Your hand."
"..."
"Wasn't hiding on purpose..."
About his hand's secret. She hadn't expected him to bring it up first.
She slipped her hand under the covers, clutching her nightgown. Anxious. What would he say? Dread like being trapped.
If he mentioned that day—she couldn't handle it.
He spoke, somewhat flatly.
"Hid it so you wouldn't worry. Scar's ugly, as you saw..."
"It's healed, no need to fret, but it looks hideous, haha... Planned to tell you once it faded."
Excuses. She spotted the lie easily amid truth. He did consider her feelings—that was real. Fully healed? Lie.
To her, who now knew all secrets, his words stabbed like a dagger.
Her voice sharp, cold, laced with injustice.
"Can't I worry...?"
"Pardon?"
His startled reaction. She pressed.
"Can't I worry? I worry fine."
He shook his head.
"Worrying's my job."
Firm. She shook hers.
"No such thing."
Emotions rising.
"Where's that fair? Say when you're hurt, when you're injured—you can't?"
Her heart ached. Knowing she couldn't bear it, defiance made her lash out.
"You promised to tell."
He bowed his head.
"Sorry."
Thoughts flooded. How much he'd resented her, facing death that day. What he felt seeing her sob for Mikhail. Disillusion, probably. Deeper she thought, heavier her heart.
Wanted to shut her mouth for saying too much, but the twitching unease wouldn't settle.
Head drooped. Couldn't face him straight.
"Miss."
Ricardo's voice... This time, the butler's kind tone, folding the cloth neatly onto her hot forehead, carried softly on the dark dawn breeze.
The butler said,
"That mad?"
She stared wordlessly. His face looked pained. Guilt-ridden gaze down at her—tears threatened.
She gripped her nightgown under the covers.
Why look at me like that?
Why you with that face? Wanted to ask. Hurt more instead.
Ricardo grasped her hidden hand. His callused, scar-free palm enveloped hers warmly.
"My fault."
His monologue continued.
"I get it. Upset, betrayed. I'd feel it too."
Like confessing to a priest, fiddling her hand, spilling one by one.
"But... didn't want to show it. Not a pretty scar... What if it haunts your dreams?"
Fist clenched. It's my scar. From me. Wanted to shout—but fear froze her.
What if he hated her after truth? Now exposed. "Miss, I hate you. Should've let me die." Selfish dread weighed her lips.
She'd pondered hundreds of times. How to apologize. Not the word—how to say sorry.
No answer after endless thought.
Ricardo to her:
"Miss. This scar."
Her hand tensed. What dagger would his words become?
Deep sigh, reluctant words. Selfishly terrifying.
"Dungeon injury."
Small smile.
"Actually, from last dungeon trip..."
"What did you say...?"
Tears surged.
Why... why that face again?
"Why lie?"
You know.
"Why. Lie?"
You remember.
Not me, the fool who forgot. You... you remember that day.
How can you say that?
"Why are you lying?"
Ricardo smiled awkwardly, embarrassed.
"Sorry. Hid it as a tattoo..."
Rage burst.
"That arm...!"
Voice trembled.
"That arm. It..."
Words failed. Too shaky. Terrified.
But this suffocating heart—if unspoken, she'd crumble.
"I did it..."
Sobs wracked her. Tears streamed foolishly down her cheeks.
Ricardo smiled awkwardly.
"You knew?"
Gripping her hand tight.
"It's okay."