Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

Just like the message at the very end of that letter, the kind doctor said:

"I'm sorry, I accidentally killed this little flower. If it were the kind-hearted Zelena, she would surely forgive me with a smile."

Chapter 173 Another Kiss

As the sun dipped westward, the glittering golden hall was bathed in light, the kerosene lamps on the ceiling refracting their light into ten colors, casting it onto the long table covered with velvet.

Portraits of past patriarchs are displayed on both sides, their cold gazes looking down upon the elegant guests in the hall.

On the candlesticks, silver cutlery gleamed, while porcelain plates were piled high with foie gras drizzled with truffle sauce, translucent caviar, rose-colored venison, and rare fruits brought from the south. Each dish was as exquisite as a work of art.

Champagne bubbled gently in slender stemmed glasses, nobles chatted hushedly, feather fans fluttered softly, and jewels glittered in the candlelight.

The air was thick with the luxurious scents of perfume, cosmetics, and food, mixed with a subtle sense of oppression—here, every glance, every word, every smile concealed a scheme.

Tonight, all eyes are on one person—Eliza Dikbadov, Florence's most dazzling opera star, hailed as Salome's virtuous daughter.

She wore a hazy blue court dress with a lace stand-up collar that hugged her swan-like neck, and the recesses of her collarbones held candlelight like two forgotten silver spoons.

The noblewoman's pale complexion resembled a glaze applied with pearl powder, and the shadows cast by her eyelashes had a pale purple tinge, making one wonder if she might melt away at any moment.

Her slender fingers, clasped together in front of her skirt, had bluish veins winding beneath her almost transparent skin, as if even a slightly heavy breath would shatter those fragile blue veins.

Her azure pupils opened and closed, reflecting the flickering light of a dying lamp, yet a sickly red tinged the corners of her eyes, like cinnabar seeping from white porcelain glaze. Her waist was bound so tightly by whalebone that it could not be encircled by a single hand, the ribbon tied behind her back like a dying butterfly, trembling slightly with each cough—even her cough was delicate, concealed by a handkerchief embroidered with lavender, a pale crimson stain spreading across it.

It inevitably brings to mind the blue morpho butterflies pinned to specimen frames in medieval oil paintings.

"Look, our 'Salome' has finally arrived!"

The Duchess's welcoming voice was as sweet as honey as she took Eliza's arm and pulled her into the center of the crowd.

With some resistance and some restraint, Eliza glanced around, seemingly trying to find a beautiful figure, but she couldn't find her no matter how she looked, and her pale smile returned to her face.

The curve of her lips and the arch of her eyebrows were undoubtedly the result of numerous practice sessions in front of the mirror—approachable yet elegant. She performed a perfect curtsy, her skirt spreading out on the ground like flower petals.

"Duchess, your dinner was even more amazing than I had heard."

“My dear, without your singing, even the most splendid banquet lacks a soul.”

With each response, the nobles gathered around, showering the speaker with praise—

"Miss Eliza, your 'La Traviata' brought tears to my eyes!"

"I've already booked a box for the new opera next month!"

"Your voice is a gift from heaven!"

Eliza responded with a smile, each reply flawless. But no one noticed that the girl's fingertips trembled slightly, and her back was ramrod straight, as if it might break at any moment.

She had just finished six hours of rehearsal last night, and a burning pain still lingered deep in her throat.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer raised his glass to her. "Miss Dikbadov, I heard you will be performing in a new opera at the Royal Opera next month?"

"Yes, sir. Psyche Bound, a brand new opera."

The up-and-coming nobleman toasted her, "Ms. Eliza, how is your elder brother doing lately? I wonder when he plans to invest; opportunities don't wait for anyone."

"My elder brother always has his own ideas, so please bear with him when he visits you all."

His piercing gaze lingered on her slender neck.

The trend is toward merger.

"Of course, we will be more patient, even just for your sake."

"You're overly flattering."

The clamor of voices filled the air. People living here went in and out of the same beautiful houses, and the gaps in social status were smoothed out like frosting on a cake. Artworks became icons, and everyone was mesmerized—scrambling for those beautiful, dazzling things that could be savored repeatedly.

Dickbadov, and now Eliza, are symbols of this leisure and interest. Pitiful enough, amusing enough, deserving of the name—fitting their lineage, fitting expectations, for everyone tells them that madness is a gift they were born with.

'Fighting against madness' is her dignified courtesy; she understands why a work of art is cherished and knows how to command a high price.

The musician's fingertips touched the strings, playing an elegant and solemn dance tune. It was neither light nor lenient, but rather a commanding prompt, drifting down from the second floor. People consciously vacated the central area of ​​the hall, retreating like the tide to different corners around it.

“Sing us a song, my dear,” the Duchess said, patting her arm lightly with her nail-painted fingers. Her tone was light, yet it sounded like an impatient urging.

