Elizabeth headed toward the kitchen, still trying to convince her heart to slow down—
when she heard the voice.
"Is this what you call a cake?!"
A booming roar powerful enough to terrify cookware.
She stopped at the doorway and tilted her head cautiously.
The kitchen looked like a battlefield.
Steam. Pots. Frozen chefs locked in place—
and at the center of it all stood the Head Chef, arms crossed, eyebrows so furrowed they threatened to devour his face.
In front of him was a young man with soft black hair and unfairly vivid violet eyes, bowing repeatedly in apology.
"I'm sorry, sir… the recipe didn't set properly… I'll remake it—"
"Remake nothing!"
the Head Chef snapped.
"This cake is for the Marchioness! Do you have any idea what that means?!"
Elizabeth blinked.
What just happened? Why this much rage… over a cake?
Then the thought froze mid-sentence.
Wait.
I haven't met the Marchioness yet.
Please—please, dear heavens—let her be the opposite of Adrian.
Before her brain could process any further—
her mouth moved.
"I'll fix it."
Silence.
Every head turned.
Even a spoon froze midair.
The Head Chef looked her up and down.
"…You?"
Elizabeth stepped forward, lifting her chin with confidence she did not own.
"Yes. Is there a problem?"
*Where did that courage even come from?!*
One of the chefs cleared his throat.
The violet-eyed young man—Edward—stared at her as if an angel had descended from the heavens carrying sugar and vanilla.
"And you believe you can fix it?"
the Head Chef asked slowly.
"Yes."
She answered far too quickly—before her brain could escape.
He stared at her.
Long.
Far too long.
Then suddenly—
"You're… Elizabeth, aren't you?"
She stiffened.
Oh no.
"The maid responsible for the young master's medicine?"
Inside her head:
Oh great.
I'm famous now.
Is this the stage where people start asking for autographs?
"Yes. That's me."
She smiled faintly.
He crossed his arms again.
"And how is he today?"
She answered smoothly:
"Stable… and he took his medicine on time."
A lie, obviously.
He almost killed me five minutes ago.
The Head Chef hummed, as if evaluating a medical report rather than a dessert.
Then he turned to the others.
"Very well. I'll let you try."
Edward gasped softly.
He looked at her with gratitude so intense he nearly teared up.
But the Head Chef added, pointing a warning finger:
"If you fail—"
He stepped closer.
"You will take full responsibility."
Elizabeth swallowed.
Then smiled confidently.
On the outside.
On the inside:
Cake.
Finally… pure, uncomplicated hell.
She walked to the table, rolled up her sleeves, and stared down at the sugary disaster before her.
"Alright…" she muttered.
"Let's see what a famous maid can do…"
Then, quietly—
"…before an angry Marchioness has me executed."
She froze.
Staring at the ruined cake—
she no longer saw the palace kitchen.
She saw her old workplace.
Her restaurant.
From her previous life.
Harsh fluorescent lights.
Sticky floors.
And—
"Soo-riiiiiiiin!!
You useless idiot! Who told you to burn the chocolate like that?!"
The old head chef's voice struck her mind like a slap.
She clapped her hands over her ears without thinking, bending slightly, her eyes trembling.
Not now…
Not now…
"Hurry up!"
"The Marchioness arrives tomorrow morning!"
"What do we do?!"
The voices overlapped.
But this time—
they weren't yelling at her.
They were begging.
She slowly lifted her head.
Everyone was looking at her.
The chefs.
The apprentices.
Even Edward—with his violet eyes—stared at her as if she were humanity's final hope.
She paused.
Then—
she smiled.
A small smile.
Then wider.
Then the smile of someone who had just tasted power for the first time.
Ah.
This feeling… is nice.
She cleared her throat deliberately.
Placing one hand on her hip, she raised her index finger like a battlefield commander.
"Alright. Listen carefully."
Everyone snapped to attention.
Even the pots seemed to fall silent.
"You."
She pointed at a chef.
"Lower oven temperature. I don't want a single burn mark."
"Yes!"
"And you—"
She turned to an apprentice.
"Bring real dark chocolate. Not that sugar-crying excuse."
"Right away!"
Then she looked at Edward.
"You're with me."
