Desiree's POV
"Love… What is love?" I whispered softly to myself, the question echoing in the quiet of my room. My family dynamics had always been complicated, leaving me with a tangled mess of emotions to sort through. Love was a concept I struggled to grasp, its meaning elusive and ever-changing. Sitting at my desk, pen in hand, I found myself drawn to the page, hoping to unravel the mysteries of the heart through my writing. Yet, with each word I penned, the answers seemed to slip further away, leaving me to ponder the enigma of love in solitude.
My thoughts wandered back to Aizen. Do I like him? Do I hate him? No, I don't hate him. He asked me to go on a date with him two weeks ago, stirring a flutter of butterflies in my stomach that refused to dissipate. With a frustrated groan, I buried my face in my journal, seeking solace in its pages. "We could just be us for a change," his words echoed in my mind, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos of my thoughts.
I glanced at my phone.
No call. No text.
As I sifted through the barrage of messages from Aizen, a familiar pattern emerged. It reminded me of our childhood days when he would relentlessly pester me until I found myself missing his presence whenever he disappeared. It struck me then that perhaps I unconsciously mirrored his actions when I suppressed my feelings for him back in sixth grade…
Is he messing with me again?
Frowning, I found myself caught between conflicting emotions—uncertain whether to feel sadness, surprise, or betrayal. However, I reminded myself not to jump to conclusions. He's likely just preoccupied with his own affairs.
Curious, I glanced at my laptop as it emitted a familiar beep, indicating the arrival of an email.
Subject: Publishing Offer for "The Mage And I" by SunnyBae13
Dear Sunny,
I trust this message finds you well. My name is Takashi Hiroto, and I serve as the Publishing Director at Imperial Inkwell Press. It is with sincere admiration for your literary talent that I reach out to you today regarding your exceptional novel, "The Mage And I."
Upon encountering your work, our team was immediately captivated by the depth and allure of your storytelling. Your novel possesses a rare quality that resonates deeply with readers across cultural divides, making it an ideal candidate for publication in multiple languages. Therefore, I am delighted to extend to you an offer to publish "The Mage And I" in English, Japanese, and Korean through our esteemed publishing house.
Furthermore, we are thrilled at the prospect of adapting your novel into a captivating manhwa series. We believe that your story holds immense potential to thrive in both written and visual formats, captivating audiences across diverse mediums.
At Imperial Inkwell Press, we take great pride in our commitment to nurturing emerging authors and celebrating the artistry of literature. As such, we are dedicated to providing you with generous royalties and comprehensive marketing support to ensure the success of your novel and its adaptations.
If this opportunity piques your interest, I would be honored to discuss the details of our publishing offer with you further. Please feel free to reach out to me using the contact information provided below. I am at your disposal to address any questions or concerns you may have.
Thank you for considering Imperial Inkwell Press for the publication of your literary masterpiece. We eagerly anticipate the possibility of collaborating with you and bringing "The Mage And I" to readers around the globe.
Warm regards,
Takashi Hiroto
Publishing Director
Imperial Inkwell Press
Email: takashi.hiroto@imperialinkwell.com
Phone: +1 (555) 123-4567
Address: Imperial Inkwell Press, 789 Elm Avenue, Tokyo, Japan
I gasped, my heart pounding with excitement. Imperial Inkwell Press? This couldn't be real. It felt like a dream come true, but a part of me hesitated. What if it was too good to be true? What if it was all a scam?
My mind raced with questions, but one thing was clear: I couldn't make any rash decisions. Not when I was still married to Aizen. The Nara name was at stake, and I couldn't risk tarnishing it with impulsive actions.
I hovered over my phone, my thumb poised to dial Aizen's number. But hesitation crept in, and I found myself frozen in uncertainty.
"Should I call him? Or maybe I should text first?" I asked myself, "He's always been the one to initiate conversations..."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow through my window, I felt a sudden urge to reach out to Aizen. With each digit I dialed, my heart quickened with anticipation, the seconds stretching into eternity as I awaited his response.
"Hello," Aizen's voice greeted me from the other end, a familiar warmth tempered by an underlying chill that sent a shiver down my spine. Something about the atmosphere on his end felt askew, a discordant note in the symphony of our conversation. Was that the distant echo of a gunshot I heard? "Princess?" he queried, his tone laced with concern.
"Hey," I responded tentatively, my senses on high alert as I strained to discern the background noises—wind whistling through unseen branches, the rustle of leaves, and faint murmurs in Japanese. "Are you busy?" I asked, hesitating to broach the reason for my call.
