Sothing about this whole situation felt deeply off.
The beautiful woman standing before her had casually held Veil’s hand the mont she walked in, and even helped him to the bathroom without the slightest hint of sha.
If there wasn’t sothing fishy going on here, Saoirse wouldn’t believe it for a second.
What made it worse was that when Veil woke up, he hadn’t called for anyone else. Just this woman. That alone said a lot about her place in his heart.
Without even realizing it, Saoirse had already begun to see Lyra as her biggest rival.
Sure, she had once told Veil she wouldn’t get jealous over just any random girl. But this wasn’t just any girl.
Lyra? She was no ordinary girl. She was clearly inching her way toward becoming Veil’s consort. A serious threat.
"Drink it all up. The dicine will help you recover faster. Once you’re better, wherever you want to go, I’ll take you," Saoirse said gently, lifting the spoon to Veil’s lips, her eyes brimming with affection.
"Whether it’s the Queen’s Bar or anywhere else, I’ll be right by your side."
She threw a sidelong glance at Lyra across the room, a cool, faint smile tugging at her lips—part warning, part challenge.
By all logic, Lyra wasn’t the type to engage in petty rivalry with another woman.
But Saoirse had chosen to show off using Veil.
That changed everything.
Lyra smiled gracefully and spoke slowly. "A bar’s too noisy for soone who’s just been discharged. A quiet walk might be better. Say, through that old alley by the snack street. It holds so aningful mories. Or maybe we could rent a boat on the artificial lake and stop in the middle, just enjoying the scenery. There are quite a few peaceful places to go."
So, it was a mory showdown now?
She had plenty to share.
And the ones she had with Veil—those were unforgettable. Carved into her bones. Irreplaceable.
She didn’t even need to pretend; the confidence behind her words said it all.
"She’s..." Saoirse began, her heart skipping.
Trouble. Big trouble.
This gorgeous woman was not to be underestimated.
She spoke without hesitation, oozed confidence, and beneath that soft, intellectual deanor—she was playing the ga better than anyone.
Had Saoirse been too restrained all this ti?
Even soone like Lyra—supposedly refined and demure—had dared to go into that secluded alley behind the food street? That place was always bustling, even if it was a bit hidden.
How could she just do that so casually?
And on a boat, in the middle of the lake? That was insane.
It’s not even stable. What do you do, roll around?
Weren’t they afraid of tipping the boat over? Or ending up in so viral video?
So misunderstandings, once planted, only grow worse with ti if left unresolved.
Just like now—Saoirse felt like she’d just been thoroughly outplayed.
Her competitive spirit flared. She couldn’t take the loss lying down. Everything Lyra had, she had to match.
Education? Lyra was a PhD student.
Body? Okay, not much of a difference—but Lyra had that stunning professor aura going on.
Red-rimd glasses, white blouse, black pencil skirt, heels. It was a whole aesthetic.
Even if Saoirse tried to copy that look, she couldn’t replicate the essence.
Background? Well, Lyra’s family wasn’t much better than hers. There was Oliver Chandler, after all—the sha of their entire bloodline.
But Lyra had brains. She could write, think.
Saoirse? She could only stab soone ten tis in three seconds.
She’d lost. Thoroughly.
A dazed look spread across Saoirse’s face.
Veil noticed and felt a rare pang of sympathy. He looked toward Lyra and asked softly, "Lyra, have you eaten yet?"
"Not yet," Lyra replied, chuckling. "But now that you ntion it, I am a little hungry. I’ll go grab sothing downstairs. I’ll be back in a bit."
"Yeah, you should eat sothing," Veil nodded, lifting his hand slightly to wave her off with a smile.
His plan was simple: send Lyra off first, then comfort Saoirse.
But Saoirse, being the type to fight through failure, stood up the mont she heard Lyra was leaving. Without even saying goodbye to Veil, she trailed after her down the stairs.
...
Hospital cafeteria.
There was a mix of internal food services and outside restaurants. After all, families staying with patients needed better als than just bland hospital food.
Saoirse followed Lyra and sat near her, just a few tables away. Close enough that they could still see each other when they looked up.
The restaurant owner ca out and asked for their orders.
Lyra spoke first, calmly, "Beef noodles. Mildly spicy."
Then she lowered her gaze.
The owner jotted it down and walked toward Saoirse, but before he could even ask, Saoirse raised her voice—loud enough to echo.
"I’ll have beef noodles too—super spicy!"
The restaurant owner wore a bitter expression. "Our ’super spicy’ really is super spicy... it might be a bit too much..."
