Two days passed by since Cassandra Feng awoke inside the frail body of Cassandra Bolton. She had sworn-sworn with blood and fury-to lock away her past, to bury the betrayal, the heartbreak, the unforgettable cruelty of her Master who had shattered her dantian and her life with one merciless strike. She told herself it was nothing but a nightmare, a phantom stitched from pain, one she would never drag into this new existence.

A past she would forget and erase as she started her new life given by fate.

But forgetting was a lie she told herself.

Every moment, every breath reminded her of what she had lost. The way her weak fists trembled when she clenched them, the helplessness of her fragile body, the fever simmering through her veins-it all pulled her mind back to what she once was: a blade sharpened by blood and discipline, not this pitiful porcelain doll in a viper's nest.

Living in the Bolton House was no different from being caged in a pit of serpents and wild beasts. One wrong move, one careless glance, and fangs would sink into her throat.

And still... she could not forget.

The man whom she gave her heart and soul to.

The man who put an end to her life with his own hands.

It had been two days since she was locked inside her room without food, or water. Her body burned with fever, her lips cracked, and her stomach twisted with hunger. She could only drink the water from the sink in the bathroom to quench her parched and burning throat.

Not even a servant came to check. From Cassandra Bolton's inherited memories, this neglect was nothing new-her mother, Karmilla Visent Bolton, loathed her very existence, reserving all her love for her precious son.

The fever grew worse. Her body shook with chills though fire coursed beneath her skin. She tried to drag herself to the window, but her limbs were lead, her vision spinning.

Never, not even when hunted by assassins or abandoned in blood-soaked battlefields, had she been reduced to this wretched state. Not after her Master rescued her and brought her back to the Sect with him.

And then, the thought slipped from her hazy mind-Master would never have let her...

Her heart clenched. Her lips bled as she bit down hard. No. She would not think of him. She would not think of the betrayal.

That life was dead.

They don't owe each other anything anymore.

She was Cassandra Bolton now.

And yet, no matter how fiercely she tried to lock it away, her memories clawed at her like chains dragging her deeper into despair.

Her fevered thoughts were broken by the sudden slam of her door.

The sound echoed like thunder in her skull.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, heavy with intent, closing in on her bed.

Her instincts screamed danger. Her body tried to rise, but it betrayed her-too weak, too frail, too broken to defend itself.

She could only weakly slip her hands underneath her pillow and clutch the dagger hidden underneath to protect herself.

The room seemed to grow darker, colder, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. Cassandra's blurry gaze fixed on the advancing figure, a silhouette swallowing the dim light.

The footsteps halted by her bedside. Cassandra's fever-clouded eyes struggled to focus, and when her vision steadied, she froze.

It was him.

Theodore Bolton.

Eldest son of House Bolton.

The undisputed Crown Prince of the long standing Bolton dynasty.

The Blood Prince of the underworld.

Her villainous big brother.

From Cassandra Bolton's inherited memories, he was a man of shadows-cruel, ruthless, untouchable. He had never spared his only sister more than a glance in their seventeen years of blood-bound relation. A stranger in the skin of family.

But now, as his gaze fell upon her burning, shivering figure, something shifted in the air.

Theodore Bolton's eyes, icy blue, cold and sharp as honed steel, lingered too long on her face-on the beads of sweat rolling down her temples, on the lips bitten bloody in defiance. His jaw tightened as though he were holding back words-or perhaps an emotion-that had no place here.

It was not pity. It was not care. It was something far more complex, far more dangerous.

A flicker of disdain crossed his expression, gone so quickly it might have been imagined. And yet beneath it lay a strange undercurrent... almost like recognition.

But recognition of what?

His fingers twitched at his side, as if suppressing the urge to reach out-to strangle her or to steady her, even he seemed uncertain.

Among the countless siblings born from his father's four wives, the frail figure lying fever-stricken before him was the only one who shared his 'blood' in full-their bond tied by the 'same mother'. And yet, even that truth had never stirred much warmth in him.

