That night, Leigh realized something.
Ervin wasn't just cruel. He was heartless. A man without warmth, without gratitude. He shattered more than just a porcelain bowl—he shattered whatever remaining thread she was still holding onto.
She cleaned the mess alone, said nothing, and hid the pain in silence.
By morning, one of the maids began collecting trash from the rooms. When she entered Leigh's quarters, she paused.
Hanging by the edge of the bathroom bin was a towel—stained with dark, dried blood.
Her stomach twisted. She reached for it carefully, the blood too thick, too fresh from the night before. She immediately told the other staff, her voice low but panicked.
None of them knew about Leigh's wound. She hadn't asked for help. She didn't let them see.
The only clue came from the maid who noticed that Leigh insisted on cleaning up the shattered bowl herself last night. She remembered how Leigh's hand trembled. How she refused anyone's assistance.
That maid explained everything she saw.
Santiago heard the conversation as he passed by. He turned back immediately, worry darkening his expression.
Without hesitation, he climbed the stairs and walked straight to Ervin's private office.
Ervin barely acknowledged him.
But Santiago didn't care.
He held up the bloodied towel, firm and direct. "Sir… this was found in her room. The maids say she injured herself last night, but didn't let anyone help. One of them believes it happened while she was cleaning the broken bowl."
Ervin took the towel. His eyes narrowed slightly. Still, his face betrayed no emotion.
"She didn't say anything to me," he muttered coldly.
Santiago stood his ground. "Because she knew you wouldn't care."
There was no fear in his voice. Santiago had been in this house long enough to speak freely. Ervin had grown under his watchful eye—he was more than a butler now. He was family, in a way Ervin had long stopped recognizing.
"I think it was serious," Santiago continued. "Look at the towel. That isn't a minor cut."
Ervin glanced down again. The cloth was soaked—nearly the entire corner was dark with dried blood.
But all he said was, "She should've been more careful."
His voice was as cold as marble.
Santiago's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. After a long, tense silence, he turned and walked away.
Ervin remained in the office, alone.
He stared at the towel.
His mind whispered one quiet question: Why didn't she tell me?
But even that curiosity he buried deep beneath his pride.
He tossed the towel onto his desk and looked out the window, the morning light casting long, golden lines across the floor.
Outside, the world moved on.
Inside, a wound bled quietly… and the man responsible couldn't feel a thing.
Ervin questioned why Leigh didn't tell him about it. But in his mind, he convinced himself—it probably wasn't that serious. Still, when he looked down at the towel… it was soaked in blood. Not a little. Nearly half of the fabric was stained dark red.
And yet… she said nothing.
His fingers tightened around the towel. But his expression remained unchanged.
Cold. Blank.
Later that morning, the quiet air of the mansion felt unnaturally heavy.
Ervin didn't go to work. He stayed.
In the kitchen, Leigh was already awake, slowly moving as she prepared coffee. Her right hand was fully wrapped in bandage, and she was only using her left to handle everything.
Ervin stepped into the kitchen just as she was stirring. He didn't speak. Neither did she.
He walked to the fridge, took a bottle of water, and observed in silence.
Leigh didn't even glance in his direction. As if she didn't notice him. As if he wasn't there at all.
Holding the coffee cup with her uninjured hand, she left the kitchen in silence.
He watched her.
Watched the way her fingers struggled to balance the mug.
Watched the white bandage stand out against her skin.
And as she stepped into the hallway…
Crash.
The mug slipped from her hand and shattered on the marble floor.
Coffee splashed across her bare feet.
Leigh gasped, pulling her hand back instinctively from the pain—but she didn't cry out.
Ervin froze by the fridge, the bottled water still in his grip.
His body tensed.
He took one step forward—but stopped. His jaw clenched. Eyes locked on her.
Should he help?
Would she even accept it?
And then—
"Miss—Are you alright?"
A tall man in a crisp coat came walking in from the front hall—Gab Montemayor.
He stopped at the mess, blinking in surprise as he took in the injured woman kneeling beside broken ceramic and dark stains of coffee.
He didn't recognize her.
But something about the scene—the bandaged hand, the look of strain on her face—made him step forward.
"Don't move. You're barefoot," he said quickly, kneeling and gently guiding her away from the shards. "You'll cut yourself."
Leigh didn't respond. She simply let him take over.
Gab glanced over his shoulder. That was when he noticed Ervin… standing motionless in the doorway.
Their eyes met.
Gab frowned slightly.
There was no welcome in Ervin's expression. No greeting. No explanation. Just coldness.
Gab turned back to Leigh. "Let me call someone to clean this up. You really shouldn't be using that hand."
Still, Leigh said nothing.
Gab didn't press. He simply picked up the largest pieces and stood.
But when he looked at Ervin again, something in his chest tightened.
He didn't know who the girl was.
But the silence… was loud.
And Ervin's eyes, though expressionless—watched her with something else beneath.
Gab couldn't name it.
But he felt it.
And he didn't like it.
Ervin didn't speak.
He simply turned, walked away—and vanished down the hall.
As if nothing had happened.
As if she wasn't bleeding.
As if he didn't care.