Clara Heath POV:

Elliott Spears frowned, his lips thinning into a familiar line of disapproval. "Clara, have you forgotten your etiquette lessons already? You walk on the right side of the corridor. You do not rush about like a commoner."

I ignored his reprimand, simply looking at him. He had clearly come to "educate" me—to remind me of my place, to reassert the old order he assumed still governed my life. He must have heard whispers of my confrontation with Richard and dismissed them as a tantrum. A girl like me, after all, could never truly rebel.

In my past life, he had used countless little "rules" like this to crush my confidence, to make me feel clumsy and worthless.

My silence seemed to irritate him further. "The patriarch sent me to remind you to prepare for the wedding in a few days. Do not bring shame upon the Daniel family."

A small, humorless smile touched my lips. He was clearly out of the loop.

"Mr. Spears," I said, my voice quiet but clear, "I believe your information is out of date."

I simply met his gaze and said, "As of today, you are no longer my tutor."

He stared, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "What are you talking about? Clara, that is not your decision to make."

"It was the patriarch's decision," I added. "He has dismissed you. And you are forbidden from entering the Daniel estate ever again."

The smile froze on his face. His eyes widened in disbelief. "Impossible! Why would the patriarch—"

"You can ask the butler. Or you can ask the patriarch himself." I said, turning to leave.

He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. His face was flushed with anger. "This is your doing, isn't it? What game are you playing now to get my attention? Do you honestly think pushing me away will make me finally notice you? Because I can promise you, Clara—everyone can see right through this little act."

"Get your attention?" The absurdity of it made me laugh, a genuine, sharp sound. "Mr. Spears, please, don't flatter yourself. You were never the prize you thought you were. I was just too blind to see it."

I had no romantic feelings left for him. All that remained was a debt, yet to be collected.

I pulled my arm free and walked past him. He remained frozen in the corridor, his face a mask of confusion and fury.

Back in my attic room, I began to pack. There wasn't much. A few worn dresses, a cracked washbasin, a wooden chair with a wobbling leg.

I paused before the small, tarnished mirror propped against the wall. The girl who stared back at me was familiar and strange all at once. I lifted a hand, my fingers brushing against the red mark on my right cheek—a thin, snaking line of crimson they had called a mark of ill omen. For my entire first life, I had been ashamed of it. Elliott had hinted, more than once, that this mark was the source of my "crude" and "unfortunate" nature.

But now, beneath my fingertips, it pulsed with a faint, steady warmth, like a sleeping heart beginning to stir. Each beat seemed to sharpen the edges of my vision, making the corners of the room feel thinner, more transparent. I didn't fully understand it yet—only that my mother's blood was finally waking up inside me.

I still remembered the afternoon I had stumbled upon Elliott in the garden, speaking to Camilla in low, amused tones.

"She actually followed me home yesterday," he had laughed. "I nearly lost my composure when I turned around. That face—those marks—and she thinks she has the right to love anyone. It's almost pitiful."

Camilla had covered her mouth, her laughter like chiming bells. "Poor Clara. She does try so hard, doesn't she?"

I had stood frozen behind the hedge, my heart crumbling to ash. That was the moment I understood—every shy glance I had given him, every clumsy attempt at conversation, he had collected and delivered to Camilla like trophies. They had become a private joke between them.

The shock of rebirth had left me trembling, but the world looked different now. I could see faint halos of light around people, perceive the gossamer threads of their fate. The red mark on my face no longer burned with shame—instead, that gentle warmth radiated from it, as if a long-dormant power was finally awakening.

That girl is gone, I told my reflection. She drowned. I am what remains.

I turned away from the mirror and picked up the thickest book among my mother's collection, its pages yellowed with age.This is one of the few mementos my biological mother left me. It was filled with archaic script detailing knowledge of herbs and stars. I ran my fingers over the faded ink and remembered—dimly, like a dream half-forgotten—a woman with tired eyes sitting by candlelight, whispering words I couldn't understand. She had pressed this book into my hands when I was very young and said, "One day, you will."

In my first life, I couldn't understand it. After my rebirth, I realized it was a beginner's grimoire. My mother had not been an ordinary woman. My power came from her.

Before I permanently moved out of here, I decided to go to the slums in search of Finn. Only once I found him could I finally put my mind at ease. I walked toward the main gates. On my way through the courtyard, I caught a glimpse of Elliott through a ground-floor window, arguing with the butler. His gestures were sharp, his face reddening. He had confirmed my words, and he had not liked what he heard.

Let him seethe.

The guards didn't stop me. They had their orders.

Just as I was about to step out onto the main road, a lavish carriage pulled up, blocking my path.

Of course. I knew he wouldn't let me walk away that easily.

The door opened and Elliott Spears stepped out. He had changed his clothes. He was no longer dressed as a humble tutor, but in the fine silks of the upper class. He had gone to considerable trouble to present himself as a man of status—perhaps to remind me what I was losing, or to reassert the power he felt I had stolen from him.

He stood before me, his expression a complex mix of anger and something else I couldn't quite place. He had obviously sought confirmation from Richard and was deeply unsatisfied with the answer.

"Clara," he began, his voice dripping with a kind of condescending pity, "tell me what you really want. Money? Is that it? If you take back what you said, I can consider—"

I looked at him and suddenly felt a profound sense of foolishness for the girl I used to be.

I didn't answer his question. Instead, I focused, and for the first time, I actively used my new ability to see his fate.