The bone-chilling ice water of the Hudson River seemed to still fill her lungs, a phantom suffocation that made Evelyn bolt upright in bed, gasping for air.
There was no river water. No rats. No stench of rotting flesh.
Her nose was filled only with the smell of cheap soap, moldy wooden floorboards, and the heavy breathing of the three other maids asleep in the room. The morning light filtered through the narrow transom window, illuminating the calendar on the wall—September 12, 1899.
She was really back. Back to the eve before hell opened its gates.
Evelyn raised a trembling hand to touch her ribs. They were intact. The agonizing pain of them being shattered by thugs was gone. She stepped onto the floor barefoot; the cold seeping through her soles felt incredibly real, bringing with it a rush of ecstasy.
But that ecstasy lasted only three seconds.
"Mom." She murmured the word, her heart constricting violently.
In her past life, desperate to keep this job, she only dared to visit home once a month on her day off. By the time she had finally scraped together enough "life-saving money" and was kicked out of the manor, her mother had already died in a freezing cold night, coughing her last breath because they couldn't afford medicine.
If she didn't change things, her mother in this timeline had only three months left to live.
Evelyn quickly dressed in the grey linen maid uniform—her "skin" within the Ashford Manor. She had to confirm her mother was alive. She had to go now.
It was Sunday. According to the rules, after morning chores, they had half a day of free time.
Like a ghost, she slipped through the manor before it fully dragged itself awake, exiting through the side door and jumping onto a cargo wagon headed for lower Manhattan.
The air in the Lower East Side was a perpetual mixture of horse manure, boiled cabbage, and despair.
When she pushed open the crumbling wooden door, Evelyn heard the familiar coughing. The sound was like a blunt saw, dragging back and forth across her taut nerves.
"Evie?" The woman on the bed struggled to prop herself up. Her copper-red curls were scattered on the pillow like withered grass. Her face was sallow, except for the unnatural flush on her cheekbones. "Is it payday already? Why are you back..."
Evelyn rushed over, kneeling by the bed and tightly gripping her mother's skeletal hand.
It was warm. It was still warm.
Tears crashed down onto the back of her mother's hand without warning.
"I just... wanted to see you." Evelyn buried her face in the musty quilt, her voice muffled to hide the tremor in her tone.
"Silly child." Maureen laboriously raised her hand to stroke her daughter's hair, now dyed a deep chestnut. "Are they mistreating you there? If it's too hard, we... cough... we can just quit..."
"It's not hard." Evelyn lifted her head, quickly wiping away the tears. In those emerald eyes, the confusion of an eighteen-year-old girl had been replaced by a calmness that was almost alarming. "Mom, you're going to get better. I have a way. This time, I really have a way."
She took two coins she had saved from her pocket and pressed them into the neighbor, Mrs. Chubbs', hand, asking her to buy some meat broth for her mother. Then, without looking back, she left the slums.
As she walked out of that dark alley, she glanced back once.
Behind her lay mud, poverty, and the shadow of death; before her lay the glittering, golden Ashford Manor on the other side of Central Park.
In her past life, she had tried to cross this chasm with diligence and humility, only to be shattered to pieces. In this life, she would turn that gilded palace into her hunting ground.
It was exactly two in the afternoon when she returned to the manor.
"Where have you been? Kyle!" Mrs. Hope's cane slammed heavily against the floor. "Mr. William's study needs fresh flowers. The other maids are busy, and you lazy pig dared to disappear!"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hope." Evelyn lowered her head, her shoulders shrinking in a perfect display of fear. "I'll go right away."
She took the crystal vase filled with white roses and headed to the third floor.
The corridor on the third floor was lined with thick Persian carpets that swallowed every footstep. Evelyn reached the study door and was about to knock when her hand froze in mid-air.
The door was ajar.
Through the crack, she saw William Ashford.
This was the first time she had seen the man up close since her rebirth.
He was sitting behind the massive mahogany desk, his back to the door. The afternoon sun was filtered through heavy velvet curtains, leaving only a beam of golden dust that landed precisely on his shoulder. He wasn't looking at documents, nor was he on the phone.
