Chapter 324 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Daphne

[HOST. DON’T.]

I freeze in my tracks, one foot hovering over the threshold of the parking garage elevator.

The concrete space stretches before me, rows of cars gleaming under fluorescent lights. Mine is parked three rows in—a sleek black statement of wealth and power.

[There is a bomb. Counting down. In your car.]

My eye twitches.

"How long?" The words barely leave my mouth.

[Twenty-five seconds.]

I don’t think.

I run.

My heels are wrong for this—five-inch spikes designed for boardrooms, not sprints. I kick them off mid-stride, bare feet slapping against cold concrete. The elevator is too slow. The stairs are too far. I just need out.

I push harder. Muscles scream. Lungs burn. Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten.

The exit looms ahead,a ramp leading up, leading out, leading to life.

I’m barely through the doorway when the world explodes.

***

Vivienne

I’m walking through the hallway, a glass of water in hand for my father-in-law. Bernard has been in his study all evening, and Olga asked if I would bring him something.

The television in the sitting room is on,it’s always on, some news channel playing softly in the background. I barely register it as I pass.

Then—

"...breaking news. An explosion at a branch of Han Pharmaceuticals, Daphne Han’s flagship company, just a few minutes ago. Early reports indicate—"

The glass slips from my fingers.

It shatters against the floor, water and glass exploding across the marble. I don’t feel it. Don’t hear it. Don’t register anything except the words echoing in my skull.

Explosion. Daphne. Han Pharmaceuticals.

No.

No.

"Lady Vivienne?" A servant appears, alarmed by the crash. "Are you alright? Let me clean—"

I’m already running.

***

Daphne

Argh.

My head hurts like hell.

I blink open my eyes to the familiar, unwelcome sight of a hospital ceiling. White tiles. Fluorescent lights. The sterile smell of antiseptic.

Again.

How many times will I open my eyes to a hospital ceiling in this world? I’ve lost count. This body has been through more trauma in months than most people experience in a lifetime.

System?

The purple orb materializes in my periphery, invisible to everyone else.

[Host. You’re awake. You have a concussion, minor burns, and several cuts. Nothing life-threatening.]

I take stock of myself. Bandages on my arms. An IV in my hand. A dull, persistent throb in my skull.

Casualties?

[None. The explosion occurred after working hours. The parking garage was mostly empty.]

I exhale, relief mixing with the pain. At least there’s that.

Who was it?

A pause. Then:

[Vincent. He found evidence connecting you to the Panther.]

How nasty. I let out a humorless chuckle, the movement sending a dull throb through my skull. It’s been a while since I had such attacks on my life. I remember my life as a Castellano.

Honestly, Vincent for a so-called mafia boss—is cute compared to the Castellanos. I flex my bandaged fingers. But I definitely shouldn’t have underestimated him.

Well. I manage a small smile. Look at you, System. Being so useful.

[It’s only natural.] The purple orb pulses, and I swear I can hear smugness in its voice. [Being a mid-tier system has its advantages.]

It doesn’t have a face technically but if it did, its nose would be pointing at the sky right now. All cocky and self-satisfied.

Before I can respond, the door opens.

Olga walks in.

"Daphne?" Her face cycles through terror, relief, and maternal concern in the span of a second. "You’re awake."

She’s at my side in moments, her hands gentle but firm as she helps me sit up. Pillows appear behind my back—I don’t know where she found them, but suddenly I’m propped up and comfortable.

"Mother." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "You didn’t have to come."

"Didn’t have to?" She gives me a look that could curdle milk. "My daughter is in the hospital after an explosion. Where else would I be?"

Fair point.

"The doctors said you have a concussion. Minor burns. Some cuts." She’s checking me over now, mother-henning with practiced efficiency.

"You’re lucky. So lucky. When I heard—"

"I’m fine." I catch her hand, stilling her fussing. "Really. I’m okay."

And she starts crying.

Not the delicate, composed tears I’ve seen her shed at charity galas or sentimental moments. Real crying ,the kind that crumples her face and makes her shoulders shake.

"I was so scared." Her voice breaks. "I thought I lost you."

She holds my hand tightly, desperately, like I might disappear if she lets go.

I flinch. The movement sends pain shooting through my bandaged arm, and I can’t quite hide the wince.

"Oh!" She releases me immediately, horrified. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to—"

"Mum." I catch her hand again, gentler this time. "It’s okay. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me."

She doesn’t listen. Of course she doesn’t. She’s already hovering, checking my bandages, adjusting my pillows, acting like I’ve broken every bone in my body instead of just collecting a few scrapes and a concussion.

The doctors choose that moment to arrive—a small parade of white coats with clipboards and concerned expressions. They check my vitals, shine lights in my eyes, ask questions about pain levels and memory and a dozen other things.

Olga hovers through all of it. Watching. Worrying. Intercepting the doctors with questions of her own.

"Will she be alright?"

"Is the concussion serious?"

"When can she come home?"

"Should she be resting more?"

"What about follow-up care?"

The doctors answer patiently, probably used to anxious families. I’m stable, they say. The concussion is mild. They want to keep me overnight for observation, but if all goes well, I can go home tomorrow.

Olga nods along, but I can see her cataloging every word, already planning how to care for me once I’m back at the mansion.

When the doctors finally leave, she turns to me with renewed determination.

"You’re coming home tomorrow. I’ll prepare your room. Soft foods only—the hospital food is terrible. And you’ll rest. Actually rest. No work, no meetings, no stress."