Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

"It's because it knows that the person in front of it is protecting it so it can survive in this city. Some whips fall on its body, some on its heart; isn't this the kind of discipline we Dikbatov family members endure?"

Theodore's pupils contracted, and the alcohol-reddened cheeks instantly lost their color. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out; he could only watch as his sister slowly reached out her hand.

"Don't touch me, you born monster! I... I don't need your pity!"

The man abruptly slapped Eliza's outstretched hand away, the crisp sound echoing in the room. A red mark immediately appeared on the girl's fair hand, but she simply withdrew her hand gently, curling her fingertips into her palm as if touching a burn.

"monster?"

Eliza smiled, a smile so tender it dimmed the firelight in the fireplace. "Yes, we are all monsters. Mother was a monster when she killed someone with a curtain needle, my sister was a monster when she jumped from the clock tower, and I was a monster when I had a fit and screamed on stage."

With each word she spoke, she took a step forward, and Theodore von unconsciously took a step back. Those deliberately buried family secrets were now being exposed like rotten fruit, exuding a nauseating sweetness.

"Get out of my way! Someone like you, who inherited tainted blood, will go mad sooner or later. The more remarkable one's talent, the uglier the resulting madness. I shouldn't be jealous, yes, yes, I shouldn't be jealous!"

Suddenly, drawing strength from who knows where, he grabbed the girl's collar, squeezed it tightly, and lifted her into the air.

Breathing was restricted, and the pain of suffocation brought forth physical tears, but Eliza's eyes showed no fear as she stared intently at her brother's distorted face.

“You see, brother…you’ve always been afraid of becoming like Mother,” she managed to squeeze out. “So you drink, you run away, you take all the pressure out on me…because you think that if I behave perfectly enough, the curse of the Dikbatov family will disappear.”

As his words faded and his breath grew weaker, Theodore seemed oblivious, instead gripping that pale skin even tighter. "Monster, your words cannot bewitch me."

"Let go." The pure white coat swept over the shredded pieces, and as the girl showed signs of pain, the doctor's cold voice was already close to her ears.

"Who do you think you are? Meddling in everything, without any restraint." Ignoring him, he gritted his teeth and asked, spitting on the other's face, "A savior? Or...?"

The words stopped abruptly.

Theodore suddenly widened his eyes and looked down in disbelief—a scalpel was pressed against his throat, the tip of which had already pierced through his expensive silk vest.

“I said,” in the morning light, those amber eyes revealed an inhuman coldness, “let go.”

The man sobered up considerably in an instant, slowly releasing Eliza, his Adam's apple bobbing laboredly beneath the blade: "You're insane. You know who I am..."

“A pathetic wretch who relies on his sister to maintain his dignity.” Charlotte applied slight pressure, and beads of blood seeped from the blade. “Now, get out.”

Just as she had been told at the beginning, the last vestige of respect for a healer had been completely transformed into contempt. If anyone repeatedly failed to show humility and propriety, then Isabella would teach him the true meaning of decorum.

Hastily letting go, the man stumbled away, not even bothering to wipe the blood from his neck.

"You think this is the end? She's the same, just like all Dikbatovs. I hope you can still keep this saintly face by then."

He was so certain, as if he had known the truth about hysteria from the very beginning.

Ignoring these harsh words, Charlotte simply turned and supported the swaying Eliza. Clear finger marks were already visible on the girl's neck, and her eyes were heartbreakingly calm.

"Why, brother, would you rather believe in a curse than believe that I can get better?"

It was a soft murmur.

“Because fear blinds the eyes, and jealousy burns the heart,” the doctor replied softly, taking out a cold compress from his medicine box. “People would rather believe in fate than face a reality that can be changed.”

“Some people need reasons to justify their misfortunes.” The minty coolness of the ointment on his fingertips was gently applied to the girl’s skin. “But for your brother, Theodore, a curse is more acceptable than incompetence.”

"He was unwilling to impart his singing talent, he needed Dikbatov's reputation, but he could not accept his own obscurity. In comparison, coupled with the pressure of his circumstances, people's hearts would always stray."

The fingertips jerked, the burn marks left by the electric shocks mingling with the newly added scars, all vividly clear.

"Does it hurt?"

"of course not."

Eliza raised her pretty face, tears washing away her makeup and revealing a sickly pallor. Her almost bloodless cheeks, however, were flushed with the doctor's concern.

"Don't worry about me, Dr. Bella. These scars are marks we share, like the red spots left on your body from that plague."

She took the beautiful woman's arm by her finger, seemingly not heartbroken by her lost beauty, but rather overjoyed at her resemblance to Bella.

"My brother's certainty, the family curse, Dr. Bella, do you still believe I can recover?"

“I believe in you.” Their eyes met, and Charlotte, without a hint of hesitation, simply responded. “Not any baseless rumors or medical predictions.”

