The snow had soaked through Lydia's dress.

She knelt at the edge of the porch, the puppy tucked against her chest, his tiny body barely warm now.

Her arms trembled from the cold-or maybe from the fear that she was already too late.

She held him tighter, as if her warmth alone could will him back to life.

"Hang in there," she whispered, though no sound left her lips. Her breath came in shallow clouds, disappearing into the storm.

The wind howled louder, flinging snow across her face, her hair, her skin. Each gust stung like needles, but she didn't move. She couldn't.

The puppy gave a final, tiny twitch.

Then, nothing. The puppy no longer moved.

Lydia froze.

Her fingers pressed against his side, desperate for the faintest movement. A breath. A heartbeat.

There was none. The last bit of warmth drained from his body-and from hers.

Lydia pulled it closer, her breath catching painfully in her throat. She had tried. She had sacrificed what little dignity she had left. But even that hadn't been enough.

She lowered her head, resting her forehead against his fur. Snow clung to her lashes, melted on her cheeks. Or maybe those were tears. She couldn't tell anymore.

She sat there for a long time, until the storm quieted and the wind no longer screamed. Until the ache in her arms turned numb. Until the puppy grew cold.

Then, slowly, she rose.

Her knees shook. Her fingers burned. But she moved.

When she finally stood, her legs barely held her weight. She stumbled to the far end of the garden, where the snow hadn't yet buried the ground completely, and began to dig with her hands. The cold bit into her skin, but she didn't stop until the hole was deep enough.

She laid the puppy down gently and covered him with earth.

When it was finished, she stood in silence for a long moment.

The next morning, Clara had just finished getting ready to go out.

She wasn't expecting the ragged figure that suddenly stumbled into view, making her stumble back with a sharp gasp.

When she got a good look, it was Lydia.

Her lips were a terrifying blue, her face pale as paper, and her hair and lashes were dusted with brittle frost.

Surprised, Clara blinked. "Oh dear," she said, voice laced with concern. "You're still out here?"

Lydia didn't respond.

Clara stepped forward, gently taking her by the arm and guiding her inside.

"And the puppy?" she asked, voice soft, almost motherly. "Is he...?"

Lydia's hands moved slowly, deliberately.

-He's dead.

Clara paused for half a second, then offered a sympathetic smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"How awful. I'm so sorry. You must be heartbroken."

She turned away, crossing the room to the mirror in the entry hall. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing out imaginary imperfections. Her gaze flicked over her reflection with quiet satisfaction.

As she adjusted the collar of her blouse, the fabric shifted-just enough to reveal a faint red mark on her neck. Faint, but unmistakable.

Lydia froze. Her breath hitched, eyes locking on the mark like a blade had sliced through her chest. She couldn't look away.

Clara caught her staring. Her soft expression twisted-sweetness curdling into something sharp and cruel.

She stepped closer, heels silent on the polished floor, and leaned in until her lips were near Lydia's ear.

"What's wrong?" she whispered. "Does it hurt?"

A pause. Then, lower, colder:

"Oh, don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at him. But come on, look at you. You're just a servant. Nothing more."

Just then, footsteps echoed down the hall.

Clara's expression shifted instantly. She raised her voice, loud and remorseful, almost theatrical.

"Miss Abbott, it was my fault yesterday. I overreacted. I'm so sorry-"

A cold voice cut through the air.

"What are you apologizing for?"

Lydia turned.

Henry stood at the end of the corridor, leaning heavily on a cane. He looked pale but his eyes were sharp as ever.

"Henry?" Clara gasped, spinning toward him in delight. "You're awake?"

She rushed to his side, hand reaching for his arm, but stopped short when he shot her a look colder than the wind outside.

Clara flinched and quickly stepped back.

"I... I was just telling her," she began, her voice faltering, "about the dog. It's gone. It's my fault, I-"

"The dog?" Henry glanced down, brows twitching. "It died?"

He exhaled sharply. Not a sigh. A scoff.

"It was a stray. Strays die. That's what they do."

Lydia's chest tightened.

She stared at him, eyes red, hands trembling as they lifted to sign-fast, furious.

-How could you say that? It was alive. It trusted me. It trusted you. You killed it.

