The embrace came too suddenly, too close, too intimate.
Victoria's well-developed body pressed against him with what might have been innocent affection—or something far less innocent. Her head fit neatly beneath his chin, and for just a moment, Marcus felt the warmth of her against his chest, smelled the faint scent of grass and paint from the afternoon's activities. Any other situation, any other person, and it might have been endearing. Sweet, even.
Instead, Marcus's entire body seized up like he'd touched a live wire.
The alarm bells in his head didn't just ring—they screamed.
He stumbled backward two steps with none of the grace he usually managed, practically yanking himself free from her embrace, his movements forceful enough to border on rude. In the same motion, he shoved the kite spool into her small hands with perhaps more urgency than the situation warranted.
"Sister, the kite is flying steadily now." His voice came out higher than intended, that trace of panic carefully buried but definitely audible to anyone listening closely. "You hold the string—it's a lot of fun."
Victoria didn't appear disappointed or confused by his abrupt rejection. Instead, her face lit up with uncomplicated joy as she accepted the spool, her autumn-water eyes—so clear, so painfully innocent—fixing on him with undisguised affection. She tilted her head, smiled that devastating childlike smile, and said sweetly:
"Thank you."
Marcus didn't wait for anything more. He found his opening and took it, slipping away from Victoria like he was fleeing a flood, a beast, a trap—something dangerous that wore an innocent face. His heart hammered against his ribs as he put distance between them.
*What the hell was that?*
As he walked, his mind raced to make sense of the moment. His thoughts spiraled in tight, anxious circles.
People with severe mental disabilities might genuinely lack the clear judgment about intimacy and personal boundaries that emotionally developed adults possessed. That much was objectively true. But Victoria wasn't a child in a child's body—she was an adult woman. Twenty-something, with curves and a beautiful face and a body that had finished developing long ago. Whatever her mental state, he couldn't treat her as an unconscious child who wouldn't or couldn't understand implications.
He needed to treat her as a normal adult woman.
Which meant maintaining boundaries.
Strict ones.
And Elena was watching. She'd been watching the entire time, perched on her canvas like some dark bird of prey, her expression carefully neutral. Even if she seemed indifferent—and Marcus had learned that Elena's apparent indifference was a carefully constructed lie—he couldn't afford to give her any reason for suspicion. Couldn't afford to be seen crossing lines that shouldn't be crossed.
The thought crystallized suddenly, sickeningly clear: *This is why the original Marcus didn't even spare Victoria.*
A woman with an achingly beautiful face and a fully developed body who couldn't clearly express resistance or accusation. A woman whose mental state made her vulnerable, suggestible, unable to convincingly accuse or defend herself. In the eyes of certain types of men—the kind of perverted, predatory scum who saw vulnerability as an invitation—she would be the perfect prey. Defenseless. Plausible deniability built in.
*Utterly perverted,* Marcus thought with genuine disgust at the original Marcus. *How could anyone—*
But he knew how. That was what made it worse.
He took the next section of path at a near-jog, covering the distance in what felt like two strides, and positioned himself behind Elena's wheelchair. Up close, he could see the careful arrangement of her hair, the precise posture of someone used to maintaining absolute control. He kept his tone light, almost ingratiatingly eager—the tone of a man desperate to get back on solid ground, back to the safe territory of his wife.
"Wife, you've been painting for ages. Your eyes must be tired. Shall I push you around to see the scenery?"
At this moment, kites, sisters—everything was thrown to the back of his mind.
Finding his wife and declaring his loyalty were the most important priorities.
At his words, Elena finally set down her paintbrush with deliberate care. Her pale, slender hands—so small they looked almost delicate, came to rest naturally on her knees. It was the briefest gesture of agreement, but it was clear enough.
"That works," she said quietly.
---
Mirror Lake was the kind of place that poets wrote about and lonely people came to contemplate their mistakes.
It lay cradled in the mountains like a piece of uncarved emerald jade, massive and serene, the water impossibly deep yet crystal clear enough to see the aquatic plants swaying below the surface, moving with the current like dancers in some slow, underwater ballet. Egrets occasionally skimmed across the water's surface, their sharp beaks barely grazing the water, sending out rings of fine ripples that expanded infinitely until they vanished into nothingness.
A few fat koi swam leisurely past, their scales flashing with dazzling, almost aggressive light in the afternoon sun, their movement the only disturbance in the tranquil autumn waters.
Marcus pushed Elena's wheelchair slowly along the lakeshore, taking a deep breath of air that carried moisture and the green scent of grass, trying—trying *so hard*—to calm the adrenaline still singing through his veins. He attempted something like genuine appreciation, his voice sincere:
"This sunshine, this villa, this scenery of lakes and mountains... it's truly beautiful."
He was attempting to manufacture a moment of peace, a pocket of romance and calm where his heart wouldn't feel like it was trying to escape his chest. He needed something normal. Something safe.
