The room was saturated with the pungent scent of blood and a chilling silence. Clara sank to the floor, her trembling hand touching the dried bloodstain on the white sheet. The shears still lay there, cold and useless. She had stabbed him in the heart. She had seen the blood. Yet he lived. He even smiled, calmly walking away as if that fatal wound were merely a dream.
Stunned, horrified, a thought suddenly flashed in Clara's mind, dispelling her panic. Jonathan wasn't human. He was a monster. A transcendent entity. That was why the System had given her such an impossibly difficult mission, and why the reward was an unthinkable sum. She had underestimated him, and this world of "Chaos."
And perhaps... Jonathan Goldsmiths was deliberately showing her this. He didn't kill her after the failed assassination; he didn't even rebuke her, simply smiled and said, "I'm fine." He was giving her an opportunity to learn about him, about his world. What was his purpose? What did he want her to understand?
Clara took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She had to re-evaluate everything from the beginning. From the horrifying blood party to this failed assassination, Jonathan had shown her too much. He was the center of all mysteries, of the gruesome "Project," and of an inexplicable "immortality."
As she was lost in thought, light footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door opened. Butler Reid entered, followed by several servants. They saw the scene in the room—the blood-stained sheet, the blood on the floor—but not a single one showed any sign of fear or surprise. They simply bowed silently to Clara, then began to clean up with professional efficiency.
The bloody sheet was swiftly rolled up and carried away. The floor was wiped clean, not a single trace of blood remaining. The foul smell gradually dissipated. In moments, the room was returned to its perfect, pristine state, as if nothing horrifying had ever occurred. Their chilling calmness and professionalism made Clara realize: these servants weren't ignorant; they were simply too accustomed to such events. Or perhaps, they were even part of the Goldsmiths family's secrets?
Everything had been perfectly covered up. Clara stood in the meticulously clean room, feeling as though everything she had just experienced was merely a dream. But the dried blood on her hand, and the shock in her heart, reminded her that it was terrifyingly real.
After the cleanup was complete, Clara returned to bed. Although her mind was intensely strained, the exhaustion from the shock and the sleepless night pulled her into unconsciousness. She needed to sleep. She needed strength to face what was to come.
The next morning, when Clara woke, sunlight flooded the room. She cleaned herself, put on a simple dress, and went down to the dining room. Jonathan Goldsmiths was already there, sipping coffee, reading the newspaper, his face as calm as any other morning. There was no sign of the wound from the night before. His chest was smooth, without a scar, without a bruise.
He looked up when he saw her. His deep eyes swept over her, an unreadable gaze. He asked nothing about last night, offered no reminders. It was as if everything had been merely her imagination.
Jonathan's inhuman composure sent a shiver down Clara's spine. But at the same time, it sparked a new idea within her.
Learning about Jonathan now was too difficult; he was too mysterious. But what about the Clara before her? And the history of the Goldsmiths family's selection process for brides? After all, how did the Goldsmiths family choose a bride to select a small, ill-matched girl like Clara? Among countless other distinguished young ladies, what made her Jonathan's "Madam"? There had to be some special reason.
Clara sat down at the table, facing Jonathan. He continued to eat unperturbed.
She took a deep breath, pushing aside her fear and confusion. She needed to start somewhere she could find a clue.
"Mr. Goldsmiths," Clara looked up, meeting his eyes directly. "Why... did you choose me to be your wife?"
Jonathan stopped eating. He put down his knife and fork, lifting his head to look at her. His deep eyes seemed to hold an entire universe of mysterious, unpredictable depths. A faint smile, one that didn't reach his eyes, slowly spread across his lips. He didn't answer immediately. He simply watched her, seemingly assessing, probing.
The atmosphere in the dining room suddenly became taut as a violin string, broken only by the faint clinking of cutlery and Clara's rapid breathing. Her question was a challenge, forcing Jonathan to reveal more about his secrets, about the Goldsmiths family, and about her own past.