"Hold on one sec," Aizen interjected abruptly, his voice taking on an icy edge as he addressed someone in the background. The sharpness of his tone sent a pang of unease coursing through me, prompting a fleeting wish for fluency in Japanese to decipher the urgency of his words. When he returned, his demeanor had softened, though the tension lingered beneath the surface. "Sorry about that," he offered, his voice tinged with regret. "I just needed to take care of something urgent..." His words trailed off, leaving an unspoken question hanging in the air.
"So, why did you call?" he continued, his tone warmer now, a stark contrast to the chill that had pervaded our conversation moments before. "I'm happy to hear your voice. You never make the first move."
Just then, I heard a sharp scream that sounded like agony, my heart racing in my chest.
What the fuck was that?
The sharp, piercing scream that cut through the air sent a jolt of fear coursing through me, causing my heart to race in my chest. "Is everything okay?" I blurted out, my voice trembling with panic. "Why is someone screaming?"
The abruptness of his response, coupled with the dismissive explanation for the scream, only heightened my unease. "I didn't hear a scream," he claimed, his words ringing hollow and unconvincing. "Ah, perhaps it was one of the employees watching TikTok again." His attempt to downplay the situation only fueled my apprehension.
"Anyway, I'm fine. Please eat dinner. I have to cut this call short despite how much I want to hear more of your voice. I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Love you," he concluded before ending the call.
The words "I love you" lingered in my mind, stirring a mix of confusion and suspicion. Aizen had never uttered those words before, at least not during a phone call. Something didn't sit right, and a nagging feeling of unease settled over me.
As I stared at my phone screen, a sense of foreboding weighed heavy on my heart. This wasn't like Aizen, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong.
Sitting at my desk, fingers dancing across the keyboard, I lose track of time as I dive into the world of my latest creation, the second volume of "The Mage And I". Romance and fantasy intertwine as I weave intricate plots and develop vibrant characters, each keystroke bringing my imagination to life. For me, writing is more than just a passion - it's an escape from the mundanity of everyday life, a chance to create my own reality.
Glancing up at the clock, I'm surprised to find that hours have slipped away unnoticed. What felt like mere moments was actually half past one in the morning. But when you're lost in a world of magic and love, time seems to lose all meaning. As I continue to craft my story, I'm reminded once again of the power of storytelling to transport us to new realms, offering solace and adventure in equal measure.
As I got up from my desk and stretched, the weight of the night's writing session began to lift from my shoulders. Changing into my nightgown, I made my way down to the kitchen for a drink, my mind still swirling with thoughts of Aizen. Suddenly, a noise in the darkness sent a shiver down my spine. With the lights off, fear gripped me as I turned to see a figure approaching. Startled, I dropped my glass, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the silent house. "Shit," I cursed under my breath, my heart racing.
Grabbing a knife for protection, I squinted in the dim light, only to gasp in disbelief at the sight before me. "Aizen!" I exclaimed, my voice catching in my throat. His shirt was stained with blood, and a dark aura surrounded him, he seemed like a different person altogether.
As he flinched at my reaction and turned to leave, instinct took over and I rushed towards him, my foot slipping on the wet floor. But before I could fall, Aizen caught me, his touch both comforting and unsettling. There was something cold and distant in his eyes, yet I couldn't help but feel drawn to him.
Reaching out to touch his face, my heart pounded in my chest as I took in the sight of him. Despite the fear and uncertainty swirling around us, all I felt was worry. "Are you alright?" I asked softly, my voice trembling with concern.
"Are you alright?" I asked worriedly.
"I'm fine. Please go back to bed. The staff can clean the mess on the kitchen in the morning." Aizen's response was dismissive, his tone brusque as he urged me to return to bed. But as I looked into his eyes and saw the bruises and cuts on his hands, I knew that something was terribly wrong. Yet, even in the midst of chaos, there was a connection between us that I couldn't ignore.
He's avoiding me…
Despite his protests, I refused to back down. "Come with me," I urged gently, reaching out to take his hand.
But he pulled away, insisting, "You shouldn't see me like this. Please, go to bed."
"I was worried about you," I confessed, my arms moving of their own accord to wrap around him. The wetness of his blood-soaked shirt seeped into my skin, but I didn't care. "Come with me, okay?"
"Desiree," he began, searching for words.
Looking up into his eyes, I pressed on. "You told me you love me, didn't you?"