Elena turned her head slightly, and the afternoon light caught her profile in a way that seemed deliberately cruel. The sunlight reflecting off the lake had been fractured into countless tiny golden diamonds, and these light fragments danced across her pale, impossibly delicate cheek. She looked like porcelain. Fragile. Precious.
It was a beautiful moment.
And then she destroyed it with six words.
"People have drowned in this lake before."
Her tone was absolutely flat, conversational, the way someone might comment on the weather or the dinner menu. As if discussing suicide wasn't the natural response to the beauty she'd just been surrounded by. The chill that ran up Marcus's spine felt like ice water injected directly into his veins.
"Do you still think it's beautiful?" she asked.
She covered her mouth and coughed—two soft, delicate coughs that seemed almost performative in their timing—and Marcus felt something essential crack inside him. The romantic thoughts that had just begun to bloom evaporated like mist.
He laughed nervously, the sound stiff and dry. "Right. Well. Before, I don't think I've ever heard you mention this place. Or seen you visit."
Elena's gaze returned to the lake, her voice slipping back into its usual glacial composure.
"My sister's thirtieth birthday is approaching," she said. "Grandfather intends to celebrate it properly. I came to discuss the venue arrangements with the sanatorium staff."
The words hit him like lightning.
*Birthday. Mirror Lake.*
Those two keywords collided in his mind with the force of a collision, and suddenly the chronology of the original novel crystallized with perfect, terrible clarity. His hand slowed its push, the wheelchair's creaking becoming unnaturally loud in the silence. Out here, away from the bustle of the sanatorium, the sound seemed like the last mournful cry of a dying bird, and it made his heart clench.
He remembered.
In the original work, Victoria's birthday banquet was held right here at Mirror Lake. And it was at that very banquet—surrounded by family and guests, under the lights and flowers and carefully orchestrated elegance—that Elena and Adrian Qi had their moment.
*Their kiss of devotion.* Their white moonlight moment.
The sky was vast. The wilderness was wild. And his nominally beautiful wife was about to emotionally betray him under the stars reflected in this very water.
Based on the fragmented information he'd gathered from the original novel and Elena's calm explanation just now, Marcus quickly pieced together the larger picture in his mind:
Victoria was approaching thirty. Patriarch Jiang treated this milestone with the utmost seriousness—a grand celebration was being arranged, with invitations extended to all relatives and friends. The reasoning was twofold: first, Grandfather Jiang genuinely wanted to make Victoria happy. But second, and far more importantly, Victoria's condition had actually improved in recent years. She'd been manic and volatile in her early disability, easily irritated and prone to episodes. Now she was calmer, gentler, more stable. She could understand simple concepts. Process basic ideas.
Grandfather Jiang harbored hope—the kind of hope only a loving grandfather could maintain—that if they could use this opportunity to find a good man who didn't mind Victoria's condition and was genuinely willing to care for her, perhaps with better long-term treatment, she could eventually marry and have children like any other woman.
The difficulty involved was unimaginable, so Patriarch Jiang needed to demonstrate the full weight and strength of the Jiang family. He needed potential "sons-in-law" to understand what support and resources stood behind his granddaughter. What guarantee they were making.
Elena had explained all this with such perfect calm that Marcus almost missed the moment she shifted tactics entirely. She tilted her head back slightly, and her gaze drifted across his face with deliberate casualness—or perhaps not deliberate at all, just a natural observation, the way one observes anything that moves.
"My sister," she said softly. "She's very beautiful, isn't she?"
Marcus blinked, unsure where she was going with this. He nodded honestly: "Yes. Very beautiful."
"That's right." Elena's voice carried the faintest edge of sarcasm, a knife so thin it was almost invisible. "Many people approach her because of her beauty at first. But the moment they learn about her condition..." She paused. The pause stretched. "They rush to distance themselves. They flee without looking back. As if terrified of being dragged down. As if caring for her would be some unbearable burden."
Her words revealed a coldness born from seeing through the ways of the world.
This was the cruel reality. Who would willingly and unreservedly take care of an "incomplete" person? Whether mentally or physically.
He felt something shift in his chest—not quite compassion, not quite pity, but something in that family. He tried to offer what comfort he could, his voice gentle:
"Perhaps... it's not entirely about fear of burden. Legally, there are many requirements and restrictions for spouses of people with special needs. Maybe they just don't dare to easily cross that line."
He was grasping for something respectable, something that would make the world seem a little less cruel.
Elena lowered her head, the stray hairs across her forehead falling forward to obscure her expression. When she spoke, her voice was light, almost floating:
"Is that so?"
She remained silent for a moment longer, suspended in whatever thought had occupied her. Then, without another word, she took control of her wheelchair herself, maneuvering it with practiced efficiency. She began rolling back toward Victoria, gliding across the grass with purpose, leaving Marcus standing alone by the beautiful lake where people drowned.