Saoirse was actually a little nervous inside—but everywhere she went, she felt like she was being overshadowed. That wasn’t her. That wasn’t who Saoirse was.
And across from her, Lyra was still watching with that calm, composed gaze, practically daring her to back down over a little spice?
No way.
What kind of person would she be if she gave up now?
"Just do as I said. Why are you talking so much?" she snapped, rolling her eyes at the restaurant owner.
With a sigh, the man retreated into the kitchen. A few monts later, he returned with a steaming bowl of beef noodles, drenched in fiery red chili oil.
Gulp.
Saoirse gave it a glance, and a sheen of cold sweat was already forming on her forehead.
She looked up and t Lyra’s gaze. The other woman was smiling faintly.
That smile—it felt like mockery.
Biting down on her pride, Saoirse lowered her head and dug into the noodles without hesitation.
...
Hssss...
Back in the hospital room, Saoirse was constantly sucking in cold air, her eyes a little red. She couldn’t stop pouring water down her throat and fanning her burning lips with her hand.
Regret surged in waves. What kind of place was that restaurant, anyway?
She’d have soone tear it down tomorrow!
It was hot—way too hot.
Her lips felt completely numb, like they didn’t belong to her anymore.
Gulp.
Still cursing internally, she chugged another glass of water and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
"Saoirse, what happened to you? You ca back guzzling water and sweating like crazy," Veil asked from the hospital bed, puzzled. Why was her whole face flushed like that? Did she go out to eat, or run a marathon?
Lyra answered calmly, "When we went downstairs to eat, I ordered the mildly spicy beef noodles. She insisted on the super spicy version. The owner warned her it might be too strong, but she didn’t listen. She ate the whole bowl, though. Ca back like this."
Won—always so competitive. Especially when both Lyra and Saoirse were vying for Veil’s attention.
At that mont, neither was willing to back down.
Saoirse sucked in a breath and huffed, unwilling to show weakness. "I used to be fine with spicy food. Maybe I’m just a little run down from staying up late taking care of Veil."
Sure, the spice got to her—but that didn’t an she’d lost!
Lyra had only just arrived today. Saoirse had been here for days, taking care of Veil day and night. She wasn’t about to let that advantage go unnoticed.
Provocation.
It was clear as day.
She was practically bragging: Look at , taking care of Veil nonstop. What about you?
But Lyra didn’t seem angry. Her smile remained gentle as she replied, "Oh? Then I really must thank Miss Saoirse. Veil’s health is the most important thing, after all. It’s kind of you to be here to help—I’m truly grateful."
A smooth counter.
Lyra had just placed herself in the role of soone close to Veil, while reducing Saoirse to a well-aning helper.
An outsider.
"You two..." Veil started to speak but stopped halfway, sighing internally.
A complete misunderstanding.
Saoirse had seen Lyra as her main rival from the beginning.
But the truth?
Nothing had ever happened between him and Lyra—absolutely nothing!
Was this really Saoirse’s interpretation of the situation? It was ridiculous!
And Lyra—what the hell? She was usually this elegant, cultured professor. But today, here she was, acting completely out of character.
The two won were at each other’s throats. Under normal circumstances, Veil might’ve enjoyed the sight. But right now, he was basically a mummy—wrapped up, immobilized, needing help even to take off his pants.
No, he couldn’t let this go on.
The tension between them was like a pile of gunpowder growing by the second. If anything sparked it, the explosion would be disastrous.
"Saoirse, look at yourself. Your face is flushed. Why don’t you head down and get sothing to cool off?" Veil said gently, trying to sound comforting.
His plan was to send the hot-headed one away first and then explain things to Lyra—maybe even smooth things over between them.
At worst, he could just ask Lyra to let Saoirse have a bit more leeway.
But just as he finished speaking, Lyra chid in, fanning the flas, "Miss Saoirse, if your condition’s really declined that much, maybe you should take a proper rest tonight. Don’t worry about taking care of Veil anymore—I’ll handle things from here."
"Excuse ?" Saoirse’s tone chilled as she shot up from her seat, her anger igniting. "Did you just tell to leave? And why exactly should I be the one to go? Why not you?
Veil was doing just fine under my care before you showed up. But the mont you arrived, everything went sideways. Honestly, I think you’re the one who should leave!"
Unbelievable.
Was Lyra really treating her like this?
Sure, Veil spoiled her. Sure, she was the first one he contacted after waking up.
But showing up and imdiately acting like she owned the place?
That was just too much.
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