Henry's gaze darkened.

"That look," he said quietly. "Are you blaming me?"

Her hands moved again, more frantic.

-You didn't even look at him. You didn't care.

Something snapped.

Henry stepped forward, his voice low but shaking with restrained fury.

"Don't forget-your father destroyed mine. Everything you are, everything you have, is because I let you live in this house. I raised you. Fed you. And you still look at me like I'm a monster?"

He stopped just inches from her. His voice dropped lower.

"You think you're the victim here? You think I owe you something?"

Lydia's lips parted, but no sound came. She was trembling, her whole body taut with anguish.

"You don't get to hate me, Lydia," he said. "Not when your last name is the reason I can't walk without this."

He tapped the cane against the floor. Once. Hard.

Her eyes welled again, but she didn't look away.

For a second, Henry's expression flickered-something like regret, or maybe exhaustion. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

He turned away.

"Let's go," he said to Clara.

Clara eagerly stepped to his side, casting Lydia a sideways glance full of victory.

"Don't be angry, Henry," she cooed. "You need to rest."

They walked past her.

Lydia collapsed to her knees, coughing silently, one hand at her throat. The other pressed against the cold marble floor.

She lifted her head, vision swimming.

All she saw was the exhaust of the car pulling away.

Drawn by the sudden noise, Martha Warren stepped out of the kitchen and froze when she saw Lydia collapse just inside the door, soaked and shaking.

"Lydia!" she rushed over, kneeling beside her. "What on earth happened to you?"

Lydia turned her head and saw Martha hurrying over, her face filled with worry as she reached out to support her.

Martha wasn't just a fellow worker at Halcyon Estate; she had helped raise Henry Lawson since he was a kid and was the only one who never looked down on Lydia-always treated her kindly.

"I'm fine," Lydia forced a small smile she hoped would be enough to ease Martha's worry.

Martha helped her to the sofa, fetched a towel, and gently patted her face dry.

She glanced at Lydia with quiet concern as she spoke. "You should be taking better care of yourself," she said softly. "Henry's been in a foul mood all day. Likely his leg acting up again with the weather turning."

Lydia lowered her eyes but said nothing.

Martha hesitated, then added, "If you're thinking of checking on him... maybe bring the medicine. Just-look after yourself, too."

Lydia gave a small nod, but her mind was already elsewhere.

Thinking back to the disgusted look on his face earlier that day, Lydia felt like she couldn't breathe.

Still, Lydia lifted her hands and signed, "I will. Thank you, Martha."

Martha didn't press her any further. She simply rested a hand on Lydia's arm, then turned and walked away.

After kneeling outside all night, being broken twice by Henry, and then losing the puppy... she'd cried until her body simply gave out.

The moment she got back to her room, she collapsed on her bed and passed out.

Later that night, Lydia sat up with a sudden shiver.

Her head was spinning, her throat was bone dry, and she had a bad feeling-yep, definitely catching something.

She was just about to look for cold medicine when she heard a car.

She paused, peeked outside, and saw Henry walking in through the snow.

She glanced at his leg and noticed the crutch. He only used that when the pain flared up.

So Martha had been right and this might really be a chance to calm things down between them.

In the end, she picked up the first-aid kit and headed to Henry's door.

She hesitated for a moment, then raised her hand and knocked.

Knock knock-

"Come in."

His voice came through, cold and clipped.

Lydia took a deep breath, turned the doorknob, and walked in.

The moment she stepped inside, her eyes widened in shock, and she nearly tripped.

Under the dim light, she spotted a leg lying on the floor. It was Henry's prosthetic.

A cold, mocking laugh rang out.

She turned her head and saw Henry wheeling himself toward her.

"What are you doing here?" His tone was dark, unreadable.

Trying not to look at the prosthetic again, she swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and held up the kit in her hands.

"The weather's been rough lately... thought your leg might be acting up, so I brought some stuff to help."

Henry gave her a long, hard look, then silently turned the wheelchair and rolled further into the room.

He didn't give a clear answer, leaving Lydia standing there awkwardly.

"You think just standing there's gonna fix it?" His voice snapped from inside, not too happy.

