The scent of sharp hairspray lingered in the air long after Belle hung up the phone, a ghostly reminder of the Architect of Cruelty. Outside, the storm raged, mirroring the tempest brewing inside Lu Zhenting. He sat alone in his private lounge, the toxins from the spiked champagne resurfacing, dragging him back into the nightmarish haze of that fateful night in Room 8808.
His head throbbed, each pulse a painful echo of the blurred memories. He vaguely recalled a scent, clean and pure, fighting against the sickly-sweet perfume that had clung to him. Jasmine. His mind grasped at the fragrance like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline.
Assistant Qin knocked hesitantly. “Mr. Lu, you dismissed all staff for the evening. Is there anything you require?”
Zhenting’s voice was a hoarse whisper, “No. Leave me.” He couldn’t bear the sight of anyone, knowing that whoever was in his presence now was not her.
The fever intensified, blurring the edges of reality. He stumbled towards the couch, collapsing onto the soft cushions. His body was racked with chills, yet sweat beaded on his forehead. The sandalwood scent of the lounge seemed to mock him, mingling with the phantom fragrance of jasmine.
He needed that scent. He craved it, yearned for it, the way a dying man craves water. The thought of Belle’s cloying perfume made his stomach churn. He needed the clean, pure jasmine to clear his head, to soothe his soul.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, reliving fragments of the night: the soft touch, the shared whispers, the intoxicating scent. He remembered the jade pendant, a cool weight against his skin. Where was she?
A gentle touch on his forehead startled him. He opened his eyes, half-expecting to see Belle’s triumphant smirk. Instead, he saw Lin Xia, her face etched with worry, her hand cool against his fevered skin.
“Mr. Lu,” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re burning up. I... I thought I should check on you.”
He reached for her hand, his grip surprisingly strong despite his weakened state. “Jasmine…” he murmured, his eyes searching her face. “Don’t leave me. Please.”
Tears welled in Xia’s eyes. He thought Belle was the woman he loved. The woman he has been longing for. The woman he was drugged with. He thought this illness of his was because of Belle, not her, and she could not speak up to tell him the truth. All she could do was to be here for him, in his painful time. He looked so broken, fragile, nothing like the Ice King everyone was afraid of.
She couldn’t tell him she was the woman from that night. She couldn’t bear to shatter the illusion he held so dear. So, she stayed silent, her heart aching with a love she could never confess.
Throughout the night, Xia tended to him, applying cool cloths to his forehead, offering sips of water. Each touch was a torment, a forbidden intimacy that both thrilled and terrified her.
In his delirium, Zhenting began to murmur. “The jasmine… the pendant… don’t go…”
Xia's heart clenched. Was this how he really felt about Belle? Was the obsession so deep-rooted that it emerged even in his subconscious?
“I’m here,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m right here.”
He clutched her hand tighter, his grip almost desperate. “Stay with me… just until morning.”