Curse Reverses on Sterling

The Sterling mansion's dining room felt like a mausoleum—all polished wood and oppressive silence. I sat rigidly in my assigned chair, hyper-aware of my ill-fitting dress against the velvet upholstery. Directly across from me hung a portrait of a beautiful woman with haunted eyes that seemed to follow my movements. Catherine Sterling. Alexander's mother.

I couldn't stop staring at her face. There was something in her expression—a warning, perhaps, or pity—that made my skin crawl.

"My mother," Alexander said, noticing my gaze. "She died when I was young."

I nodded, unsure what response he expected. This was my first formal dinner as Mrs. Sterling, a title that felt like a costume I'd been forced to wear. The food before me—some delicate fish dish with a French name I couldn't pronounce—remained untouched. My stomach was too knotted with anxiety to eat.

What struck me most was Alexander himself. Just yesterday, he'd been sallow-skinned and frail, moving with the careful precision of someone conserving energy. Today, his complexion had a healthy glow. The shadows beneath his eyes had lightened, and his movements were more fluid, assured.

Meanwhile, I felt as though I'd been hollowed out, my limbs heavy with an exhaustion that sleep couldn't touch.

Richard Sterling sat at the head of the table, occasionally glancing at his son with calculating eyes. Not once did he acknowledge my presence.

"The transfer to your mother's hospital has been completed," Alexander said between precise bites. "She'll be moved to a private room tomorrow."

"Thank you," I murmured, the words bitter on my tongue. Gratitude for something that should be a basic human right, not a transaction.

Alexander suddenly placed his fork down with a soft clink. "Excuse me," he said, rising abruptly. "I have matters to attend to."

Without another word, he left, abandoning me to his father's indifferent glare. The silence stretched, suffocating.

"You'll learn quickly that my son's attention is fleeting," Richard finally said, his voice like ice over gravel. "Don't mistake this arrangement for anything but what it is."

I lifted my chin slightly. "I understand exactly what this is, Mr. Sterling."

His eyes—the same unsettling gray as Alexander's—assessed me coldly. "I doubt that very much."

When dinner finally ended, I fled to my suite, desperate to escape the weight of Richard's contemptuous stare and the portrait's sorrowful eyes.

* * *

In the cavernous bathroom, I gripped the marble counter, staring at my reflection in the ornate mirror. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath my eyes, and my face looked thinner already, cheekbones too sharp against pale skin.

I turned my wrist over, breath catching. The rose tattoo had changed. Yesterday it had been a delicate outline, today it was darker, more defined. The red had deepened to crimson, the petals more distinct, as though the flower were blooming beneath my skin.

As I stared, a wave of dizziness crashed over me. The bathroom tilted sickeningly, marble floor rushing up to meet me. My knees buckled, and I crumpled, catching myself against the bathtub's edge before sliding to the floor.

I don't know how long I lay there, consciousness ebbing and flowing like a tide. The bathroom door opened, and Mrs. Davies appeared, her thin face pinched with concern.

"Oh, child," she whispered, kneeling beside me. With surprising strength, she helped me to my feet and guided me toward the bedroom.

As we passed through the doorway, I glimpsed Alexander standing in the corridor, watching. His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes—a cold, calculating satisfaction—sent ice through my veins.

"You should rest, Mrs. Sterling," Mrs. Davies said softly, helping me onto the bed. "It always takes a toll at first."

I wanted to ask what she meant—what *always* takes a toll—but exhaustion dragged me under before I could form the words. The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was the rose on my wrist pulsing once, like a heart pumping blood.

Not my blood. His.