The music rose and fell, growing ever higher. Some graceful figures rose first and stepped onto the central dance floor. Figures mingled, their black leather shoes and white high heels creating a symphony on the polished floor.

Suits and evening gowns complemented each other as they danced gracefully, sometimes in rectangles, sometimes in circles. Ladies in dresses danced in the center, twirling their lace-trimmed skirts into colorful flowers, as if a provocative act of stealing the show, as if the world's eager gazes were clinging to the young girls' skin.

No one stood by her side. In the flickering candlelight, her uncle watched coldly, her friends were indifferent, and everything she had was built on a mirage.

"The pitch is off."

"The dance steps are wrong."

"Chest not held high enough, back not straight enough."

There seemed to be a jumble of voices echoing in Eliza's ears, and there seemed to be endless criticism and accusations. Everything had returned to the beginning, to that miserable and numb day after day.

The deceased mother, the departed father, the murdered sister—they wept, screamed, bled, and laughed, revealing their faces before them.

As the piano prelude began, the burning pain in her throat suddenly became tangible.

The moment the first note escaped her throat, she saw beads of blood seep from her lips, dripping onto her snow-white lace collar, like red plum blossoms falling on the snow.

“Vissi d'arte......” Her voice was still clear as a spring, but with a barely perceptible tremor.

The ladies' feather fans paused in mid-air, the gentlemen's wine glasses hovered at their lips—they were waiting, waiting for that high note that would put all opera singers to shame.

"Aim higher, be more perfect, or they will abandon you, just like they abandoned your mother."

Unable to distinguish truth from falsehood, unable to discern light from shadow, these faces of admiration seemed to twist into the true form of a nightmare in an instant—the Chancellor's mouth split open to his ears, maggots crawling out of the eye sockets of the up-and-coming nobles, and the Duchess's pearl necklace turning into a string of skulls.

"Do not......"

She tried to speak, but the sound caught in her throat, turning into a sob.

The pianist slowed the tempo in bewilderment, and this subtle mistake elicited a knowing glance from the guests—look, the Dickbadov family's madness is beginning to take hold.

The slender girl touched her forehead. Even though her dance steps were off, she was still graceful and beautiful. She staggered and swayed. She tripped over her skirt and fell down the steps, looking pitiful and pathetic.

"Dickbardov, Miss Dickbardov?!"

The startled audience members shrieked softly. These guests seemed to only show different expressions when the unexpected actually happened. They huddled together anxiously, and there was not much they could do but express the necessary humanistic concern.

"By the goddess above, she's fainted again..."

"She should have smelling salts on her, find them quickly..."

Eliza's eyelashes fluttered like the wings of a dying butterfly, and she felt the cool marble floor against her cheek, a touch gentler than anyone else's.

The exclamations, footsteps, and the rustling of skirts all seemed distant, as if separated by a thick layer of frosted glass, cold and cruel.

Yes, who truly cares about themselves? Who, after discarding this physical body and this laughable title, can still look at themselves without selfishness?

Even her only hope was not shown any mercy by the kind doctor, who did not stop in front of her.

Why is it that, when they can selflessly give kindness to every patient, they can't extend a helping hand to her again?

There was no one there, not a single person. Through her blurry vision, she saw countless faces looking down at her—those meticulously groomed faces filled with feigned concern, yet unable to conceal the excitement gleaming in their eyes.

This unexpected event was more dramatic than any opera, enough to keep them talking about for an entire social season.

Hands, dirty hands, rough hands, reached for her dress, for the ribbons covering her smooth white dress.

"Do not touch me!"

Pushing aside the men's 'polite' outstretched hands, Eliza struggled to stand up, but kicked over the silver kettle the waiter had brought. The icy water soaked through her petticoat, making her look like a cat that had fallen into the water.

The upstart aristocrat crouched down, his eyes gleaming with a sickly light. "Would you like me to carry you to the lounge, Miss Dickbardov?" His knuckles were already on the girl's exposed shoulders, carrying a nauseating warmth.

"Sir, please stop."

Finally, a cold voice broke the established atmosphere.

Half of her face was covered by a silver mask, the other half by a beautiful face. Her chestnut-colored short hair fell to her neck, giving her a crisp and decisive air.

She wore a cold-colored gown, which was out of place with the glittering decorations. She did not approach the decaying cluster and was also an existence excluded from the group.

With his eyes narrowed and brows sharp as swords, this tall and upright figure simply stepped forward and snorted coldly, causing the surrounding nobles to unconsciously take a half-step back.

It's no wonder they were blind and timid; the dark gray vest and crisp trousers made the former appear exceptionally powerful, like a scalpel drawn from its sheath, sharp and inhuman. Even with a beautiful face, it was difficult to suppress their instinctive fear.

She is Charlotte, Isabella, and the kind healer.

