The Pills He Swallowed

Evangeline watched Marcellus, her heart clenching as she tracked the shift in his mood. She followed him into the Elysian Estate, that familiar, gilded cage. The interior was frozen in time—everything exactly where she had left it.

Marcellus walked into the room that had once been hers. He didn’t say a word, just collapsed onto the floor beside the bed, his back against the frame. He sat there, dazed, staring into the nothingness. His brow was furrowed, those sharp, piercing eyes now dim and bloodshot. His hair was a chaotic mess, and the sharp angles of his face—the jawline she used to trace—had hollowed out. He looked… wasted away.

Evangeline reached out to smooth the tension from his forehead, forgetting for a split second that she was nothing more than a ghost, unable to make physical contact. Yet, Marcellus shivered as if he felt her touch. A flicker of desperate hope ignited in his eyes. He parted his thin, pale lips, his voice a broken, raspy wreck.

"Evangeline? Did you come to take me with you?"

A wave of agony washed over her. This man, this self-destructive madman, had a way of tearing her apart even from the grave.

Marcellus stood, stumbling toward the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the silence. Moments later, he emerged. He had shaved; his hair was perfectly groomed again. He looked like the untouchable, arrogant tycoon he had always been.

Evangeline let out a shaky breath, praying he would finally choose to live. But then, he climbed onto the bed and pulled a bottle from his pocket. He shook a handful of white pills into his palm.

Panic seized her. "Marcellus, what are you doing? We aren't that close, stop this!"

"Evangeline, don’t forget me in the next life," he whispered, staring into the distance. "Just… love me once."

He swallowed the pills without a second of hesitation. As his consciousness began to fray at the edges, he smiled. He looked as if he could see his little sun, his reason for being. *We’ll see each other again.*

He had taken his own life just to follow her after avenging her death? Evangeline watched, paralyzed by disbelief. Tears she shouldn't have been able to shed began to trace hot paths down her cheeks. She touched her face, staring at the moisture on her fingertips. It seemed she hadn't been as indifferent to him as she told herself.

Watching the man, now composed and "presentable" for his journey to meet her, she felt a profound, aching thrum in her chest. "Marcellus," she whispered to the empty air. "I don't know where this obsession started, but if there is a next life, I promise I will love you properly."

She laid down beside him, drifting into the dark. *Let us meet earlier next time.*

The sensation of cold, suffocating water slammed into her. The pain was immediate, sharp, and visceral. She was drowning again, the seawater burning her lungs, the phantom pressure of hands gripping her throat.

She bolted upright.

Evangeline gasped, the air rushing into her lungs like shards of glass. Her head throbbed with a dull, insistent ache. She touched the side of her forehead—a wound. She wasn't dead? The heat in her skin—the searing reality of her own pulse—brought the truth crashing down on her.

She was reborn.

She was back in the time Marcellus had kept her prisoner at the Elysian Estate. This injury on her head was from her own frantic suicide attempt during one of her manic outbursts. The realization hit her like a lightning strike: *Is he back? Did he come back too?*

She scrambled off the bed, stumbling, too frantic to look for shoes. "Marcellus! Marcellus! Where are you?" She screamed, sprinting into the hallway.

In the study, Marcellus heard her—the sharp, desperate, choked-up sound of her voice. He threw the door open, his long strides carrying him toward her, but he skidded to a halt two meters away. He knew she hated it when he invaded her personal space.

He asked, his voice trembling with a caution that felt like glass, "What is it? Are you hurting?"

Evangeline didn't hesitate. She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his lean, taut waist. She buried her face in his chest, breathing in the cold, clean scent that belonged only to him. It was solid. It was real. He was still here, and this time, there was still a chance to fix it.

Marcellus went rigid, his back turning to stone. He didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe. He couldn't understand why the woman who had spent all morning demanding to be set free was now clinging to him like a lifeline. He looked down, his heart racing. She looked pale, her skin flushed with a feverish heat, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

"Evangeline? What happened?" He gripped her shoulders, his eyes searching hers, only to see the golden, sunny confidence she once held replaced by a deep, hollow well of sorrow. Tears welled in her eyes, making her look agonizingly fragile.

"I had a nightmare," she whispered, her voice thick and soft, brushing against his soul. She had never spoken to him with such raw, broken tenderness.

Before he could answer, her knees gave out. Whether it was the fever or the toll of the rebirth, she slumped against him.

"Oliver! Get Damian here, now!" Marcellus scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bed as if she were made of thin, precious china.

"Listen, Marcellus," Damian Spencer sighed as he entered the room, his tone cynical. "The fruit you force to ripen is never sweet. Just let her go."

"What’s wrong with her?" Marcellus demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low pitch. He was terrified of the answer, terrified that she was finally slipping through his fingers.

Damian sighed again. "Her head wound is infected, causing the fever. That’s the easy part." He hesitated, his expression shifting to one of genuine concern. "She’s in shock. Her heart rate is erratic, and her pupils are dilated. Watch her mental state when she wakes up."

"Understood. Get out," Marcellus snapped.

Damian rolled his eyes. "Right. Use me when you need me, discard me when you don't. You're a cold bastard, you know that?"

Marcellus sat at the bedside, his eyes glued to her sleeping face. "Evangeline, is it truly impossible for you to stay by my side?" He had spent his whole life wanting, never once getting what he truly needed. Was it really too much to ask for her?

The pain in his eyes was absolute.

Evangeline drifted in a restless sleep, her mind a loop of the car chase, the screeching tires, the metallic crunch of the crash. She jerked awake with a scream. "No!"

Marcellus was there instantly, his face pale with panic. "Evangeline? Another nightmare?"

She looked at him, her eyes wide, tears spilling over like shattered pearls. She didn't say a word. She just reached out and buried her face in his neck, seeking shelter.

Twice in one day, she had sought him out. Marcellus felt his heart stumble. Was she finally accepting him? Or… was this just another twisted way of saying goodbye? His face hardened into a mask of cold, agonizing doubt.

[]