But, that also turned to be one of his mother's secret. And why she despise her only daughter.

Oh, Mother. I really am your son, Theodore Bolton mused as he looked down upon his so called little sister.

With an eleven years age gap between them, he never even glance twice at this weak creature called his sister.

He remembered, dimly, a scene from four years ago. A fourteen-year-old girl, small and trembling, half-hidden behind a bush as though the world itself was too much for her. She had watched him as he prepared to board the waiting chopper for his mission.

Her wide eyes had been a confusing mix of fear, awe, and desperate longing. He hadn't turned back then. He hadn't even slowed his step. That yearning gaze-her silent plea for him to acknowledge her-was something he had brushed aside without a second thought.

And now, four years later, he had returned to find her nearly drowned by the bastard child of the Third Wife, then locked away to rot in her fever by the hand of their own mother.

After effortlessly disposing of the guards stationed outside, Theodore entered her room. The girl before him was no longer the child hiding behind bushes, but a fragile young maiden with long, tangled hair fanned across her pillow like seaweed drifting in the tide. Her lips were bitten and bruised, her face flushed with fever, her body burning and shivering as if life itself was slipping away.

To Theodore Bolton, she was a responsibility-an obligation born from blood, not affection.

That was all. Or so he told himself before he discovered his mother's secret when he was on a mission this time. The reason he returned earlier than he originally intended.

The sleeping girl stirred bringing Theodore Bolton out of his deep thoughts. Her lashes fluttered weakly, her feverish gaze blurred as it sought him out. And with the faintest breath, she whispered, "Big brother..."

Her voice was fragile, but it clung to him.

The words hung in the silence, trembling yet piercing, and something inside Theodore snapped.

His eyes widened-just slightly, but enough to shatter the polished mask he always wore. For an instant, raw shock cracked across his face, like a blade of lightning across a midnight sky. His breath caught, his pupils constricted, and in that heartbeat he looked less like the untouchable heir of House Bolton and more like a man dragged back into a memory he could not escape.

But then it was gone.

The mask slammed back into place, colder than before, his expression carved into steel. Yet that single, fleeting break had already betrayed him.

Theodore Bolton's gaze turned sharp, too sharp, as if her words had clawed into his chest and left something bleeding. He loathed weakness, but the way her voice clung to him-like a ghost whispering from the grave-unsettled him more than her fevered state ever could.

He leaned closer, his shadow falling over her frail body, his voice a low hiss that brushed her ear with venom and something she couldn't name.

"You should not be alive."

The words dripped like poison, yet behind them trembled an emotion he had buried so deep it frightened even him.

And then, as if fleeing his own weakness, Theodore Bolton turned sharply, his steps retreating into the dark, leaving Cassandra with nothing but her racing heartbeat and the unbearable weight of his gaze that still lingered, even in his absence.

When Cassandra Bolton stirred awake, the first thing she felt was the cool press of a damp cloth against her fevered skin. Relief seeped into her burning body, and she instinctively leaned into the sensation, savoring the fleeting comfort. Slowly, her lashes fluttered open-and froze, her breath caught in her throat.

Sitting casually by her bedside, one long leg crossed over the other, was a man whose beauty seemed carved from the heavens themselves. Blond hair caught the sunlight like threads of molten gold, falling in slightly tousled waves that only added to the maddening perfection of his face. His eyes-icy blue, piercing and cold-regarded her with an unreadable expression, the way a predator might study its prey before deciding whether to pounce.

He was tall even while seated, his broad shoulders draped in a simple black coat that contrasted sharply with the pale, almost ethereal glow of his skin. Everything about him screamed refinement and power... and something darker beneath the surface.

Cassandra froze, her heart skipping a beat as if the air itself had thinned around him. This was Theodore Bolton-her infamous elder brother. The one whose name was spoken in hushed tones, a man both revered and feared.

Fear and anxiety gripped her.

Their eyes met for the first time.

His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, though it held no warmth.