A blush spread across his cheeks as he remembered our phone conversation. "Ah," he mumbled, his hand covering his face. "Did I?"
"So, don't make me worry and come with me," I insisted, taking his hand once more. Leading him to my room, I gestured for him to sit on the chaise. "Please wait while I get something to clean your wounds."
Rushing off to gather supplies, I returned with a first aid kit, towels, and a basin of water. I also grabbed a change of clothes from his room before returning to find him still seated, lost in thought.
As I approached him, I dipped the towel into the basin and began to gently wipe away the blood from his face and hands, my hands trembling with the weight of the moment. His gaze never left me as I worked to clean him up, every movement filled with a mixture of fear and tenderness.
"Are you injured here?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I pointed to his abdomen. I dreaded the answer, afraid to discover whether the blood was his own or belonged to another. But despite my fear, I needed to know the truth, to understand the extent of the danger he had faced.
No response.
As he remained silent, I set the towel aside and reached for the buttons of his shirt, my heart pounding in my chest as I climbed over him, causing him to jump in surprise. "Stop squirming," I chided, my cheeks flushing at the awkwardness of our position. With trembling fingers, I worked quickly to unbutton his shirt, relieved to find no sign of wounds underneath. His body was stained with blood, but he appeared unharmed. Yet, as my gaze lingered on his well-sculpted form, I felt my cheeks grow even hotter. Aizen was undeniably attractive.
Quickly pushing aside such distracting thoughts, I averted my eyes and murmured, "I'm glad you're not hurt," my voice betraying my relief. But as the realization sank in, a wave of dread washed over me. It wasn't his blood staining his clothes—it belonged to someone else.
With a heavy sigh, I reluctantly climbed off him and moved to his side, determination fueling my actions. As I approached his hands, I reached for the alcohol and a fresh bandage, my movements deliberate yet tinged with hesitation. With practiced care, I poured the alcohol onto a cotton pad, wincing slightly at the sharp scent that filled the air. Gently, I began to clean his hands, the harsh sting of the alcohol juxtaposed against the tender touch of my fingers. Each movement was deliberate, each gesture filled with silent apology for the pain I was causing.
Once his hands were clean, I carefully wrapped them in bandages, my fingers working with precision as I secured the cloth in place. Despite the urgency of the situation, I couldn't help but notice the way his hands trembled slightly beneath my touch, a silent testament to the turmoil raging within him.
"You should take a bath," I suggested softly, my voice gentle yet firm. "To get rid of the remaining dirt and blood on you. I brought you a change of clothes. You can use my bath if you want or you can go back to your room." Pausing, I squeezed his hand gently, my touch seeking to offer comfort in the midst of turmoil. "I know you don't want to talk about it, so I won't press you."
"Don't you have questions?" he asked, his tone icy and distant. "Aren't you afraid of me?"
"Idiot," I snapped, my hand connecting with his cheek in a sharp slap. Immediately, regret washed over me, my fingers tenderly tracing the reddened mark on his skin. With a heavy sigh, I climbed over him once again, my arms encircling him in a reassuring embrace. "I'm not afraid of you, dummy," I murmured, my hug tightening as I felt his arms wrap around me in return. "I told you I was worried..."
The truth was, I didn't like what I saw. Yes, I was scared—terrified even. But not of him. I was terrified that something awful had happened to him, the mere thought of it sending a sharp pang through my heart. And despite the confusion swirling within me, all I wanted in that moment was to hold him close, to offer whatever solace I could in the face of his pain.
"I'm sorry," he finally spoke, his voice filled with remorse. "I'm sorry you had to see me this way. I didn't mean to scare you or make you worry." Gently pushing me away, he reached for my hand, his touch sending a shiver down my spine. "Did you get hurt?" he inquired, concern etched into every line of his face. "It was quite a hard slap, wasn't it?" Leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to my hand before resting his head against my chest. "I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "I even got your dress stained with blood."
I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper as our eyes locked in a silent exchange of understanding. His hand brushed against my cheek, the gentle caress sending shivers down my spine as our lips met in a fiery embrace. In that moment, passion consumed us both, igniting a flame that seemed to burn brighter with each passing second. I lost myself in the intoxicating sensation of his touch, longing for the moment to last forever.
Our lips moved in perfect harmony, each kiss more fervent than the last as desire coursed through our veins. His tongue traced the contours of my mouth with a fervor that mirrored my own, our hearts beating in tandem as if they were one. In that moment of raw intensity, I couldn't help but wonder: Is this what love truly feels like?
Is this what love is?