Blair hurried out to the kitchen corridor, grabbed a soft cloth, and returned to the parlor within seconds. Dropping onto her knees on the hard floor, she began wiping up the spilled water.
Vivian exchanged a quick, sly glance with her friend sitting beside her—Tiffany.
Just as Blair was leaning forward to wipe the edge near the table, Tiffany casually nudged her teacup off the saucer.
The steaming, scalding tea poured straight down onto Blair’s shoulder, soaking through the thin fabric of her dress and burning her pale skin. The porcelain cup shattered on the tile right beside her hand.
Blair winced violently, her shoulders jolting from the sudden, painful heat, but she gritted her teeth and didn’t let out a single sound.
"My bad," Tiffany snickered, leaning back on the cushion with a fake, lazy sigh. "The tea was way too hot anyway. Next time, bring it warm."
"I... I understand," Blair whispered softly, bowing her head lower so they couldn’t see the tears of pain welling in her eyes.
She didn’t want to cause trouble. She didn’t want her husbands’ family to hate her. She was trying so hard to be a good, submissive, and dutiful wife because that was how she had been taught to survive if she didn’t want to be abandoned.
No one liked a troublesome woman who brought headaches into the household.
But that didn’t mean it didn’t burn when the hot tea scalded her skin. It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt that they were openly mocking her like she was rag to be stepped on. She could smile and pretend all was well, but she knew for a fact that they would never accept her.
She just... didn’t want to be hated.
"Clean the glass, too," Maya hissed, her tiger eyes glaring down at Blair’s trembling frame. "And stop ruining this household’s reputation."
Blair felt a heavy, choking lump in her chest, but she swallowed it down. Ruin this household’s reputation... That was what she feared doing most.
Finishing up the water, Blair placed the wet rag on her tray and began to push herself up to get a dustpan and broom.
"Where do you think you’re going?" Vivian called out sharply, her voice halting Blair in her tracks.
Blair flinched, shrinking back slightly. "I... I’m going to get something to pick the shards up with."
"No need," Vivian said coldly, her tone absolute and leaving zero room for argument. "You have functioning hands, don’t you?"
Blair froze.
"Pick them up with your hands."
Her heart began to hammer against her ribs in pure terror. She realized instantly that if she picked up those sharp, jagged porcelain pieces with her bare hands, she would definitely get cut. And for someone in her condition, losing even a tiny amount of blood was a death sentence.
Her illness—late-stage pulmonary hemorrhaging—was a ticking time bomb.
As Maya, Tiffany and Vivian scoffed above her, the doctor’s grave, final words from two mornings ago echoed sharply inside her mind:
"Miss Blair, because of the high-dose vascular stabilizers keeping you alive, your blood cannot clot naturally, and your entire circulatory structure is as brittle as dry glass. Your body cannot afford to lose even a single drop of blood. If you suffer a physical injury or external cut, the shock will force your maintenance medication to fail—triggering immediate internal hemorrhaging in your lungs and causing you to collapse. You must refrain from bleeding at all costs."
Blair’s breath hitched, her pale fingers trembling violently as she hovered over the sharp, broken edges.
She wasn’t just afraid of the sting of a cut—she was terrified of dying right here on the parlor floor. A single slice to her fingertips could set off the fatal internal cascade in her chest. And then, even the 44 days she had may not save her.
"What are you waiting for, human?" Vivian sneered, her designer heel clicking impatiently on the tile right beside Blair’s trembling hand. "Pick it up!"
Blair took in several deep, shaky breaths, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her eyes stared fixedly at the sharp, jagged porcelain glistening on the marble floor.
Be careful, she told herself silently, trying to calm her frantic mind. Just be very, very careful...
But how could she possibly be careful when she had to gather sharp shards with bare, trembling fingers and pile them into her open palm?
Maybe... maybe one tiny cut wouldn’t do too much damage, she thought desperately, trying to soothe her own terror. I just... I just have to be mindful and not provoke them further.
Her pale hand hovered above the largest piece. Trembling violently, she slowly pinched the blunt edge of a broken teacup fragment and lifted it.
Above her, Vivian, Maya, and Tiffany watched her struggle with cold, cruel amusement. But as Blair meticulously picked up a second small piece slowly, Vivian’s painted brow furrowed in irritation.
"This is getting boring," Vivian huffed, crossing her arms. "Are you picking the shards up or what?"
"I—I’m picking them up," Blair stammered, her voice dropping into a desperate, pleading whisper as she held her breath. "I’m picking them up, please... I’m sorry..."
She reached for another jagged edge, trying to be as gentle as possible, but her trembling fingers slipped. Maya’s eyes narrowed in disdain as the sharp point pricked Blair’s thumb. A tiny drop of crimson bloomed against her skin, and Blair gasped, flinching back in absolute panic.
"Look at her, clumsy human!" Maya scoffed, rolling her eyes. "She can’t even clear a broken cup without making a dramatic fuss."
"Why would they even employ a useless, clumsy human in this household in the first place?" Tiffany added with a mocking laugh.
Thomas could no longer stand by and watch. Stepping forward, he positioned himself firmly near the table, his face drawn in rigid, cold defense.
"Miss Maya, Miss Vivian, I have been trying to explain to you from the beginning," Thomas said, his voice echoing through the parlor with absolute gravity. "This lady is not a servant. She is not a maid. She is Mrs. Deruno—the legal wife of your cousins, the masters of this estate."