Marcellus remained silent for a long time, as if every word Alia had just spoken reverberated within him, scorching his heart. His knuckles were white from gripping the sheet so tightly, yet he dared not lift his gaze to meet Alia's eyes.
It felt as if a boulder pressed against his chest. His breaths came fast and shallow, as though the emotions he had suppressed for so long were tearing his reason apart. Livia… she hadn't been entirely desperate, nor had she completely given up on him. She had doubted, struggled, and even tried to uncover the truth. But what about himself?
He shut his eyes abruptly, lips tight, forehead dotted with fine sweat. The memories cut into him like blades, inch by inch. If not for his pointless pride, if not for that mask of cold indifference—he could have reached out to Livia, even with just a single explanation, even with a single plea. She was clever; she would have noticed the truth, she would have been willing to face it with him.
But he had hesitated. Knowing he was gradually recovering from the corruption of that strange power, he still chose silence, pushing her further away. A rift that could have been healed with a few words had, under his stubborn pride, been torn into an unbridgeable chasm.
"I'm such a foolish man…" he muttered hoarsely, his voice breaking with self-mockery. He felt something surge within his chest, as if years of suppressed regret had finally burst forth, scorching every nerve.
He remembered Livia's desperate gaze. At that instant, he had clearly seen the conflict of doubt and pain in her eyes, yet he pretended not to notice. In hindsight, that had been proof that she was still struggling, still searching for answers. And he had done nothing—hiding behind the shadow of his pride, pretending it didn't matter, pretending her departure had no effect on him.
Tears finally slid from the corners of his eyes. Marcellus raised a hand to cover them, shoulders trembling slightly. His throat felt as if sliced by a blade, and he forced out a few words:
"If… if only I had set aside my pride back then, if only I had told her everything… maybe… we wouldn't have come to this…"
His voice choked, as if speaking both to Alia and to himself. The remorse wrapped around his soul like iron chains, making it almost impossible to breathe.
At that moment, the sickroom was so quiet that only heartbeats and restrained breaths could be heard. Alia watched the man before her, pain rising in her chest in a way she could not articulate.
She remained silent, merely observing him.
The sickroom light cast Marcellus's figure in stark vulnerability. His hand covered his eyes, yet it could not hide the slight tremor in his shoulders. At that moment, Alia felt a gentle, inexplicable pang in her chest. A profound, wordless ache of empathy slowly surfaced. She realized that the man before her was not the cold, unshakable figure she had imagined. He could feel pain, regret, and torment himself nearly to the point of collapse over a lost love.
The pain was real, raw, and exposed before her. She could even sense that behind those tears lay long-suppressed guilt and self-reproach.
Yet alongside the ache, a strange wave of pity arose—an empathetic sorrow for his current isolation and helplessness. This proud man, once possessing everything, had pushed it all away at the moment he should have reached for it, and now bore the consequences alone. Alia suddenly felt as though he were a prisoner trapped by the chains of his own making.
However, this softness did not completely dispel the complexity in her heart. After all, she remembered clearly how the earlier Marcellus had faced Livia—with coldness and arrogance. That disdain and disappointment still lingered in her heart. Even seeing him now weep for his mistakes, she found it difficult to fully forgive.
Heartache, pity, and lingering resentment—three emotions intertwined within her, clashing and colliding, leaving her breath slightly disordered.