She tugged at Lorenzo's hand again, this time leading him toward the large wardrobe in the corner of the room. It was filled with expensive dresses in soft shades, pale pink, cream, light blue, everything feminine, elegant, and completely unlike her.
She brushed her fingertips over one of the dresses. In her real world, her closet contained nothing but neat blouses and tailored trousers. Practical. Simple. Dresses? Only a few, and those were reserved for formal company events.
This body was truly her opposite. She then walked toward another wardrobe. Inside hung several men's shirts and trousers that were clearly not meant for her.
She remembered the storyline. Those clothes were ones she had bought for her fiancé, Leonardo, yet he had never worn them. In the novel, Leonardo always refused anything from Elena, as if every gift from her disgusted him.
A faint smirk curved Elena's lips. She took two shirts, one navy, one black. After a brief moment of consideration, she handed the navy one to Lorenzo.
"Wear this," she said casually. "And change your pants into these as well."
Her tone made it sound like a perfectly reasonable decision, not something strange at all. Lorenzo looked at the shirt in his hand, then back at Elena. The confusion on his face was unmistakable. Perhaps because he was used to receiving orders to be punished, not to be given fine clothing.
"Go on, change," Elena said with a light smile.
She gently pushed his shoulder, forcing him to take a few steps away. Lorenzo looked awkward, something she had never seen in the version of him Elena De Luca once knew.
How was this possible?
A woman who had always treated him like an object, someone whose clothes had been nothing more than discarded hand-me-downs from the household staff was suddenly giving him a brand-new shirt?
Lorenzo stared at the navy shirt in his hand for a few seconds longer before finally turning toward the bathroom. He did not ask questions, did not protest, he simply obeyed, as usual.
Meanwhile, Elena did something even more unexpected. She did not choose another dress. She did not touch the rows of expensive gowns filling her wardrobe.
Instead, she picked up the black shirt and the pair of men's trousers she had taken out earlier. Without hesitation, she changed out of her soaked pastel dress and into those clothes.
The shirt was clearly too big for her. The shoulders drooped slightly, and the hem nearly covered her thighs. The trousers were too long as well, falling over the tops of her feet.
Yet Elena felt comfortable. Far more comfortable than she ever had in a tight dress and high heels.
She rolled up the excess fabric at the bottom of the trousers, then pushed the sleeves of the shirt up to her elbows. Her hair, still slightly damp, she left loose without bothering to neaten it too much.
When the bathroom door opened, Lorenzo stepped out. He stopped short, his gaze unmistakably showing surprise.
The Elena he knew always appeared elegant, feminine, calculated in every detail of her appearance, expensive dresses, striking jewelry, high heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. But the woman standing before him now looked relaxed, almost like a different person.
"Let's go," Elena said lightly, as if nothing were unusual.
She reached for Lorenzo's hand again and pulled him out of the room. Lorenzo followed without resistance. His steps matched Elena's without many questions, though his mind was filled with confusion.
This change was too drastic. "Did the incident in the swimming pool truly shake her that much?"
"Or is this just another way for her to toy with me?" he wondered silently.
They walked down the stairs and headed toward the front yard. The night air felt colder than the inside of the party, which was filled with light and pretense.
A servant who saw them immediately approached, her face anxious. "Where are you going, Miss?" she asked carefully.
"Prepare the car. I'm going out," Elena replied firmly without slowing her steps.
The servant hesitated. "The event isn't over yet, Miss. Master will be angry if you leave just like this."
Elena stopped and turned slowly. Her gaze turned cold, sharp, heavy with pressure.
"Prepare the car," she repeated.
The servant remained silent, clearly conflicted.
Elena stepped closer. "Or would you like me to fire you?" she asked in a low voice.
The servant swallowed. "Oh," Elena continued without breaking eye contact, "or would you prefer your child to receive the punishment instead?"
The words slipped out calmly, without a trace of pity. The servant's face turned pale instantly. Lorenzo, standing beside Elena, remained silent as he observed everything. "So she's still the same Elena," he murmured inwardly. "Only slightly different."
Perhaps her clothes had changed. Perhaps the way she spoke to him had shifted. But that threatening tone, the way she pressured someone weaker, was exactly the same. Or perhaps she was simply planning something else entirely. And Lorenzo did not know whether tonight he was being taken to escape, or being led into a new, far more dangerous game.
**
The servant finally lowered his head and hurried off to prepare the car. It didn't take long before a black sedan stopped right in front of the main entrance.
Elena walked ahead, still pulling Lorenzo's hand without asking whether he was ready or not. She opened the passenger door and looked at him.
"Get in."
Her tone left no room for refusal. Lorenzo obeyed. He took the front seat, right beside the driver.
Elena suddenly paused and let out a short breath. "Wait."
She reopened the door she had just closed.
"Sit in the back!" she ordered firmly.
Lorenzo stepped out without protest and moved to the back seat. Deep inside, there was a desire to resist, to stop being a shadow that merely followed.
But he himself did not know who he was. His memories of the past were empty and blurred. The only person he had known since he opened his eyes was Elena.
Yes, Elena treated him arbitrarily. He was always the outlet for her anger. The whip was not merely for display. That cold gaze was nothing new.
Yet on the other hand, Elena had never let him starve. He was given proper meals. He had a place to stay, even if it was only a storage room that a kind maid later cleaned until it was comfortable enough to live in. The clothes he wore were secondhand and worn, but they were still wearable.
It was ironic. Elena was cruel, yet she had not completely discarded him.
Lorenzo stared ahead, his jaw tightening. "Until my memories return," he thought, "I will obey everything. After that, I will be the one who decides."
Elena got into the car and sat beside him. The door closed, the engine started.
"To the hospital," Elena said briefly to the driver.
The driver simply nodded and drove off without asking any questions. Throughout the journey, there was no conversation, only the soft hum of the engine and the occasional heavy breath escaping from Elena's chest. She stared out the window, watching the city lights pass by like elongated streaks of light.
Her mind was full. What was she supposed to do now? Change the course of the story? Or follow it until the very end, hoping there would be a gap, a way back to the real world?
"Usually, when someone enters a novel," she muttered inwardly, "there's a system."
She glanced around briefly, then closed her eyes.
"System," she called in her mind. "System?"
There was no voice. No transparent screen. No strange notification, only silence filling the space.
"System?" she tried again.
Still no answer. Elena cursed inwardly. "Damn it. There's no guidance at all."
She bit her lower lip, trying to think clearly. In many of the stories she had edited, characters who entered the world of a novel were always equipped with a system, some kind of guide, mission, or indicator to help them return to their original world. There were tasks to complete. Targets to achieve.
But ever since she had opened her eyes in the swimming pool earlier, there had been nothing to greet her. No mission. No mysterious voice. No countdown. Only a storyline she knew would end with her death.
"So what now?" she thought anxiously. "Am I truly alone here?"
The car continued to move through the night streets. Elena leaned her head back against the seat and stared at her faint reflection in the window. If there was no system to guide her, then the only thing she could rely on was her memory of this story.
And as an editor, she knew for certain,every story, no matter how brilliant the author, always had a loophole. A gap, a hidden thread that revealed the purpose behind everything. Including the reason she had entered this novel in the first place.