"Bella, doctor."

Like a drowning person grasping at straws on a bank, Eliza's eyes regained their color.

The doctor's fingertips landed on the girl's neck, the touch as cold as ice, yet it brought a sense of comfort to Eliza's warm skin.

"I'm here."

Without uttering any further words, Charlotte simply whispered in the ear, took the poor girl's arm in hers, and cradled the beautiful yet fragile butterfly as her only support.

In truth, though she had missed the peak of the event, she had arrived at the banquet early in the morning, but remained behind the scenes, watching the drama unfold. Perhaps she was no different from these nobles who were coldly mocking her; they were simply different in their perspectives, and she became the salvation of the people before her.

How pitiful! She could have stopped him from losing his composure much sooner, but she chose to wait until her friend showed his most vulnerable side before stepping forward alone, becoming the only one going against the tide.

Without a doubt, Charlotte is also a wicked woman, but she knows how to distinguish between situations and prioritize tasks.

Yes, after completing her promotion and joining the Steam Church, she no longer needed to rely on public opinion. Public sentiment was an invincible weapon. However, the healer also had a kind heart and couldn't bear to leave the beautiful and dependent butterfly alone.

Well then, the healer's symphony has come to its final note. Since I've been so overly compassionate, let me be your only salvation.

She reached out her fingertips and gently brushed Eliza's sweaty forehead, tucking a stray strand of black hair behind her ear. The gesture was so practiced, as if she had repeated it a thousand times.

"Breathe, slowly..." Charlotte's voice was very low, only the former could hear it.

“I’m sorry, Eliza, I’m late. You’ve been subjected to this condemnation of your gaze and this indifferent indifference.”

His eyes were lowered, and the dark color of his pupils beneath his eyelashes revealed his apology.

The newly emerged aristocrat, undeterred, pressed closer, saying, "In this kind of situation, a gentleman's consideration is still necessary..."

"Do I need to repeat the provisions of the Physician Act, you nice guy?" Charlotte didn't even look up, her left hand still firmly supporting Eliza's nape, while her right hand pulled off the mask, revealing a corner of a hideous red spot.

"You, you, you are!"

Almost scrambling back, the latter retreated several steps in a panic, his face pale as he pointed at the beautiful woman, unable to utter a word.

The epidemic in the outer city caused a great upheaval, but when one's gaze falls upon this courtyard, one only finds that the scenery remains unchanged, with gentle breezes and bright sunshine.

How ironic.

With a slight smile, Charlotte put her mask back on and pulled Eliza even closer to her.

Eliza's pale fingertips also gripped the front of the doctor's coat; the familiar scent of wormwood mixed with disinfectant was the only light in her dark world.

"Doctor, thank you... but please don't linger on me. They're back, they're back again, those monsters, those paints... I'm afraid they'll hurt you."

"Don't be afraid." Warm breath brushed against the girl's sensitive earlobe. She looked around and questioned her in a cold voice.

"Gentlemen, if you have any conscience left, please do not ignore a virtuous lady. Epilepsy will make her overthink, and staring at her will stimulate her instincts. She needs a towel to avoid biting herself."

As the words faded, no one responded. They were so terrified by that glimpse of the red spot that their legs went weak and they froze.

As the person in her arms grew increasingly uneasy, Charlotte could only lower her head and choose to cover that tempting glaze with a warm, damp patch.

It was a kiss on the lips.

Image: "Eliza", Location: "Images/1747005089-100417737-113344336.jpg"

P.S.: Thank you all for reading. Volume 2 is nearing its end, and we will reveal part of Charlotte's background and the corresponding world view later. Volume 3 will probably be the final volume, and the advancement will be faster.

Chapter 174 Resounding Remarks

The warm breath brushed against her eyelashes, and she felt the touch on her lips. Eliza opened her beautiful eyes wide, going from disbelief to complete immersion in the sensation.

The whispers in the banquet hall receded like the tide. In the small space created by the kiss, only their intertwined breaths remained.

Unfinished words and inner turmoil were all contained in the tenderness of this kiss. Charlotte could taste the lingering blood on the girl's lips, mixed with the slight intoxication of champagne at the banquet.

"Breathe." It was just a brief kiss, but the beautiful woman's expression remained calm, revealing the composure of a healer.

She whispered between breaths, her fingertips lightly tracing the pulse throbbing on the side of his neck, "Follow my rhythm."

Actually, I don't like kissing different girls on the same day.

Scent, texture, and experience are different for everyone. The lingering scent of one thing can overwhelm the unique fragrance of another, preventing her from fully enjoying it all.

Zelena's kiss carried the melancholy of solitude and the allure of passion, a faint glimmer of hope amidst despair, delicious and tempting. Eliza's glossy lips, with their cool body temperature and deep affection, represented the one to whom she placed her utmost admiration and trust, fragile yet tender.