Wounded Rose of Garden Metro のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 61 - チャプター 70

The morning began like any other.Elara woke to pale sunlight spilling across her room in Vincent’s estate, her muscles still aching faintly from the week’s training. She had grown used to the dull burn — it felt almost like proof that she was changing, piece by piece, day by day.But something was different today.She noticed it first at breakfast. The staff usually greeted her with warm nods, sometimes with faint smiles if Lena was nearby to break the stiffness of their routine. But this morning, their eyes slid past her too quickly. Their movements were too brisk, their voices clipped.“Elara,” one servant murmured, bowing stiffly before hurrying away.She frowned slightly, unsettled. Had she done something wrong? She replayed the past days in her mind — the training, the quiet evenings writing in her notebook, the conversations with Lena. Nothing stood out.She tried to ignore it. People had bad mornings too.When she joined Lena in the garden later, the feeling sharpened. Lena gr

The sun had risen high by the time Elara finally stirred from her room. Her body felt heavy, her limbs leaden from a night of restless thoughts and tear-stained pages. For hours, she had sat staring at the notebook, rereading the words she’d forced onto paper: I refuse to stop breathing.The ember inside her still flickered, faint but steady. It was enough to drag her to her feet.When she opened her door, the hallway seemed sharper, brighter than it had before. The murmur of voices downstairs carried faintly upward. She hesitated, clutching the notebook to her chest. What if they all looked at her with suspicion? What if even the people inside this house believed Cassidy’s lies?A soft knock startled her.“Elara?” It was Lena’s voice, gentle but firm. “Come with me. Please.”Elara closed her eyes briefly, then opened the door.Lena’s relief was obvious in the way her smile bloomed. “There you are. I was starting to think you’d never come out.”Elara gave a weak shrug. “I wasn’t sure

The estate was too quiet.Elara woke before dawn, though she hadn’t slept more than a few scattered hours. Her dreams had been fractured things, filled with voices calling her name, faces turning toward her, whispers swelling like a tide she couldn’t escape. Every time she jerked awake, her body was slick with sweat, her heart racing, her throat tight.When the pale glow of morning crept past her curtains, she sat up and pressed her forehead against her knees. The notebook on the nightstand caught her eye — yesterday’s page still open, the ink smudged slightly where her tears had fallen.Today I stood. My voice trembled, but it was mine.She traced the line with her fingertip, as though it might vanish if she looked away. She barely believed those words belonged to her. And yet… they did.Breakfast with DamienBy the time she made her way to the dining hall, the smell of coffee and toasted bread drifted faintly in the air. The long table stretched emptily, save for Damien seated at on

Vincent at the WindowVincent Marino stood in silence at the wide window of his office. The city stretched before him, a constellation of light and shadow. Garden Metro glittered as though it were unshaken, but he knew better. He could feel the tremor in its rhythm, the tension in its heartbeat. Cassidy’s poison had seeped into every crevice, and now the whole city carried the taste of suspicion.On his desk lay reports and clippings. Each headline sang the same tune: Elara Quinn was guilty. Fraud. Smuggler. The papers stopped just short of declaring her convicted, but the language left no room for innocence. “Alleged.” “Anonymous sources.” “Unverified evidence.” Words that were daggers without edges, slicing reputation instead of flesh.Vincent picked one up and skimmed it again, though he knew it by heart. The photographs, the numbers, the testimony — all carefully placed, too precise to be coincidence. Cassidy Quinn’s handiwork was all over it. He could almost see her smirk behind

The Weight of AwakeningElara woke before dawn, the faintest gray light spilling across her ceiling. Sleep had not been her companion that night. She had tossed beneath the sheets, heart racing, mind replaying whispers from the market, the memory of strangers’ eyes boring into her, the sound of that man’s voice accusing her in front of everyone.Even here, in the safety of Vincent’s estate, she could not escape it. Her dreams had carried the poison into her own mind: crowds pointing, headlines screaming her name, voices she once trusted echoing Cassidy’s lies.Her throat was dry as she pushed herself upright. The room felt stifling despite the cool air drifting through the slightly open window. She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at the notebook on her nightstand.Yesterday’s words glared back at her: Vincent doesn’t doubt me.She traced them with her fingertip, trying to draw strength from them. The memory of that single word — “No” — spoken with Vincent’s quiet certaint