The embrace ca too suddenly, too close, too intimate.
Victoria's well-developed body pressed against him with what might have been innocent affection—or sothing far less innocent. Her head fit neatly beneath his chin, and for just a mont, Marcus felt the warmth of her against his chest, slled the faint scent of grass and paint from the afternoon's activities. Any other situation, any other person, and it might have been endearing. Sweet, even.
Instead, Marcus's entire body seized up like he'd touched a live wire.
The alarm bells in his head didn't just ring—they scread.
He stumbled backward two steps with none of the grace he usually managed, practically yanking himself free from her embrace, his movents forceful enough to border on rude. In the sa motion, he shoved the kite spool into her small hands with perhaps more urgency than the situation warranted.
"Sister, the kite is flying steadily now." His voice ca out higher than intended, that trace of panic carefully buried but definitely audible to anyone listening closely. "You hold the string—it's a lot of fun."
Victoria didn't appear disappointed or confused by his abrupt rejection. Instead, her face lit up with uncomplicated joy as she accepted the spool, her autumn-water eyes—so clear, so painfully innocent—fixing on him with undisguised affection. She tilted her head, smiled that devastating childlike smile, and said sweetly:
"Thank you."
Marcus didn't wait for anything more. He found his opening and took it, slipping away from Victoria like he was fleeing a flood, a beast, a trap—sothing dangerous that wore an innocent face. His heart hamred against his ribs as he put distance between them.
*What the hell was that?*
As he walked, his mind raced to make sense of the mont. His thoughts spiraled in tight, anxious circles.
People with severe ntal disabilities might genuinely lack the clear judgnt about intimacy and personal boundaries that emotionally developed adults possessed. That much was objectively true. But Victoria wasn't a child in a child's body—she was an adult woman. Twenty-sothing, with curves and a beautiful face and a body that had finished developing long ago. Whatever her ntal state, he couldn't treat her as an unconscious child who wouldn't or couldn't understand implications.
He needed to treat her as a normal adult woman.
Which ant maintaining boundaries.
Strict ones.
And Elena was watching. She'd been watching the entire ti, perched on her canvas like so dark bird of prey, her expression carefully neutral. Even if she seed indifferent—and Marcus had learned that Elena's apparent indifference was a carefully constructed lie—he couldn't afford to give her any reason for suspicion. Couldn't afford to be seen crossing lines that shouldn't be crossed.
The thought crystallized suddenly, sickeningly clear: *This is why the original Marcus didn't even spare Victoria.*
A woman with an achingly beautiful face and a fully developed body who couldn't clearly express resistance or accusation. A woman whose ntal state made her vulnerable, suggestible, unable to convincingly accuse or defend herself. In the eyes of certain types of n—the kind of perverted, predatory scum who saw vulnerability as an invitation—she would be the perfect prey. Defenseless. Plausible deniability built in.
*Utterly perverted,* Marcus thought with genuine disgust at the original Marcus. *How could anyone—*
But he knew how. That was what made it worse.
He took the next section of path at a near-jog, covering the distance in what felt like two strides, and positioned himself behind Elena's wheelchair. Up close, he could see the careful arrangent of her hair, the precise posture of soone used to maintaining absolute control. He kept his tone light, almost ingratiatingly eager—the tone of a man desperate to get back on solid ground, back to the safe territory of his wife.
"Wife, you've been painting for ages. Your eyes must be tired. Shall I push you around to see the scenery?"
At this mont, kites, sisters—everything was thrown to the back of his mind.
Finding his wife and declaring his loyalty were the most important priorities.
At his words, Elena finally set down her paintbrush with deliberate care. Her pale, slender hands—so small they looked almost delicate, ca to rest naturally on her knees. It was the briefest gesture of agreent, but it was clear enough.
"That works," she said quietly.
---
Mirror Lake was the kind of place that poets wrote about and lonely people ca to contemplate their mistakes.
It lay cradled in the mountains like a piece of uncarved erald jade, massive and serene, the water impossibly deep yet crystal clear enough to see the aquatic plants swaying below the surface, moving with the current like dancers in so slow, underwater ballet. Egrets occasionally skimd across the water's surface, their sharp beaks barely grazing the water, sending out rings of fine ripples that expanded infinitely until they vanished into nothingness.
A few fat koi swam leisurely past, their scales flashing with dazzling, almost aggressive light in the afternoon sun, their movent the only disturbance in the tranquil autumn waters.
Marcus pushed Elena's wheelchair slowly along the lakeshore, taking a deep breath of air that carried moisture and the green scent of grass, trying—trying *so hard*—to calm the adrenaline still singing through his veins. He attempted sothing like genuine appreciation, his voice sincere:
"This sunshine, this villa, this scenery of lakes and mountains... it's truly beautiful."
He was attempting to manufacture a mont of peace, a pocket of romance and calm where his heart wouldn't feel like it was trying to escape his chest. He needed sothing normal. Sothing safe.