Lydia let out a breath of relief, then quickly followed him with the kit.

He was already half-seated on the bed, lifting his pant leg to expose the stump.

Over the years, his injury had always been off limits. Even Lydia, after almost a decade around him, had only caught a glimpse now and then.

And now, just like that, he was showing her, no guard whatsoever. The scarred, violent-looking wound lay bare before her.

One glance and Lydia's heart clutched tight. Eyes stinging slightly, she bit her lip.

She knew the cold and damp made it worse for him, but he never showed it. She hadn't realized his leg would swell this badly in rainy weather.

It must have hurt like hell all these years.

Quietly crouching down, Lydia's fingers trembled as she pulled out the medicine and began carefully applying it to the swollen skin.

Henry stared down at her, her pretty profile lit softly beneath the room's glow.

Her light, cautious touch, even the slight shake in her hand, made something stir faintly inside him.

The gentle graze of her fingers sent a strange, unfamiliar heat rising in his chest.

Right then, Lydia's hand slipped, pressing a bit too hard on his wound.

Henry sucked in a sharp breath.

Startled, Lydia pulled her hand back, the cotton swab dropping to the floor.

She bit her lip and looked up. Henry's face had gone dark.

Panic rose in her chest. She took a step back.

-I'm sorry...

Seeing her flustered only deepened the cold in his eyes.

Without warning, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward. Her balance shifted, and she stumbled right into him.

Before she could react, his fingers were at her chin, forcing her to look up.

"Scared?" he asked, voice low and unreadable.

She froze, then slowly nodded.

Of course she was scared. She hadn't meant to hurt him. She was just trying to help. But she'd made it worse-again.

Then it hit her-he might've misunderstood her reaction.

Her face paled. She shook her head quickly and signed, hands trembling.

-I didn't mean it like that. I was just startled...

Henry stared at her, eyes narrowed.

"Startled?" he echoed. "Or guilty?"

Lydia looked confused.

He let out a cold laugh. "You forgot, didn't you? Who's responsible for this busted leg of mine?"

His tone turned venomous, and Lydia's stomach twisted.

She raised her hands again, desperate.

-That's not what I meant. Please... don't twist it like that.

"Oh?" he said, stepping closer. "Then what did you mean? Coming into my room in the middle of the night... hoping for what, exactly?"

His gaze flicked over her-not lewd, but sharp. Accusing.

Lydia's eyes widened, stung by the implication.

"Henry, how could you think that of me? I just wanted to treat your wound..."

"Treat me?" His voice was bitter now. "You already hurt me years ago. You and your damn family-"

He cut himself off, jaw clenched.

Lydia stood frozen, her breath shallow.

Henry looked at her again, and something unfamiliar flickered in his eyes-pain, sharp and buried, with a flicker of vulnerability he couldn't quite hide.

"You should stop looking at me," he muttered. "Like I'm some broken thing you can fix."

That hit harder than any shout.

Lydia's lip trembled. Her hands lifted again.

-I wasn't trying to fix you. I just didn't want you to be in pain.

He stared at her for a long moment, then suddenly turned away.

"Get out."

She didn't move.

His voice dropped-tight, restrained.

"Go. Before I forget what little control I've got left."

That time, she listened.

She bent down, picked up the discarded kit with trembling fingers, and walked out without another word.

The door clicked shut behind her.

For a while, Henry stared at the slammed door in silence, then wheeled himself into the bathroom.

But he couldn't get the image out of his head-how gently she had been tending to his wound just moments ago.

Damn it. He was losing control. For a moment... he'd wanted to believe her.

Sitting in the tub, his eyes bored into his twisted, useless leg. He shut his eyes tight, pain twisting his face.

Bang-

He clenched his fist and slammed it against the wall. The next second, icy water poured over him, washing away the chaos in his mind.

...

By the time he came out of the bathroom, he looked composed again, like nothing had happened.

Just then, his phone rang.

It was his mother, Helen Bailey.

He frowned. She'd been acting weird ever since that accident ten years ago. And after he took over the company, they'd pretty much avoided speaking unless necessary.

Yet lately, she couldn't seem to stop calling-mostly about Clara.

He hesitated, then finally picked up.