Transmigration: The Tyrant General Can Hear My Thoughts-Chapter 53 - Fifty Two

A full week had passed since the incident with the snake in the white gazebo.

The dark atmosphere inside the Benson mansion had shifted slightly. The servants were still very careful and quiet, walking on their tiptoes whenever they passed the master bedroom. But the immediate, suffocating fear of execution had slowly faded away. They were settling into a new, careful routine without Mrs. Ida’s strict commands.

Damon’s left leg had healed with incredible, almost unnatural speed. The military doctors were amazed. The thick white bandages were completely gone, replaced by a simple, tight wrapping of brown cloth for support. He no longer needed the wooden wheelchair. He walked with a very slight limp, but his steps were firm, strong, and confident.

Early that morning, Damon had stood in the grand foyer, dressed in his dark blue military uniform. His sword hung heavily at his side. Kade stood respectfully behind him, holding a stack of leather folders.

Damon had summoned the remaining senior staff to the entrance hall.

"I am leaving for the military camp," Damon announced, his deep voice carrying easily across the large marble floor. "I will be gone for several days. There are matters that require my direct attention."

The staff bowed their heads, listening carefully.

"Before I leave," Damon continued, his eyes scanning the faces of his servants, "I have made arrangements. Someone new is coming from the capital city to permanently manage this household. She is highly experienced and very strict."

He paused, letting the warning sink in.

"When she arrives," Damon commanded, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument, "she is to be treated with the utmost respect. You will follow her orders exactly as you would follow mine. Is that clear?"

"Yes, General!" the staff answered quickly in unison.

With that final order, Damon and Kade walked out the heavy front doors. They mounted their strong horses and rode out of the large paved courtyard, heading toward the dusty military camps located far outside the city walls.

Up on the second floor, Camilla was perfectly happy to be left alone.

Ever since the snake had bitten her ankle, she had not caused any trouble. She had not slapped any maids. She had not tried to use her jinxed mouth to curse anyone or break any objects. The magical backlash and the horrible anti-venom tonic had taught her a very painful lesson.

She had carefully stayed put inside her large, private bedroom to nurse her own injured leg.

For the first three days, her ankle had throbbed with a dull, hot pain, and she had run a mild fever. But thanks to the doctor’s strong medicine and her own stubborn will, the swelling had gone down quickly.

Now, after a full week, her leg was perfectly fine. Only two small, fading red dots remained on her pale skin to show where the sharp fangs had entered.

The morning sun was shining brightly. Camilla sat on a soft cushioned chair on her private stone balcony. She was wearing a comfortable, light blue day dress. A small wooden table was set up in front of her.

The table was completely covered in a chaotic mess of paper, ink bottles, and several long white feather quills.

Camilla was leaning forward, gripping a quill tightly in her right hand. Her delicate eyebrows were pulled together in deep, intense concentration. She was scribbling down plot points on a large piece of thick white paper.

She had used the entire week, while confined to her bed, analyzing her situation. Since magic was useless against the male lead, she had to rely on her brain. She had to find a logical, narrative way to end this stupid story so she could finally go back to her modern life.

She was currently drafting different possible endings, pulling ideas from all the various romance books she had read over the years.

"Okay, let us try Plot Plan C," Camilla muttered to herself out loud, her voice sounding tired and frustrated. She dipped her quill into the black ink.

She started writing quickly, mapping out a storyline.

Plan C: Make Damon fall in love with me, then fake my own death so he suffers forever, and I escape.

She stared at the words she just wrote. She tapped the feather against her chin.

"No," Camilla thought, shaking her head. "That is way too much work. Making that grumpy rock fall in love with me would take months. I do not have months. I want to go to leave as soon as possible."

She scratched out Plan C with a thick, heavy black line.

She tried again.

Plan D: Help Damon defeat his evil uncle, secure his political power, and ask for a peaceful divorce as a reward.

She stopped writing. She read the sentence again.

A deep, heavy sigh escaped her lips. She realized a terrible truth.

"This is not working," Camilla complained internally. She doesn’t want to get involved in his personal affairs. She sighed. Her mind felt like a tangled mess of yarn.

No matter how many different plots she tried to draft, the narrative structure of this romance novel kept pulling her in the exact same direction. Every single plan she wrote down, every logical step she tried to take, somehow kept moving toward a ’happily ever after’ ending.

The invisible rules of the book were trying to force her to be a loving wife. The plot wanted her to support Damon, change his cold exterior by filling his heart with warmth, and help him fall harder and deeper in love with her.

The story wanted romance.

"I refuse," Camilla growled out loud, her eyes flashing with pure annoyance.

She grabbed the large piece of paper she was writing on. With a sudden, angry motion, she tore the paper right down the middle.

Riiip.

She tore it again, ripping it into four useless pieces. She threw the torn pieces onto the pile of other discarded plans on the table.

"I am completely not interested in a happily ever after with him," Camilla thought furiously, crossing her arms over her chest. "He is arrogant. He is stingy with his gold. And he like an unfeeling pile of muscle. I want a divorce, a heavy bag of cash, and a one-way ticket out of here."

She leaned back in her chair, staring out at the clear blue sky, trying to clear her frustrated mind.

Knock. Knock.

A soft, polite knocking sound came from the heavy oak door inside her bedroom.

Camilla stopped glaring at the sky. She turned her head toward the open glass doors of the balcony.

"Come in," Camilla said loudly, making her voice sound normal and polite.

The door pushed open slowly. An older man dressed in a very neat, perfectly clean black suit entered the room. He had grey hair and a very serious, professional expression on his face. He was the head butler of the Benson mansion. He handled the money, the mail, and the daily schedules.

The butler walked carefully across the wooden floor and stepped out onto the balcony. He immediately saw the chaotic mess of torn paper pieces scattered all over the small table. He saw the black ink stains on Camilla’s fingers.

But he was a professional. He minded his own business. He kept his face completely blank and did not ask a single question about the mess.

The butler stopped a few feet away from her chair and bowed slightly from the waist.

"Good morning, My Lady," the butler greeted her formally. He held out his right hand.

Resting on his clean white glove was a small, folded piece of paper. "A letter has arrived for you by special courier."

Camilla raised a dark eyebrow. A letter? For her? She had been in this novel for over a week, and no one had tried to contact her. The original Lady Camilla had no friends.

"Thank you," Camilla replied. She reached out and took the letter from his gloved hand.

"Will there be anything else, My Lady?" the butler asked politely.

"No, that will be all," Camilla said, looking down at the paper.

The butler bowed again, turned around sharply, and left the room, closing the heavy door quietly behind him.