Elena turned her head slightly, and the afternoon light caught her profile in a way that seed deliberately cruel. The sunlight reflecting off the lake had been fractured into countless tiny golden diamonds, and these light fragnts danced across her pale, impossibly delicate cheek. She looked like porcelain. Fragile. Precious.
It was a beautiful mont.
And then she destroyed it with six words.
"People have drowned in this lake before."
Her tone was absolutely flat, conversational, the way soone might comnt on the weather or the dinner nu. As if discussing suicide wasn't the natural response to the beauty she'd just been surrounded by. The chill that ran up Marcus's spine felt like ice water injected directly into his veins.
"Do you still think it's beautiful?" she asked.
She covered her mouth and coughed—two soft, delicate coughs that seed almost performative in their timing—and Marcus felt sothing essential crack inside him. The romantic thoughts that had just begun to bloom evaporated like mist.
He laughed nervously, the sound stiff and dry. "Right. Well. Before, I don't think I've ever heard you ntion this place. Or seen you visit."
Elena's gaze returned to the lake, her voice slipping back into its usual glacial composure.
"My sister's thirtieth birthday is approaching," she said. "Grandfather intends to celebrate it properly. I ca to discuss the venue arrangents with the sanatorium staff."
The words hit him like lightning.
*Birthday. Mirror Lake.*
Those two keywords collided in his mind with the force of a collision, and suddenly the chronology of the original novel crystallized with perfect, terrible clarity. His hand slowed its push, the wheelchair's creaking becoming unnaturally loud in the silence. Out here, away from the bustle of the sanatorium, the sound seed like the last mournful cry of a dying bird, and it made his heart clench.
He rembered.
In the original work, Victoria's birthday banquet was held right here at Mirror Lake. And it was at that very banquet—surrounded by family and guests, under the lights and flowers and carefully orchestrated elegance—that Elena and Adrian Qi had their mont.
*Their kiss of devotion.* Their white moonlight mont.
The sky was vast. The wilderness was wild. And his nominally beautiful wife was about to emotionally betray him under the stars reflected in this very water.
Based on the fragnted information he'd gathered from the original novel and Elena's calm explanation just now, Marcus quickly pieced together the larger picture in his mind:
Victoria was approaching thirty. Patriarch Jiang treated this milestone with the utmost seriousness—a grand celebration was being arranged, with invitations extended to all relatives and friends. The reasoning was twofold: first, Grandfather Jiang genuinely wanted to make Victoria happy. But second, and far more importantly, Victoria's condition had actually improved in recent years. She'd been manic and volatile in her early disability, easily irritated and prone to episodes. Now she was calr, gentler, more stable. She could understand simple concepts. Process basic ideas.
Grandfather Jiang harbored hope—the kind of hope only a loving grandfather could maintain—that if they could use this opportunity to find a good man who didn't mind Victoria's condition and was genuinely willing to care for her, perhaps with better long-term treatnt, she could eventually marry and have children like any other woman.
The difficulty involved was unimaginable, so Patriarch Jiang needed to demonstrate the full weight and strength of the Jiang family. He needed potential "sons-in-law" to understand what support and resources stood behind his granddaughter. What guarantee they were making.
Elena had explained all this with such perfect calm that Marcus almost missed the mont she shifted tactics entirely. She tilted her head back slightly, and her gaze drifted across his face with deliberate casualness—or perhaps not deliberate at all, just a natural observation, the way one observes anything that moves.
"My sister," she said softly. "She's very beautiful, isn't she?"
Marcus blinked, unsure where she was going with this. He nodded honestly: "Yes. Very beautiful."
"That's right." Elena's voice carried the faintest edge of sarcasm, a knife so thin it was almost invisible. "Many people approach her because of her beauty at first. But the mont they learn about her condition..." She paused. The pause stretched. "They rush to distance themselves. They flee without looking back. As if terrified of being dragged down. As if caring for her would be so unbearable burden."
Her words revealed a coldness born from seeing through the ways of the world.
This was the cruel reality. Who would willingly and unreservedly take care of an "incomplete" person? Whether ntally or physically.
He felt sothing shift in his chest—not quite compassion, not quite pity, but sothing in that family. He tried to offer what comfort he could, his voice gentle:
"Perhaps... it's not entirely about fear of burden. Legally, there are many requirents and restrictions for spouses of people with special needs. Maybe they just don't dare to easily cross that line."
He was grasping for sothing respectable, sothing that would make the world seem a little less cruel.
Elena lowered her head, the stray hairs across her forehead falling forward to obscure her expression. When she spoke, her voice was light, almost floating:
"Is that so?"
She remained silent for a mont longer, suspended in whatever thought had occupied her. Then, without another word, she took control of her wheelchair herself, maneuvering it with practiced efficiency. She began rolling back toward Victoria, gliding across the grass with purpose, leaving Marcus standing alone by the beautiful lake where people drowned.
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