Four weeks had passed, and on the surface, everything had returned to its proper place.
The mansion breathed in its usual rhythm—measured footsteps along marble corridors, low murmurs of staff, the distant hum of scheduled calls and controlled negotiations. Morning light poured through the tall windows, spilling gold across the long dining table where breakfast had already been arranged with quiet precision.
Leah sat across from Izana, her posture composed, her expression soft with lingering sleep. She reached for her teacup without thinking.
The moment the steam touched her face, she stilled.
It was slight—barely more than a tightening of her fingers—but Izana saw it.
She lowered the cup.
"Why did you stop?" he asked.
Her eyes lifted. "What?"
"You stopped."
"It's nothing," she said, brushing it off lightly. "It just smells… stronger today."
Without hesitation, he reached forward and moved the cup away from her.
"Then don't drink it."
A small, incredulous smile touched her lips. "You don't have to banish tea from the house."
"If it is the cause, I will."
At the far end of the table, Elias lowered his newspaper with deliberate calm. "You would eliminate tea because she dislikes the scent?"
"Yes," Izana replied evenly, not looking away from Leah.
Leah nearly laughed. "You're not serious."
"I am."
Dante, standing near the doorway with his tablet, hid the faintest twitch of amusement.
Leah shook her head and reached instead for a slice of toast. She took a small bite. Chewed.
Then paused.
Her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Izana leaned forward slightly. "You stopped again."
"I didn't."
"You did."
"I'm just not very hungry."
"You didn't finish dinner last night."
She exhaled softly. "You remember everything, don't you?"
"Yes."
Elias folded his newspaper fully now, watching them with quiet scrutiny. "She looks fine."
"She is not," Izana said.
Leah sighed, setting the toast down. "I'm right here."
"Exactly."
The firmness in his voice silenced the air between them.
After a moment, she pushed her plate away gently. "I'll eat later."
Izana stood immediately. "I will walk you upstairs."
Her brows lifted. "Izana, I can walk upstairs by myself."
"That is not what I said."
Once they were out of sight of the others, she slowed and turned toward him.
"You're worrying too much."
"I am not."
"You are."
"You are pale."
"It's morning."
"You were pale yesterday."
She hesitated. "Maybe I didn't sleep well."
"You slept."
"That doesn't mean it was good sleep."
He stopped walking.
"Leah."
She met his gaze.
"What are you not telling me?"
Her expression softened, something fragile flickering there before she smoothed it away. "Nothing. I promise."
"If you feel unwell, say it."
"I don't feel sick," she said quietly.
"Then what do you feel?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
"…Strange."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Define strange."
"I don't know how to."
That unsettled him more than anything.
He did not like what could not be named.
Later that morning, seated at the head of a long conference table downtown, he found his thoughts drifting back to that single word.
Strange.
"—and that concludes the quarterly report," one executive was saying.
"Repeat the third point," Izana said suddenly.
The man blinked. "Boss? We just—."
"You already addressed it," Dante murmured beside him.
A brief silence followed.
Izana stood. "We will resume tomorrow."
Several heads turned in confusion. "Boss, we still have—."
"Tomorrow."
Outside the room, Dante matched his pace down the corridor. "You have postponed four meetings this week."
"Yes."
"You are distracted."
"No."
"You asked the same question twice."
Izana did not answer immediately.
"She has not recovered," he said at last.
"From what?"
"I don't know."
The admission was quiet. Controlled. But it carried weight.
Dante studied him carefully. "Has she said she is sick?"
"No."
"Then what is it?"
His gaze sharpened. "That is what I intend to determine."
After a brief pause, he added, "Have a doctor on standby. Discreetly."
Dante inclined his head. "Of course."
That afternoon, Leah walked alone in the garden despite being told not to. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine.
She inhaled—
—and immediately felt her stomach turn.
It wasn't violent. Not enough to double her over. Just a wave that forced her to stop and steady herself against a nearby column.
"Not again…" she whispered.
Her hand drifted unconsciously to her abdomen.
It wasn't pain.
It was… sensitivity. A strange heaviness. As though her body were slightly misaligned with itself.
"What is wrong with me?"
Footsteps approached before she could gather her thoughts.
"I told you not to walk alone."
She looked up to find Izana standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable.
"I'm not alone," she replied faintly. "You're here."
"You stopped."
"I'm just tired."
"You said that this morning."
"And it's still true."
He stepped closer, taking her hand.
"You're cold."
"I'm not."
"You are."
She attempted a smile. "It'll pass."
He did not like that answer.
That evening, Elias stood by the window of his study while Dante spoke quietly behind him.
"He left another meeting early."
"I am aware."
"He hovers."
Elias nodded once. "Attachment clouds judgment."
"She does seem unwell."
"Yes," Elias agreed. "And if something threatens her, he will not remain rational."
Across the city, in a dimly lit office, Leah's father sat across from a rival. Her stepmother stood beside him, poised and composed.
"He has been shortening his schedule," the rival observed.
"He is distracted," her father replied.
"By her?"
"She has always been his weakness," the stepmother said softly.
"You signed her away."
"Temporary arrangements can be undone."
The rival leaned back slightly. "You intend to retrieve her."
"She is ours," her father said coldly.
"And how do you plan to manage him?"
A thin smile curved across his face. "We wait."
"For what?"
"For vulnerability."
That night, Leah left most of her dinner untouched again.
In their bedroom, she sat on the edge of the bed while Izana stood before her.
"You left dinner."
"I wasn't hungry."
"You have not been hungry for days."
She looked away.
He stepped closer and knelt in front of her.
"You're pale."
"I'm fine."
"No."
He brushed her hair back gently and placed his fingers against her forehead.
"No fever."
"That's good," she whispered.
"It removes an explanation."
A soft, breathless laugh escaped her. "You sound disappointed."
"I am frustrated."
"Why?"
"Because something is wrong."
She hesitated.
"I don't feel sick."
"Then what do you feel?"
Her cheeks warmed faintly.
"…Sensitive."
He stilled. "Where?"
"In general."
"That is not specific."
"I know."
He rose abruptly. "I'm calling a doctor."
She caught his wrist before he could move.
"Don't."
His gaze lowered to her hand. "Why?"
"It's embarrassing."
"Embarrassment is irrelevant."
"It isn't to me."
Silence stretched between them.
After a long moment, he sat beside her instead and pulled her gently against him. His arm wrapped around her waist, firm and protective.
"If you will not explain," he said quietly, "then stay."
She rested her forehead against his chest.
"I don't want you worrying."
"I will."
"…I know."
Later, when she slipped quietly from the bed, he woke immediately.
The bathroom light flickered on.
He could hear her breathing. Uneven.
He approached the door silently.
Inside, Leah stared at her reflection in the mirror.
She counted under her breath.
Stopped.
Counted again.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the sink.
"…No."
The word barely carried.
"It can't be."
Outside, Izana pressed a hand lightly against his chest.
The curse pulsed.
Not weak.
Not wounded.
Alert.
Sharp.
"What are you responding to…" he murmured.
The door opened.
She froze when she saw him standing there.
"You're awake."
"Yes."
"You were counting."
"I couldn't sleep."
"That is not what I asked."
Her composure wavered for just a second.
"…I don't know what's wrong with me," she admitted quietly.
His expression shifted—not anger, not suspicion, but something heavier.
"Then we will find out."
He guided her back to bed without another word and held her closer than usual.
She lay awake long after his breathing evened out.
And beneath his steady heartbeat, the curse pulsed again.
Waiting.