"What's more-"

Holding the silver mask in her fingertips, she gently peeled it off, revealing all the answers with her flawless face.

"I also hope that you can recover and be well, just like me."

Yes, she decided to tell the blue morpho butterfly the whole truth.

Chapter 183 Eliza's Destiny

Eliza von Dikbatov.

This is my name, the name of a girl born on the death of her older sister.

When I was little, I read a story about a princess who slept on a hundred mattresses but couldn't sleep because of a single pea.

Her father called her a true princess, a woman with aristocratic spirit and the most delicate skin in the world. He said I had to become such a lady, with keen sensibility, yet still maintaining politeness.

But am I that princess? Or am I just a laughable, unnoticed pea under a hundred mattresses?

The white gauze brushed against her fingertips, relieving a slight itch. The black-haired girl raised her head and looked at the gentle, unchanged face before her.

Unparalleled drama, a born star, an immersive singing experience.

This is my label, both critically acclaimed and commercially successful.

My mother has held me since birth; she always instinctively embraces her child when she is sad. Theodore von has grown up, while Beatrice has died young.

She kept telling me—you must be careful, you must be mindful, you must not let anyone see your vulnerability, you must not embarrass yourself in public, you must not cry, you must not scream, and you must not tremble or lose control...

The 'true self' is dirty; you cannot reveal it, or it will hurt you or kill you.

At that time, I couldn't understand my mother's meaning. Curses and rules, self-concealment—all of this was too complicated for a child.

Until her father died from a curtain needle, her eldest sister jumped from the top of the clock tower, and she herself perished in a spring fire.

At this moment, the curse was truly passed down from the grandmother and mother to the Ditasdorf family.

Not only those who have passed away, but also my mother's doctor, the gardener in the house, Emma who accompanied me as I grew up, and even those small animals kept in cages—from water to fire, worlds apart, but ultimately all tragic deaths.

They are all dead.

My childhood has come to an end.

As the opera's chapters turn to the next page, another figure appears in the faded memories.

"You need to stand on your tiptoes a hundred times for every hundred times you need to do it."

Uncle Hall leaned against the wall in the foyer, looking so imposing and intimidating.

I once respected him, and I also feared him. He seemed so tall and imposing before me, more oppressive than mountains or magnificent palaces. He terrified me and exhausted me.

He is a frequent visitor in my nightmares.

In the dream, he was not just himself; behind him stretched a banquet hall. It was vast and beautiful, filled with people in gorgeous clothes, their faces blurred, all gazing at me silently, with a mixture of eagerness and terror.

Sometimes I am barefoot, sometimes naked, sometimes with disheveled hair, and sometimes I am ill—always busy covering myself up.

Lost tablecloths, old pajamas, stained sheets—those so-called filth, those unseemly things—were packed into bundles and thrown over the back wall. Who picked them up, just to create a perfect image?

But are these things really important?

They are quiet, they make no demands, they are even sincere, asking for the least.

It's just a small stone, living in fantasy, lying at the bottom of a river or in the cracks between railway tracks.

They won't cause any major trouble, nor will they be the last straw that breaks the camel's back, but when Mr. Hall's banquet hall weighs on me, they will crawl into my shoes, adding minor annoyances to my great suffering.

People began to look at me with pity and curiosity. I was so pitiful, yet so rich and abundant, and those with sons of marriageable age began to stir.

I lost all my support, all my relatives, and only my still young brother, with a heavy heart, took over the burden of the family business.

"Oh... my poor little Eliza, how could such a sad thing happen..."

"Your father, your mother, and then Beatrice..."

Uncle Hall held a white handkerchief to wipe away his tears. His full face was slightly flushed, like a heat rash. He was so light and lively that he even seemed a little ridiculous.

Was he such a cheerful and kind person in the past? Where is that stern and unapproachable person I remembered from my childhood?

I thanked him, shook his hand, and comforted him in his grief. Is this the Hall my father saw?

I am no longer a child; I have grown up, and he has changed his attitude towards me.

Yes, even though I have never actually performed in a single play, even though I was only fourteen years old, my fame as an actress has already overshadowed my famous mother, and I have worn the accolades of opera star and the laurel wreath of 'Salome' on my head.

I am neither an unknown supporting character nor a poet who drowned himself in the river due to frustration. My arrival made the spring banquet of the social season shine, and noble ladies from prominent families rushed to learn my demeanor and elegance.

However, it was too heavy and too painful. My hands and feet ached, and my eyes were swollen. Even putting cotton pads under my heels didn't help. The shoes rubbed my feet raw. I couldn't digest the cake and roasted chicken because they were too dry, and my stomach felt astringent.

But the guests downstairs were waiting for me, and I had to change into a new dress and go back to the banquet hall to say goodbye and thank everyone for coming to celebrate my growth, even though I hadn't slept well for months.