He was leaning back in his chair, fingers pressing hard against his temples, his other hand gripping the armrest so tightly his knuckles turned white.
He was trembling.
The man Wall Street called the "Steel Tyrant," the man who had watched coldly as she was dragged away in her past life, now looked like a lone wolf—wounded, enduring immense pain, but refusing to whimper.
Evelyn held her breath.
In her past life, she had been too busy being afraid, too busy dodging his gaze, to ever observe him closely. She had always thought William was invulnerable, a cold-blooded machine.
But now, she saw the cracks in the machine.
"Enter."
The low voice rang out suddenly, laced with a trace of raspiness. William didn't even turn around, yet he had keenly detected the presence at the door.
Evelyn adjusted her breathing and pushed the door open.
"Sir, Mrs. Hope asked me to change the flowers." Her voice was soft and steady, devoid of any unnecessary flattery.
William didn't speak; he simply waved his hand, signaling her to set them down.
Evelyn walked to the low cabinet in the corner and began replacing the wilting lilies. Her movements were slow—slow enough for her to greedily deconstruct everything about this man with her peripheral vision.
The ashtray in front of him was piled high with cigar stubs. An open bottle of whiskey sat on the table, but the glass was empty—he was restraining himself. He was enduring some colossal suffering but refused to numb it with alcohol because he needed to stay lucid.
He was a madman whose need for control was so strong he even needed to micromanage his own agony.
Evelyn finished changing the flowers but didn't leave immediately. She noticed William pressing his temples faster, his breathing growing heavier.
Severe migraines. Or perhaps... long-term neurasthenia?
In her past life, Aurora had complained that William "lacked romance and always stayed in his study late at night." Back then, Evelyn thought he was working. Now it seemed he was simply surviving the long nights of pain.
Opportunity.
This wasn't just a weakness; it was an entry point.
Evelyn picked up the tray and walked toward the desk. She didn't stare at her toes as she used to. Instead, she boldly cast her gaze upon William's face.
It was a face meticulously sculpted by God—deep-set features, a straight nose, and thin, tightly pursed lips that exuded coldness. But there were faint shadows beneath his closed eyes, and deep exhaustion hidden in the furrows of his brow.
"Sir," Evelyn spoke suddenly. Her voice dropped lower than before, carrying a strange, soothing quality, like a mother's murmur to a child. "Should I draw the curtains tighter? The light seems too harsh."
William's eyes snapped open.
Those grey-green irises locked onto her instantly, sharp as knives, as if trying to dissect her layer by layer.
"Who gave you permission to speak?"
A terrifying pressure washed over her. The Evelyn of the past would have been on her knees begging for mercy by now.
But the current Evelyn simply met his scrutiny with calm. She lowered her eyelids slightly, exposing a section of her pale, fragile nape—a gesture of a herbivore showing weakness to a predator—yet her tone remained neither humble nor arrogant.
"My mother suffers from chronic headaches; she fears the light," she whispered. "I saw you pressing your temples, Sir. If I have overstepped, please punish me."
William narrowed his eyes.
He was used to servants trembling like mice, and he was used to Aurora's hypocritical concern. But this maid...
She wasn't shaking. She stood there like a quiet plant. There was no sickening smell of cheap perfume on her, only a faint, crisp scent like earth after rain.
The splitting headache seemed to pause for a second due to this unexpected interlude.
"Close them." He closed his eyes again, spitting out two cold words.
Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. She won the bet.
She walked to the window and gently pulled the heavy drapes shut. The study plunged into dimness, illuminated only by the flickering fire in the hearth.
"Get out," William commanded again.
"Yes, Sir."
Evelyn retreated to the door. As her hand gripped the brass handle, she looked back one last time.
In the darkness, William remained seated there, like a lonely statue.
Stepping out of the study and closing the heavy oak door, Evelyn leaned against the corridor wall. The corners of her mouth slowly curled into a cold arc.
And in a gilded family like this, the medicine that one becomes addicted to is often the deadliest poison of all.