Edward: 😳
"Y–Yes, ma'am!"
Inside her mind—
memory pages flipped rapidly.
The chocolate I loved.
The recipe I made after exhausting shifts.
A dessert that saved terrible days.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment.
Then spoke with quiet confidence.
"We're making a dense chocolate cake.
Not flashy.
Not complicated.
A honest cake."
The Head Chef frowned.
"But the Marchioness's recipe—"
She interrupted calmly. Regally.
"Sometimes… people with power don't actually know what they want."
Then she smiled.
"But I do."
A heavy silence fell.
And then—
movement.
Elizabeth took the bowl, broke the chocolate with steady hands—
as if every scream from her past melted along with it.
She was no longer the girl who got scolded.
She was—
the temporary queen of the kitchen. 👑🍫
The kitchen turned into a true beehive.
The sound of whisking.
The clatter of spoons.
Steam rising—as if even spirits had gathered to watch.
And Elizabeth—
stood at the center.
She moved with the confidence of someone who, at this precise moment, knew no fear.
When she added the final touch—
a dusting of dark cocoa,
a line of chocolate gleaming like a black mirror—
she stepped back, rolled up her sleeves, and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.
She smiled.
"…Done."
Then she turned sharply.
Her gaze swept over everyone—cool, assessing—before she spoke in a deliciously arrogant tone, raising her hand and gesturing grandly:
"You idiots…
you're genuinely impressive."
Silence.
Then—
they exploded.
Applause.
Tears.
Someone actually gasped.
"Thank you!"
"You saved us!"
"The Marchioness will cry with joy!"
Elizabeth?
She swelled.
Swelled a lot.
She lifted her chin, clasped her hands behind her back, and paced slowly—
like a queen inspecting her subjects.
Yes, yes… know your place.
They prepared the tea.
Arranged the plates.
Set the tray as if it were an offering to a goddess.
When they carried the cake away toward the Marchioness,
Elizabeth stepped aside, watching them go with a satisfied smile.
She finally exhaled.
That… calmed me down a little.
Just a little.
But the smile slowly faded.
Because the problem—
wasn't here.
Her mind whispered coldly:
The medicine.
Evening was approaching.
And the time to deliver Adrian's medicine had not changed.
She swallowed.
This time…
He won't be a gentle patient.
There won't be a coughing fit to save me.
Her limbs trembled.
And her neck—
still remembered his grip.
She forced a tight smile, as if trying to deceive herself.
Well done, Elizabeth.
You saved everyone today…
Then the thought followed:
But who's going to save you tonight?
---
In the evening,
the door of the basement laundry room was shut tight.
The cold was merciless, seeping through the stone walls like a living thing.
The maids' fingers reddened, their cheeks flushed pink, their breaths rising in small clouds.
Cold water.
Heavy fabrics.
And the sound of scrubbing— scrub… scrub…
like a slow, merciless clock.
Lucy was there.
The moment Elizabeth saw her—
she lunged forward.
"Luuucy—!"
She wrapped her arms around her tightly, burying her face in her shoulder and—
started crying.
Was it sincere?
No.
Tactical.
Inside Elizabeth's mind, a full strategic board unfolded:
Plan One: Crocodile Tears + Emotional Pleading.
Lucy is kind. She'll soften. She'll come with me. I'll survive.
Lucy gasped, startled, hands hovering awkwardly.
"E-Elizabeth? What's wrong? Are you okay?"
Elizabeth lifted her head, eyes shimmering with tears, voice utterly broken.
"Lucy… please. Just today… come with me to the master's wing when I deliver the medicine. I—I'm scared."
Silence.
Then—
Lucy lowered her head.
Tears welled in her eyes too.
"I want to… I really do. But I have work tonight. I was assigned to clean the back storage room. I can't leave it… I'm sorry…"
Shattered.
Elizabeth's eyes widened in shock.
No.
No no no.
This isn't the script.
She stepped back, turned slowly toward the wash basin, grabbed a heavy bedsheet—
and began scrubbing furiously.
While crying.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Tears fell into the water.
Lucy approached her anxiously.
"Eliz… why don't you want to go alone? Is there… something scary?"
Elizabeth froze.
A lie. I need a lie.
