When I reached the dining room, Zion's staff suddenly fell silent, which disappointed me.
I'd wanted to keep eavesdropping—maybe I could dig up something about Zion's wife.
"Madam, here's your breakfast," Butler Enrod announced.
My eyes went wide as the helpers streamed out of the kitchen carrying plate after plate. No chicken this time, but an entire Western-style spread. I had zero appetite.
I really wanted rice—that's what I always ate before I landed here—but the table was covered in pancakes, milk (at least that made me happy), and even cereal.
"Madam," Butler Enrod called while I sipped my milk. "Is breakfast not to your liking?"
Thank goodness the milk was already halfway down my throat, or I might have spit it out. There we go again with the "not to your liking" line!
"It's fine, Butler Enrod."
"Madam, you must tell me what you like and dislike so we can serve only what pleases you."
"Er …" I honestly didn't know what to say.
"Sir Zion's orders, Madam."
I had no choice except to close my eyes and list all the foods I like and dislike.
Once that was done, I ate quickly—before the butler could bombard me with more questions. I still needed to research my character in this story, My Lily.
While riding to the mall—Butler Enrod's idea—I tried to recall what I'd read. I only remembered the female lead, Lily, the male lead, Carlo, and Zion, the villain—now my husband.
"Why am I so forgetful?" I murmured, turning to stare out the window.
In the rear-view mirror I noticed the driver glance at me, but I ignored it. Maybe he wondered why I was talking to myself.
I blew out a breath and decided: I'd just ask the driver about my life here. Maybe he knew something.
I still couldn't believe I'd fallen into that online novel—and, worst of all, I couldn't remember half the plot!
"Sir …" I swallowed. "Could you tell me about me?"
Shameless, I know—but they say you should know yourself before your enemy… or something like that. I needed answers.
"Ah… uh, Madam," he sounded hesitant.
I frowned. "Why?"
"N-nothing, Madam."
I nodded. "Then tell me about myself."
He exhaled sharply, gathering courage while keeping his eyes on the road. "You're strict, Madam," he said quietly—but I heard him. "You dislike Sir Zion… and anyone who tries to get close to you."
Strict, huh? No wonder the house staff gossiped about my attitude.
"Tell me more," I urged.
"We really don't know how you became Sir Zion's wife. Sir had been abroad for several days, and when he returned, you were with him—and the two of you immediately registered a marriage certificate here in the Philippines," he explained.
They know nothing about me?
"I'm not from here?" I blurted, covering my mouth.
The light turned red, and the driver glanced back, worry etched on his face. "Madam! Are you sure you're alright? We can go home if you're unwell."
"I'm fine, Sir."
"Just say the word and we'll head back so you can rest—that's Sir Zion's order," he insisted, still looking confused.
My heart pounded. I got nervous—what if he told Zion? And if Zion realized something was off, he might ship me to a mental ward. No way!
"Yes, yes!" I avoided his eyes and stared out the window. "I was just curious what you'd say about me."
As far as I remember, Zion's wife—meaning me—dies in the story, but the author never explained how. That heartless author of My Lily is really testing my patience.
The driver fell silent and resumed driving when the light turned green, letting me breathe easier.
I sighed, watching pedestrians along the street. He wasn't driving fast, which was fine. Everything from the stores to the street names looked the same as in my own world. The story world had truly come to life.
I pinched my wrist—felt pain. So it's all real. I didn't know whether to rejoice or cry: I should be dead, yet here I am, alive.
Eventually we reached the mall. "Madam, I'll call some staff to follow you and carry your purchases," the driver said.
I wanted to refuse, but I knew he'd just throw "Sir Zion's orders" at me, so I let it go.
Soon several of Zion's people showed up—practically bodyguards—and trailed me as I entered.
Now I fretted about where to dig up information on myself—Zion's wife.
An antique shop caught my eye, so I went in, the entourage following. I don't even know why, but antiques attract me.
"Well, well, well," a voice drawled nearby. "I didn't expect an Ally Cole to show up here."
I frowned, turning toward the voice. A brunette woman stared at me mockingly.
She scoffed, "What are you staring at?"
"Cartridge," I corrected. "Ally Cole-Cartridge."
Her mocking expression morphed into shock; her jaw dropped.