Chapter 7: He Returned

“Don’t run away, b*tch!” Hilbert said as he seized Catherine by the back of her head and hauled her upright.

She felt nothing. Her body had turned traitor, unresponsive and heavy, her arms hanging useless at her sides as her vision pulsed and dimmed. The room swam, edges melting into shadow.

Through the haze, she searched desperately for the man in the suede shoes. Her sight refused her, blurring and doubling, until it sharpened for a single, merciless heartbeat.

Max… Maximilian…

No. No, it cannot be. How is he here? How did he find me?

Panic tried to rise, but even that felt distant, muffled beneath the drug fogging her veins. The last thing she registered was the man in the suede shoes stopping beside her. Then chaos broke loose. A wine bottle shattered. A sprinkler burst. Water exploded across the room in a violent rush.

Her eyes cleared once more, just long enough to see him.

Maximilian. It really was him.

His face was carved from rage as water streamed down his sharp features, the same expression she remembered from the last time their paths had crossed. Wild. Furious. Unmistakable.

Is this it? Is he going to ruin me in this life too?

The darkness closed in before she could find the answer.

—–

Catherine drifted between fractured dreams, slipping back and forth between her past life and this one. Her stomach twisted in pain, her body aching as the relentless sound of rain echoed around her.

One moment she was back there in her past life.

“I’ll ruin you.”

Maximilian’s face surged into view, sharp with promise and fury.

The next moment belonged to this life.

“Bitty Bean…” Her father smiled, eyes gentle, warm with affection. Just as she reached for him, he pushed her back with a grin. The world tipped. She hit the floor, and men stood over her, sneering down as if she were nothing.

She flinched, trying to claw her way out of the dark, but the rain dragged her deeper. In this life, storms were torture. Thunder and rain crushed her chest, tightened around her throat, and sent pain rippling through her body. She could not wake. She could not rest. It felt as though invisible hands were squeezing her neck, stealing her breath.

Then it came…

A melody.

Soft. Familiar. Something she had heard before, long ago… And that warmth in her earlobe… Gentle, soothing… The song, along with the warmth threaded through the pain like light through fog, warm and steady, soothing her body inch by inch. It felt intimate, protective. Like her mother’s arms closing around her.

Silence followed.

Peace, at last.

She slipped into sleep.

When she woke again, the sharp scent of lilies filled the air. She blinked once, then again, trying to place herself. Pale afternoon light stretched thin across the room. The curtains were half drawn, the window bright with the glare of the city beyond. A monitor ticked softly near her head.

Her mouth was dry. Her thoughts moved sluggishly, as though wading through water. Sheets tucked her in with careful precision. Something tugged gently at her wrist. Clear tubing traced from her arm to a stand beside the bed. When she shifted, the bed adjusted beneath her, lifting her slightly without warning. The air smelled sterile and cold.

Hours were missing.

Slowly, memories surfaced. Jonathan’s betrayal. The men at the restaurant. The fear.

What happened to me?

Her head throbbed as she turned, about to call for a nurse. That was when she noticed someone standing beside the bed, quietly pouring water.

It was not Alexander.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Instinct took over. She grabbed the small fruit knife from the table, her hands shaking so badly she had to grip it with both hands.

“I’ve called for the nurse,” the man said calmly. “And here’s some water.” He turned mid-sentence and froze when he saw the knife. “Miss, you~”

It was him.

Maximilian.

In flesh. Standing right in front of her.

The room vanished.

She was back at Laurel Fields. Rain. Blood. War. Her body remembered before her mind could catch up. Her grip steadied, and she spoke in the language of her past life, the words tearing free from something ancient and furious inside her.

“Fati fila hunc congressum texuerunt; sic fiat ut manus meae sanguinem tuum gustent, et nomen tuum in cinere obruatur.”

[The threads of fate have woven this meeting; so let it be that my hands taste your blood, and your name be buried in ash.]

His eyes widened as she lunged. The glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. He caught her wrist and forced her back against the bed.

“Miss, your IV, what are you~”

She did not hear him.

All she saw was Maximilian. The enemy king. The man who had ruined her.

“Die!” she screamed, throwing everything she had into the strike. But he held her wrist, strength unyielding.

“Your IV!” he shouted.

The door burst open. Nurses rushed in, followed by a doctor. Voices overlapped, urgent and sharp. Someone reached for a syringe, speaking of sedatives, but Catherine was still fighting, still trying to reach him.

Then a voice cut through the chaos.

Low. Steady. Commanding.

A tall man in a tailored suit strode in, blue eyes sharp beneath slicked back dark hair. One look at Catherine restrained on the bed… and something dangerous flashed across his face. He shoved the others aside without hesitation.

“Alexander…”

Her strength broke.

Tears spilled down her temples as relief crashed through her. “Alex.”

Someone shouted about the knife, warned him to be careful, but he ignored them. He even stopped the nurse’s hand mid-motion.

“Cathy Bean,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

That was all it took.

Her struggle faded instantly, as if her body had been waiting for permission to stop. Her fingers loosened around the knife.

“It’s him, the one I talked about,” she whispered, her voice unraveling. “Alex… it’s him. He’s back… to ruin me.”

Her gaze slid back to Maximilian. There was blood on his hand. She did not know whose. He stared at Alexander, lips moving as if forming words she could not hear.

No.

Not again.

You will not ruin my family in this life too.

She fought to stay awake, clinging to Alexander’s presence like an anchor. But her body betrayed her once more.

Darkness closed in. And she slipped under again.

***

When Catherine came to again, she heard hushed whispers beside her.

“Is this her blood report?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No stimulants? No sedatives? Not even caffeine or nicotine in her system?”

Alexander’s voice.

Catherine rolled her eyes before she even opened them. Of course.

Her dear, eternally overprotective brother. Ever since she’d finished her high school diploma at twelve, he’d been convinced she was one bad day away from becoming a tragic prodigy who lost her way to drugs. Coffee, apparently, was a gateway substance.

And, as always, he cared in his own way.

Before she could even blink, he dismissed whoever he was interrogating—most likely his unfortunate personal assistant, whose job description included being barked at in three languages.

“Give us a moment,” Alexander said.

Footsteps retreated.

Catherine cracked her eyes open with a sigh. “Do you now have proof that I am not a drug addict?”

Alexander turned slowly, unimpressed. “You stabbed a man, Cathy. The man who rescued you last night.”

She winced. Right. That.

Her mind replayed the scene—the knife, the shouting, the nurses, the entire dramatic episode that would absolutely be referenced at all future family dinners.

Rescued? He rescued me?

“…In my defense,” she said weakly, “he had a very stab-able face.”

Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose. “Catherine Elizabeth Preston.”

Oh. Full name.

He is furious.

“Okay,” she amended quickly, “maybe that sounded less sane than I intended.”

She knew times were different now. Stabbing people was generally frowned upon in this society, even when one had, in her opinion, a perfectly valid reason. It was one of the few things she missed about being a queen. Some people deserved a swift slash for the greater good of society.

Alexander stared at her for a long moment—the kind reserved for disasters that shared your DNA—then exhaled. “You’re lucky your bloodwork is clean. Otherwise, I’d already be Googling ’elite psychiatric facilities with ocean views.’”

She huffed. “You worry too much.”

“Yes,” he said flatly, “because you woke up in a hospital and attempted murder with a fruit knife.”

She considered that. Then asked, very calmly, “Is he dead yet?”

At least then it would’ve been worth it. She could plead insanity, retire to a very nice institution, and, most importantly… her family would be safe.

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