She shrugged weakly, voice hoarse.
"It's nothing… it's just… the air there is suffocating. The master… he's very quiet. It feels hard to breathe."
The maids exchanged glances.
Krista stepped closer, frowning.
"The young master? I've never seen him. What does he really look like?"
Nelmin tilted her head, curious.
"They say he's very handsome… absurdly so. Is that true~?"
Margaret whispered as she wrung out a cloth.
"And the wing? Is it as terrifying as they say?"
Elizabeth stiffened.
Don't tell the truth.
Don't say he smiles before he kills.
She smiled faintly—half lie, half nervous breakdown.
"He's… polite. Quiet."
Then she added softly:
"That's what scares me."
Krista chuckled lightly.
"You're exaggerating."
Nelmin shrugged.
"If he were dangerous, they wouldn't let us near him."
Lucy squeezed Elizabeth's hand gently.
"You'll be fine. I promise."
Hands returned to scrubbing.
Water splashed over the stone floor.
The voices lowered—
then the whispers began.
The kind of whispers used only when a name is dangerous.
"Did you hear?"
"Tomorrow morning…"
"She's finally coming back…"
Elizabeth stopped scrubbing without realizing.
Her head tilted slightly—ears switching to spy mode.
The Marchioness.
She swallowed.
The Marchioness?
The Marquis' wife?… Adrian's mother?
Krista whispered,
"She's been away from the manor for a long time. Some say the countryside, others the capital. She loves traveling."
Nelmin replied in an even lower voice,
"But one thing's certain… her relationship with the young master is very good."
Elizabeth's spine went cold.
Very good?
She raised an eyebrow slowly, then turned to them suddenly with an innocent smile—
far too innocent.
"Oh… the Marchioness?"
Her tone was pure naive maid curiosity.
"I didn't know she was coming. What is she like? I mean… her personality?"
The girls exchanged glances.
Margaret wiped her hands on her apron.
"Very beautiful. Elegant. Nothing like the young master's quietness."
Nelmin smiled faintly.
"And she loves order. Very much."
Loves order.
Good relationship with Adrian.
Absent for a long time.
In Elizabeth's mind, question marks piled up like unwashed dishes.
"And is she…"
she asked with feigned hesitation,
"close to the young master?"
A brief silence fell.
Then Lucy said calmly, as if stating a known fact:
"She's the only person who can scold him… without him smiling."
Oh.
Elizabeth swallowed slowly.
So she isn't a victim.
She isn't ignorant.
She isn't distant.
And in her mind, a dangerous thought took shape:
If Adrian is a monster…
then what is the woman who raised him?
She lowered her gaze back to the sheet in her hands and whispered inwardly:
Tomorrow…
a new player enters this hell.
Then Andrew's voice rang through the corridor like a final verdict.
"Elizabeth. It's time for the young master's medicine."
Her heart stopped.
Then he added, in cold professional calm, handing her a mop and a bucket:
"After that, you'll clean the shelves in his study. He wants no disturbance today—just dust off the books. Do not touch anything else."
She nodded.
Hard.
Too hard.
As if her head alone was trying to escape.
She took the medicine tray…
the bucket…
the mop…
and left her soul behind in the laundry room.
One step.
Then another.
Her feet?
Gravestones.
This is it.
The scene where the secondary female character dies.
I didn't even write a will!
Or apologize to Lucy!
Or eat the dessert I made!
She started climbing the stairs.
Step.
Step.
Inside her head, an emergency meeting convened:
— Option One: Run.
Rejected. Manor = maze. Adrian = hunter.
— Option Two: Stare at the wall and contemplate death.
Currently in progress.
She reached the upper floor.
Stopped in front of his wing.
The same door.
The same silence.
The same monster.
She gripped the tray until her knuckles turned white.
Alright, Elizabeth…
Deep breath…
You're not So-rin now…
You're a thin, poor, insignificant maid—exactly what killers love most: easy prey.
She swallowed.
Then whispered to herself:
"If I die… let it be after cleaning the library. At least I'll die useful."
She knocked.
A light knock.
One second.
Two.
Then his voice came from inside—calm, warm, terribly gentle:
"Come in."
She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second.
God… if you exist…
now would be a great time.
And she opened the door.