Lily's hands are warm as she grips my shoulders, her voice a frantic whisper. "My Lady, please! You must control yourself! If the guards hear you, if the Duchess thinks you have lost your mind entirely..."
I can't stop. I am just a 25-year-old sister who didn't get to say goodbye. "I have to go home, Lily," I sob, the words sounding like nonsense to her. "They're waiting for me. I'm late... I'm so late..."
"Are you finally gone mad, then?"
The voice is like a splash of ice water. I freeze, my breath hitching in my throat. I look toward the doorway, my eyes blurred with tears.
Orlando is standing there, leaning against the heavy door frame with his arms crossed. He isn't wearing the look of a concerned brother. Instead, he is watching me with a confusing, sharp expression—half-amused and half-disgusted.
"Do you want to go somewhere so badly, Elanore?" he asks, stepping into the room. His boots click loudly on the stone floor. "I can arrange it. I can have you taken somewhere far from here—a place for people who aren't in their 'right mind.' You should leave our home if you're going to howl like a wounded animal every morning."
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to find my professional mask, but it's shattered. I look at him, my heart hammering. To him, my grief looks like a plot.
"What are you plotting now?" Orlando sneers, his eyes narrowing as he looks at me. "Is this a new game? The 'Broken Daughter' act? Or is this another one of your traps?"
I stare at him, and for a second, the 25-year-old Sara wants to scream the truth. I want to tell him I'm not his sister, that I don't care about his palace, and that I just want to see my real family. But I see the coldness in his eyes and realize: To Orlando, my vulnerability is a weapon I am using against them.
I take a shaky breath, forcing my hands to stop trembling. "I am not plotting, Orlando," I say, my voice still thick with tears. "I am just... realizing that some walls cannot be climbed."
He tilts his head, looking at me like I'm a puzzle he's tired of solving. "You look terrible. Even for a girl who 'lost her memory.' If you want to survive, I suggest you wash your face. Father is waiting, and he doesn't like his 'perfect daughter' looking like a ghost."
I stare at Orlando. My grief hasn't fully vanished, but it has turned into something sharper—indignation. I wonder, Why is he here? This family hasn't looked at Elanore with love in years. His presence at my door isn't a visit; it's an inspection.
"What is wrong with you?" I ask, my voice cutting through the remnants of my sobs. "Why are you even at my door? You don't care about me. No one in this house truly does. So tell me, Orlando—what is the real reason you're here mocking me?"
Orlando blinks, his leaning posture faltering for a split second. He wasn't expecting me to be so direct. "I... I wanted to see if you were finally in your right mind," he sneers, trying to recover his cool.
"If you have something to ask me, ask it," I snap, sitting up straight. "If you want to talk, talk. But do not use my situation as your entertainment. It's pathetic."
Orlando looks genuinely puzzled, his brow furrowing. "Can I not be concerned for my own sister's health? I am your brother, you know."
A cold, mocking smile touches my lips. "Brother?" I repeat the word like it's a foreign language. "Where were you when I was in trouble? Where was this 'brother' when I needed protection? You weren't there. You didn't care."
I stand up, even though my legs feel like water. I look him dead in the eye, the same way I would look at a lazy manager taking credit for my work.
"Now you're claiming we're family? Now you're claiming you care? Just get out, Orlando. Leave me alone. I can take care of myself—I've clearly had to for a long time. I don't need 'help' that comes with a side of mockery."
Orlando stands there, frozen. He looks like a young boy who just got slapped and doesn't understand why. He's used to Elanore being either silent, emotional, or desperate for their love. He isn't used to this—a woman who sees right through him and doesn't want anything from him.
"You..." he starts, his voice trailing off. He looks at me, then at Lily, then back at me. "Fine. If you want to be alone in your madness, stay alone."
He turns on his heel and marches out, his boots stomping loudly, trying to regain some of the dignity he just lost.
I watch Orlando's back as he reaches for the door, and a cold flash of logic hits me. Wait. If I kick him out like this, I'm making a target of myself. In this world, an isolated girl is a dead girl. I need to be nice—or at least believable—to survive.
"Wait!" I call out, my voice softening, pulling back the sharp edge.
Orlando stops, his hand on the heavy iron latch. He doesn't turn around immediately, his shoulders tense with anger.
"Why were you here?" I ask, this time with a tired curiosity instead of a bite. "Tell me the real reason that made you come to my door."
He turns slowly, his face still flushed with frustration. "You weren't at the breakfast hall," he says, his voice rising. "The servants were whispering, and then your maid started screaming—the sounds were echoing all the way down the hallway. I came to see what the chaos was about. I came to take you down to breakfast, but you're behaving like... like this! I can't take your mockery anymore, Elanore. If you want to be left alone to rot in this room, fine!"
He turns to leave again, but I step forward, my hands open and non-threatening. I have to swallow my pride. I have to apologize for a 25-year-old's outburst to a boy who doesn't deserve it.
"Orlando, wait. Come here," I say, my voice low and controlled. I take a deep breath, forcing my racing mind to settle. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout. My mind is... it's a dark place right now. I woke up from a nightmare and realized I couldn't remember the faces of the people I'm supposed to love. It made me lash out."
I look at him with a forced softness, the kind I use with a difficult client at the office. "If I was angry, I am sorry. I'm just scared. Can you understand that?"
Orlando looks at me, his eyes searching my face for the "trap" he's sure is there. But seeing my tear-stained face and my quiet voice, he seems to deflate.
"I didn't come here to fight," he mutters, though he doesn't move closer yet.
"I know," I whisper. "And I shouldn't have pushed you away. If you still want to take me to the hall... give me a moment to fix my face. I don't want anyone to see me like this."
I look at Orlando, my voice steadying. I need him to see me as a sister who is struggling, not a threat who is plotting.
"Orlando, can you wait for me?" I ask, then quickly offer an alternative. "Or, if you don't have the patience, just give me some time. I need to wash away this morning. Lily," I glance at my maid, "can tell the household that I am awake. But I need you to do me a favor."
Orlando crosses his arms, but his posture is less aggressive now. "What favor?"
"Please send someone to tell my father that I will be late. Tell him to have his breakfast without me. I don't want to keep everyone waiting while I... fresh my mind and my heart." I touch my chest, a gesture of vulnerability. "If I go down there like this, I'll only ruin the morning for everyone. I need a bath. I need to feel human again."
I give him a tired, respectful nod. "If you want to stay and wait, you can. If you want to leave me alone, you can. It is your decision, and I will respect it. I'm just... so lost and confused in my own thoughts right now, Orlando. I can't think about anything else until I've cleared my head."
Orlando stares at me. I can't read his mind—his face is a mask of aristocratic confusion—but I can see that my honesty has disarmed him. He isn't used to me being so logical about my own emotions.
"I'll send word to Father," he says finally, his voice gruff. "But don't take all day. The Duchess is already in a foul mood because of the delay."
"Thank you," I whisper.
As he turns to leave, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The door closes, and I turn to Lily. "Prepare the water. Hot. As hot as I can stand it."
I need to wash off the smell of the feeling of failure. I have to accept that for today, I am not Sara the worker. I am a soul trapped in an unknown body, and I have to play this role perfectly if I ever want to see my real home again.