"So," he said softly, his voice deep and smooth yet edged with something dangerous, "the little sister finally wakes."

Cassandra didn't speak. She couldn't. Not because she lacked words, but because something in those glacial eyes warned her to stay still... at least until she understood exactly what sort of man her brother was.

For a moment, she forgot to breathe. In all the scattered memories she inherited from the original Cassandra Bolton, this man was a ghost-a looming figure of indifference who never once turned back to look at his sister. He was cold, distant, and untouchable. And yet now, he sat here, cloaked in quiet authority, with a blanket tucked around her frail body as though... as though he cared.

Her heart skipped.

But why? Why the sudden change?

Did he realize that his little sister, the original Cassandra Bolton is gone and a vengeful evil spirit is now possessing her body?

Did he come here to confront her and kill her? What should she do?

Keep up the freaking act! Act like the weak, timid and bashful little sister you ought to be! Her brain screamed at her.

"Did the fever turn you stupid?" His baritone voice cut through her daze, sharp and cool, as though he could sense her thoughts and found them laughable.

Cassandra blinked. That was the only thing he could say to her? Not 'are you alright', not 'rest'. Just that.

Her lips curved faintly, hiding the sting and palpitations in her chest. "...Big Brother, when did you return? I thought I was dreaming." Her voice was soft, almost fragile, but her eyes glimmered with an affection she couldn't smother. Even in weakness, her gaze sought him, clung to him.

Yet, her heart and mind churned. She shouldn't provoke this man. Not when she was in such a weak state.

She has to put up an act if she did not want to die a second time as soon as she wakes up.

Theodore frowned at her words. Instead of replying, he stood and walked away with a controlled grace that sent a shiver through her. At her desk, he picked up a dagger. Not merely picked it up-handled it with the ease of a man who could end lives with it before she blinked. He twirled the blade in long, sculpted fingers as he returned to her bedside.

Cassandra's body stiffened beneath the covers. Her fever made her limbs weak, but her instincts screamed danger. Her smile faltered, her gaze fixed warily on the knife.

Still, she forced herself to speak, her voice hoarse but steady. "Were you... taking care of me? First Madame said I had to stay locked in here until you came back. I thought..." Her throat tightened, and she added softly, "...I thought I might die before seeing you again. It's been four years since I last saw you."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with double meaning. On one hand, they sounded like the desperate yearning of a little sister. On the other, like the calculated plea of someone who knew her survival hinged on this man's whim.

Cassandra has never been more glad than now for inheriting the original Cassandra Bolton's memories. Who knew how she would have died if she wakes up without those memories.

Theodore Bolton didn't answer immediately. He simply spun the dagger once more, its glint reflecting in his unreadable eyes, before lowering it with a casual flick of his wrist.

The cold blade grazed her pale fair face, sending shivers down Cassandra Bolton's spine. The devilishly handsome man before her stroked her small face with the sharp glinting blade, like he would slice her face if she displease him.

His gaze swept over her-cold, piercing, and yet strangely... unsettled.

Cassandra's smile wavered. What is he thinking? Does he want to kill me-or carve me apart for shaming the family?

Because in the Bolton House, affection and cruelty often came dressed in the same face.

And Theodore Bolton was the most dangerous face of all.

But Cassandra Bolton realized how wrong she was the moment her weak body was scooped up-no, hauled up-by Theodore Bolton with a single arm, like she was nothing more than a sack of dirty laundry.

Before she could even make sense of what was happening, she was ungracefully flung into the gigantic marble bathtub with all the gentleness one might give to tossing out the trash.

SPLASH!

Her jaw nearly hit the bath tiles.

"So dirty. Wash yourself clean," Theodore Bolton said flatly, his voice laced with disgust as his hawk-like eyes swept over her sweat-soaked hair, her clammy skin, and the blood-stained dress plastered against her body.

Cassandra Bolton sat there, dripping wet, stunned into silence.

"...."

He's insane! Completely insane!