So on that day, I finally vomited, like the initial symptoms of hysteria, like the beginning of a curse. People talked about it, and rumors swirled, adding a bright stain to Dikbatov's reputation.

Count Hall intensified my training, my elder brother had a long and earnest talk with me, and arranged for me to have a series of professional doctors.

But do they know that I was just tired, so tired that I couldn't control my body?

From that day on, a hazy ghost in my dreams took my hand, and I heard my mother's voice, and Beatrice's comforting words. Their voices were soft and distant, as if floating on the other side of the clouds.

I couldn't help but reach out and touch them.

The charming spirits are adept at flattery, singing and dancing, upright conduct, coquettishness, and literature; they are like noisy mosquitoes, never fading away from our ears.

However, I had an idea—to invite active wandering spirits to come into my body, whether they wanted to or not.

When strange sensations rise, overflowing emotions and sincerity flow from my eyes and mouth in another guise. Different postures and gestures alternate, and the singing is both plaintive and poignant. They are perfectly capable of handling those difficult tasks.

I can rest now.

I can finally rest.

......

A jumble of memories and emotions mingled together, and as the wandering spirits gradually enveloped me, taking over social engagements, stage performances, this and that, the part that belonged to Eliza grew ever thinner.

Yes, I did it on my own initiative. I am aware of the greed of the wandering spirits. They covet my body and want to return to the world of the living every moment to prove their existence.

But I don't care, and nobody else cares. All my brother and uncle need is a perfect doll, and I'm happy to abandon sight and sound, give up myself, and become a muse in the eyes of the world.

That's how it should be, that's indeed how it should be, however—

“Sir, I think you shouldn’t be too harsh on a young lady, especially one who has caught a cold and is performing in the early spring wind.”

Outside, wind and rain raged; inside, the courtyard was silent. On the backdrop of the oil painting, another person appeared.

She wasn't an unpleasant visitor, just a doctor who witnessed suffering and indulged in kindness.

She only introduced herself by her first name, unlike those complicated and tedious surnames. She said her name was Isabella, simple and innocent.

How strange! She knew nothing about Florence, nothing about Dikbatov, and even very little about opera. She just happened to be on that tour by chance.

That is precisely why her purity and preciousness are all the more apparent.

Dr. Bella did not treat me with the same level of intimacy as she usually does because of my status. From beginning to end, she treated me as just one of her many patients, with a calm and gentle demeanor. She did not pay special attention to me, nor did she ever ignore me.

She never wore makeup and always appeared with a bare face. She wore a long gown and was honest and upright. She was not affected by the gossip of others and only used her own eyes and ears to see the world clearly.

She was fearless of authority and indifferent to wealth, devoting herself solely to the well-being of the people. Like the clearest mirror in this filthy city, she reflected the ugly faces of all the wicked.

She ventured into danger alone, undeterred by any schemes or plots. The plague raging in the outer city, the hideous red spots, and the burning pain in her lungs could not deter her. Even with her face half-disfigured, she still revealed the truth in the council hall with a calm tone and cultivated hope day and night with her skillful hands and eyes.

She saved tens of thousands of lives. She is a hero, not only in the hearts of the people, but also an irreplaceable doctor in my mind.

Yet she was never arrogant or self-satisfied, nor did she boast of her greatness. The waves of the world seemed unable to stir a ripple in her eyes. However, I was selfish enough to want to see more and more of her concern and care for me on her face.

Spring banquets, the accusations of noblewomen, the shoving of others—I've experienced too much of this, and I've become accustomed to using my wandering spirit to disguise my own perfection. However, perhaps the long-term substitution has confused my senses, and I momentarily lost control, unable to control my body.

I lost my elegance, revealed my ugly side, and inevitably received ridicule. I had no hope, but she appeared in front of me again, took my hand, put her arm around my waist, and with an indomitable spirit, cut through the hypocrisy of those nobles, looking down on the crowd with an unprecedented coldness.

How carefree and unrestrained, how captivating!

Nestled in her arms, an indescribable sense of peace and warmth washed away my initial panic, allowing me to truly feel my own infatuation.

Is this love?

The love stories in the poems and operas are too beautiful and unlike the reality of life. I have never been able to empathize with them. But after meeting her and Dr. Bella, the descriptions of the female characters in those plays kept appearing in my mind.

The public medical consultation, my brother's entrustment and plea—I knew I would inevitably suffer torment, but I didn't care. Because the doctor had promised me she would be a safety rope, a straw on the bank, to pull me out of the mud.

Behind the curtain, in the small room, with only our breathing between us, she showed an unprecedented panic because of my rambling and sobbing. She remained silent for a long time because of the physical contact and our interactions outside of doctor and patient, and finally, she compromised and went along with my little scheme.