Sorry, I'm Just a Weak Little Vampire

The phantom pain of a silver stake tearing through Genevieve's chest made her knees buckle. She stood on the freezing marble floor of the Crimson Court's top-floor council chamber, her vision swimming with black spots. A violent headache split her skull. The metallic taste of her own blood-a memory from a future that hadn't happened yet-coated her tongue. Her lungs seized. She couldn't drag in a single breath. "Are you even listening to me, Genevieve?" Lord Marcus's low, authoritative voice echoed off the vaulted gothic ceiling. The sound hit her like a physical blow, snapping her out of the death vision. Genevieve forced her chin up. She met Lord Marcus's crimson eyes. They were hard, cold, and filled with absolute disappointment. Her stomach dropped to the floor. Her heart, still trapped in the panic of the prophecy, hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Rosalie cowered behind Lord Marcus's broad, custom-tailored suit. The half-blood girl gripped the edge of his jacket, her small shoulders shaking. But Genevieve caught it. Just for a fraction of a second, Rosalie's eyes darted toward her, flashing with a sharp, calculated provocation. Lord Marcus pointed a long, pale finger at the torn blood-servant contract scattered on the floor. "Explain to me why you insist on targeting a fragile half-blood," Lord Marcus demanded, his voice vibrating with raw power. "She just awakened. She cannot even withstand the sunlight yet, and you treat her like dirt." Genevieve opened her mouth. The old Genevieve-the arrogant, pureblood prodigy-wanted to scream back. She wanted to rip Rosalie's fake innocence to shreds. But her throat closed up. The phantom shadow of the silver stake pressed against her windpipe. A glaring red warning flashed in her mind. The prophecy was clear. If she released her pureblood pressure right now, if she acted like the villain they expected, the countdown to her gruesome death would begin. Genevieve sucked in a sharp breath. She pressed her thumb hard into the side of her index finger, digging her nail into the bone to suppress the ancient, chaotic magic boiling in her veins. She lowered her eyelashes. She stared at her own pale fingertips, forcing her face into a blank, deadpan mask. Her sudden, unnatural silence hung in the air. Lord Marcus twisted his custom cufflink, misinterpreting her silence as stubborn rebellion. His jaw ticked. He slammed his fist down on the heavy blackwood table. The impact rattled the wood. A heavy, solid silver candlestick toppled off the edge. It hit the marble with a sharp clang and rolled directly to Genevieve's feet. A faint, holy aura radiated from the silver. To an Antediluvian pureblood like Genevieve, it was as harmless as a gentle breeze. But she stared at the silver metal, and a brilliant idea sparked in her panicked brain. Genevieve gasped loudly. She clutched her chest with both hands. She let out a weak, pathetic whimper. Her knees gave out completely. She collapsed onto the freezing marble floor, curling her body inward as if the mere scent of the silver was burning her flesh. She forced her breathing to become shallow and erratic. Lord Marcus froze. His hand, still raised to scold her, stopped in mid-air. The anger in his red eyes fractured, replaced by a sudden flash of shock and hesitation. Rosalie peeked out from behind Lord Marcus. She bit her lower lip, her signature move of innocence. "Genevieve... sister?" Rosalie asked, her voice dripping with fake tears. "Are you feeling unwell?" Genevieve didn't miss a beat. She stole Rosalie's exact playbook. She forced her eyes to widen. She blinked rapidly until her eyes turned red. "I'm just... so weak," Genevieve whispered, her voice trembling perfectly. "Don't blame anyone. It's not your fault. I'm just useless." The massive chamber went dead silent. The air turned into solid ice. Those pathetic, white-lotus words coming from the mouth of the notoriously cold and ruthless pureblood genius felt completely wrong. Lord Marcus's eyebrows pulled together into a deep, harsh line. He took a step forward, reaching out to check the flow of her magic. Genevieve flinched violently. She scrambled backward like a terrified rabbit, dodging his hand. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. She looked up at the faint, artificial sunlight filtering through the stained-glass chandelier. She let out a choked sob and dragged her body backward, shrinking into the darkest shadow behind a thick stone pillar. In Rosalie's perception, an invisible, parasitic connection tried to lock onto Genevieve, but it slipped away as if hitting a wall of cotton. The emotional feedback she expected completely failed to appear, leaving her prepared words stuck in her throat. Rosalie bit her lip harder. She took a step toward the pillar, reaching her hand out to help Genevieve up. She needed physical contact to trigger her low-level luck-stealing skill. Genevieve felt the shift in the air. She saw Rosalie's hand coming. Without a single shred of aristocratic dignity, Genevieve threw herself sideways. She literally rolled across the dirty marble floor, tumbling deeper into the dusty corner, perfectly dodging Rosalie's touch. Lord Marcus stared at her. His mouth parted slightly. The sight of a top-tier noble rolling on the floor like a street rat completely short-circuited his brain. His anger evaporated, replaced by a heavy, absurd sense of helplessness. Genevieve curled into a tight ball in the shadows. "Please, Lord Marcus," she begged, her voice cracking. "Please don't throw me out of the Court. I promise I'll just be a useless piece of trash. I won't see the sun. I'll just stay in the dark." Lord Marcus rubbed his temples. He let out a long, exhausted sigh. He waved his hand at the low-level blood servants standing by the doors. "Leave us," he ordered. The servants scattered instantly. Lord Marcus walked over to the pillar. He looked down at the pureblood child who used to be his greatest pride, now reduced to a shivering puddle of mud. His eyes were a mess of conflicting emotions. Genevieve stared hard at the intricate patterns carved into the floor. She bit the inside of her cheek until it bled to stop herself from bursting into hysterical laughter. She kept her shoulders shaking, playing the terrified newborn to perfection. "Get up," Lord Marcus said, his voice losing its harsh edge. He thought his own pressure had broken her. "Go back to your room and rest." Genevieve shook her head weakly. "My legs," she whispered, looking up at him with wide, pitiful eyes. "I can't stand. Please... can someone bring a wheelchair?" Lord Marcus's eye twitched violently. He looked like he wanted to throw her out the window. But he swallowed his frustration, walked over to the wall, and pressed the call button for his personal butler. Ten minutes later, Genevieve sat slumped in a leather wheelchair, being pushed out of the grand doors. Just as the doors began to close, she turned her head. She looked straight at Rosalie's confused, frustrated face. Genevieve gave her a weak, entirely innocent smile.