The Tigers Strength

I wake up feeling completely refreshed for the first time in years. Not just the kind of refreshed you get from clean sheets or fancy air conditioning. No. This is the kind of refreshed that says, Congratulations, Mina, you survived three years of mosquitoes, mountain winds, and climbing rocks that would make a goat dizzy.

I stretch and let out a long sigh. Finally, a morning that doesn’t involve bruises or bug bites, or worse, thinking I might actually be slowly turning into a human pincushion.

I push myself off the bed and pad down the stairs, tying my hair into a loose knot. The mansion is buzzing with movement, and I blink. Everyone’s rushing around like someone shouted fire! or, even worse, misplaced one of Zion’s precious contracts.

I pause mid-step. Servants do not run. Ever.

A maid nearly crashes into me.

“Careful,” I mutter, steadying her by the elbow. She avoids my eyes. Suspicious. Very suspicious.

I head for the dining hall. Hunger drives me more than curiosity, but the tension is there, prickling at my skin. Footsteps, hushed whispers, hurried voices, someone is panicking. Someone important, probably.

Then I see him.

A doctor rushes through the front hall, white coat flapping. He doesn’t even glance at me. He passes straight to the parlor.

Of course, because nothing in this house is ever simple.

I follow, trying not to look as interested as I am, but curiosity wins over. And then I see Zion.

Sitting upright on the couch. Pale. Too pale. A cooling patch pressed against his forehead. A faint smear of red at the bridge of his nose.

For a second, my brain says: Was that a little slap stronger than I thought?

No. Focus, Mina. He doesn’t look weak. He looks calculated. Controlled. Even with a patch on his head, he radiates the kind of authority that makes people freeze.

I step closer.

“Are we expecting a medical convention this morning, or is this just casual chaos?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from every word.

The doctor glances at me, not answering, then continues speaking to Zion.

“Excessive stress can worsen physical conditions. The young master needs proper rest. Sudden triggers could cause complications.”

Aha. Vague. Protective. Infuriating.

I glance at Zion. He meets my gaze for a heartbeat, quiet, calm, unreadable. Not a hint of guilt. Not a hint of weakness. Just… him.

“You’re awake early,” he says, as if noting the weather.

I arch a brow. “I try to start my mornings without medical emergencies. It’s a personal preference.”

He tilts his head slightly, like a predator noting prey, calm, measured. “Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

And that’s it. No accusations. No dramatics. Just control.

My mind races, playful sparks of defiance lighting up. Okay. He’s pretending. Or maybe he’s actually overworked. But the doctor’s presence? Convenient, isn’t it? Convenient for someone who doesn’t want to admit a woman knocked him off balance.

I glance at the doctor. He’s giving me polite, professional smiles. He avoids looking at me too long. I note that, mentally filing it under clues.

This is so going to be fun.

As I stride past them toward the dining hall, my eyes lock with Jade’s, and I swear she’s practically throwing daggers with that glare. Naturally, I give her the most mocking smirk I can muster. She scoffs indignantly, like the world personally insulted her.

What a wonderful way to start the day, I think, rolling my eyes as I continue on.

Three years on that mountain taught me a few things, patience, perseverance, and, most importantly, cooking for myself. So instead of waiting for the maids to serve breakfast, a process, mind you, that would’ve taken ages with all the fuss and running around happening, I head straight to the kitchen. I have no time for unnecessary formalities, thank you very much.

I fling open the fridge and start rummaging through the cabinets. Cereal? Gone. Bread? Not a slice. Cookies? Ha. The last crumbs probably got eaten by some ghost of breakfast past. My frustration grows as I stomp around the kitchen, muttering under my breath.

Just then, a maid appears out of nowhere. I stop her before she disappears like a ninja.

“Hey, you. Where’s the cereal and bread?”

She stammers, “Uhm… the young master and lady don’t eat those.”

The audacity. That green tea witch gets the “lady” title, and I get nothing but silent disdain. My irritation flares, but I keep my voice level.

“What do they usually have for breakfast then?”

“Uhm… rice, or just black coffee when he’s in a rush,” she whispers.

I blink at her.

Really? Rice for breakfast? Black coffee for breakfast? You know, for a CEO, you’d think the man would at least have the decency to admit he’s a glutton like the rest of us.

“What about noodles? You at least have those, right?” I ask, hopeful.

She slowly shakes her head from side to side.

Wow. Prince Snobhob strikes again. I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. So bread and noodles are beneath him? And here I thought we lived in the same century.

Grumbling, I retreat back to my room, the aroma of imagined breakfast taunting me all the way.

As I pass the parlor, I hear his voice, smooth and measured as always.

“Won’t you have breakfast?”

I glance at him over my shoulder, feigning exaggerated respect. “Oh no, Your Highness. It seems I prefer meals that are beneath you.”

He raises an eyebrow in conclusion but says nothing, letting the remark hang in the air. Perfect. Silence suits me just fine. Tsk.

I slip into something comfortable, but stylish enough to pass casual scrutiny, and plan my morning escape.

A small breakfast café will do just fine, thank you very much. After that, I’m meeting up with my best friend Michelle for an intense shopping spree, on me, naturally.

I mean I literally earned 310 million in 2 months what better way to spend it if not on your favorite people.