CHAPTER 8: IT WASN'T A DREAM!

“How dare you... do you know who I am?”

“I don't,” I replied, my voice dropping to a cold, steady octave. “The same way you don't know me.”

I released her with a sudden, controlled shove. Martha stumbled backward, her face flushed crimson and her lips trembling with unbridled anger.

“You!” She pointed a trembling finger at me, her sharp, manicured nail almost touching my eye. “You will regret that. I promise you, surrogate. You will regret that.”

The courtyard stayed deathly silent for another second. The maids stood frozen, their hushed whispers floating through the air.

I chuckled softly, stepping closer until my hot breath brushed against her ear.

“You won't have such a privilege,” I whispered calmly. “Touch one strand of my hair, and I will make you pay with millions.”

I stepped back, giving her a look that left her completely shocked. And that was exactly how I wanted her to be.

Enough of hiding.

Ken had always told me he wanted his lady calm, quiet, soft-spoken, and feminine—the type of fragile femininity that hid under a man's protection. So I had done exactly what he wanted. I stayed quiet, watched everyone humiliate me, and waited for him to rescue me.

But not anymore.

He wasn't here, and he never would be. From this moment on, I was giving what is Caesar's to Caesar. War for war, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.

I glanced at Clara. Her mouth hung open, her eyes filled with a mixture of shock and sheer terror.

“Let's go,” I murmured, tapping her shoulder and walking past the stunned crowd.

“Hey!” Martha shrieked behind us. “You will definitely pay for this, you hear me!”

I glanced over my shoulder with a slight shrug.

“I will be waiting.”

Sharp gasps echoed through the courtyard. Even with my back turned, I could feel the heat of her rage.

Clara ran after me, her hands nervously pressing against her gown. The moment we finally walked out of the working quarters, I turned to her.

“Are you alright?”

She halted, turning swiftly to face me.

“I told you not to cross paths with her,” she said, her voice quiet but laced with deep worry. “She is not someone to mess with... and what you did there was extremely foolish.”

“Foolish?!” I frowned, entirely confused. “She was about to rip your hair out! I had to do something.”

“Then you should have let her do it!” Clara’s voice rose, completely different from her usual gentle tone.

I said nothing, stunned by her reaction. She heaved a long, heavy sigh.

“She’s not some elite bully you can just brush off.” She started walking again, her pace so fast I had to half-jog to keep up. “She's the daughter of Mrs. Vance's beloved brother. She has the family's ear, and every guard in this mansion obeys her command. With just one order, they would kill you without thinking twice.”

“But she was going to slap me. I had to do something.”

“Now she'll find a way to do worse.”

Clara stopped, turning to face me. Her expression wasn't angry anymore; it was just tired and profoundly worried.

“You're a surrogate, Miss Elena. You have a title, fine, but there's no real power behind it. Martha has been the Vances' favorite since she was a little girl. She grew up with Master Ethan. Please, don't make enemies you can't afford.”

She turned and kept walking. I followed silently, but deep down, a strange warmth stirred in my chest. It felt like a long-lost feeling I thought I had buried forever—the fierce, protective nagging of a mother.

---

A short while later, I returned to Ethan's master suite. When I arrived, the clinical nurse was already waiting at the far end of the room, holding a tablet and a silver pointer.

She adjusted her reading glasses, gestured toward the unconscious billionaire, and launched straight into her instructions.

“Daily massage,” she began, her tone thoroughly professional. “Fifty minutes. His head, shoulders, arms, back, and legs. It maintains muscle tone, promotes blood circulation, and prevents atrophy.”

She tapped her screen, pointing the stylus at me.

“Dan, his personal bodyguard, has been performing this himself. The Vance family expects the same standard from you.”

My breath hitched.

“Me?” I pointed a finger at my chest.

“Yes, you,” she hissed, rolling her eyes. “Who else would I be referring to? Aren't you the only surrogate here?”

My eyes drifted to the motionless billionaire lying on the white pillows. My mind immediately flashed back to the crazy “dream” from last night.

I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat, forcing myself to nod like an obedient puppy.

“I understand.”

“Good. Don't touch his hair. I trust they have already told you this.”

My cheeks flushed as I remembered running my fingers through his dark curls the night before. I forced a smile and nodded again.

Satisfied, the nurse turned and left, the heavy doors clicking shut behind her.

I dragged my legs tiredly toward the bed. Ethan's breathing was perfectly even, his face completely composed. His dark lashes lay still against his sharp cheekbones, his lips slightly parted.

I caught myself staring at his mouth and immediately looked away.

Stop it, Elena. You need to stop.

I took a deep breath.

Professional.

This was just a medical task. Nurses did this every day. There was nothing intimate about maintaining muscle tone.

I sat on the edge of the mattress. Supporting myself with one hand, I raised the other to begin.

I started near his forehead, noting how a few dark curls slightly covered his left eye. The nurse's strict warning echoed in my mind, but a tired sigh escaped my lips.

He's unconscious, Elena. He won't know.

Gently, I slid my fingers into his hair, brushing the silky strands away from his brow. The full, striking view of his forehead came to light as my hands lightly traced his skull.

Then, I moved down to his left arm. His skin felt impossibly warm under my fingertips—the exact same radiating heat I remembered from the night before.

It felt alive, present, as if his muscles hadn't received the message about being in a coma.

I worked my thumbs along his forearm, pressing into the dense tissue, trying desperately to focus.

I failed.

Every time my fingers pressed into his skin, my brain supplied fragments of the memory I was trying to deny.

The vice-like grip. The lethal growl.

My body remembered it perfectly, even if my mind insisted it was just an illusion.

My hands began to shake as I worked down from his broad shoulders, my palms flat against the hard, sculpted planes of his chest.

Up close, the memory of his chest pressing against mine felt overwhelmingly real. His biceps were solid, corded with pure muscle.

I moved my hands lower, tracing the ridges of his abdomen. Each muscle shifted slightly under my palms.

His hip bones jutted out sharply above the waistband of his silk sleep pants, leading down to the distinct V-line of his torso.

My hand slipped.

My knuckles accidentally grazed the elastic waistband—and then slid lower, brushing directly across the front of the smooth fabric.

He was hard. Rigid.

A fierce, blinding fire caught in my face. But before I could violently jerk my hand back in horror, a crushing, vice-like hand clamped around my wrist.

The grip was identical to last night. The heat was real.

His eyes flew wide open, burning with a lethal, terrifying dark fire.

My breath caught.

The hand that had pinned me, the voice that had said, “How dare you?”—it was real.

Oh, my God... that wasn't a dream.