Chapter 18: Anchor
Keres’ Office
The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Keres’s office, casting long shadows across the dark black marbke floor.
The city sprawled beneath her, oblivious and insignificant, but Keres wasn’t looking at the view today. She was staring at the ceiling, her chair tilted back, her fingers drumming against the armrest in an uneven, agitated rhythm.
Sandro stood near the door, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his face unreadable. He had been standing there for almost five minutes, waiting for his boss to speak first.
That was how it worked with Keres—she spoke when she was ready, and everyone else waited. But sometimes, Sandro is an exception. Only sometimes.
"What now, boss?" Sandro finally asked, his voice low and rumbling.
Keres let out a heavy sigh—long, irritated, exhausted. She didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, on the patterns of her desk, the lights, on anything that wasn’t his face.
"What ’what now?’" She mimicked his tone, then dropped her voice to something flat and tired. "Of course we’ll prepare for the damn wedding."
She was not in the mood to talk. That much was obvious from the tight set of her jaw, the way her fingers kept drumming, the way her leg bounced slightly beneath her desk.
The wedding was supposed to be a formality—something she could delay, something she could control, something she could approach on her own terms. But everything had happened so fast, spiraling out of her grasp before she could stop it.
Sandro shifted his weight, his brow furrowing slightly. "I know, but don’t you feel strange?" He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Everything went so fast. Maybe that Asteria did plan all of this?"
Keres’s drumming fingers stopped.
She slowly tilted her head, her eyes finally moving to look at Sandro. There was something in her gaze—not suspicion, exactly, but something close.
Something that had been lurking at the edges of her mind since the moment the photograph had been released to the media.
"I know." Her voice was low, measured. "I can feel it in my bones." She leaned forward, placing her elbows on her desk, steepling her fingers beneath her chin.
"All my plans of trying to avoid her, of scheduling my meeting with her after a month was ruined." She shook her head slowly, something almost like respect flickering across her face.
"That woman really knows how to play with fire."
Sandro approached her desk, his footsteps silent on the carpet. He pulled a lighter from his pocket—a silver one, expensive, engraved with the Eisenthurn crest—and held it out as Keres pulled an expensive brand cigarette from its case.
She placed it between her lips, and Sandro lit it for her, the flame catching the tip, smoke curling upward in thin gray ribbons.
Keres took a long drag, held it, then exhaled slowly through her nose. The smoke spread across the desk like fog, obscuring the files and documents scattered across the surface.
"Have you really made sure," Keres asked, her voice thoughtful, "that the file you showed me regarding Asteria is authentic?"
Sandro nodded, his expression unchanging. "Yes, boss. That’s all she has." He paused, considering something. "Aside from those, she had multiple medical records, but I know you don’t like reading trivial information, so I didn’t include them."
"Good." Keres took another drag, her eyes drifting to the window. "I don’t want to think about how pathetic she is anyway."
She massaged her temples with her free hand, her fingers pressing hard against the skin as if she could physically push away the headache that had been building since last night.
The image of Asteria fainting in her arms kept replaying in her mind—the way her body had gone limp, the way her face had been so pale and the way her breathing had been so shallow.
Keres shook the memory away.
"Prepare a whore for me tonight," she said, her voice flat, emotionless. "I feel like I want to release my stress."
Sandro nodded and bowed. "Yes, boss. Got it." He turned and left the office, closing the door softly behind him.
Keres was alone.
She sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound she hear was the soft crackle of her cigarette burning and the distant hum of the city below.
The smoke curled around her face, and she stared through it at nothing while her mind were churning.
"Fuck..." The word came out soft, almost admiring. "You’re very good at playing, Asteria." She smiled—not a warm smile, not a happy smile, but something sharper, something dangerous.
"Since you’re so good, then I’ll show you how I play things. My own rules."
She dipped her cigarette into the crystal ashtray, grinding the embers until they died, watching the smoke rise and dissipate into the air.
The anger in Keres’s eyes was burning—hot and bright, mixed with something darker. A sadist thought curled through her mind, images of games and manipulations, of power and control.
She would play this game with Asteria, and she would win. She always won.
She pulled open her desk drawer—the bottom one, the one that is locked, the one that only she had the key to.
Inside, nestled between old contracts and confidential documents, was a small white handkerchief.
It was old—fifteen years old, to be exact—but it had been preserved carefully, folded neatly, kept away from light and dust and the passage of time.
The fabric was soft from years of handling, the edges slightly frayed, and in one corner, embroidered in faded blue thread, were two small letters: A.C.
Keres picked it up and brought it to her nose. She inhaled deeply, her eyes fluttering closed, a smile spreading across her face—a smile that looked, to anyone watching, like the smile of a madman.
"Still the same," she whispered, her voice reverent, almost worshipful. She opened her eyes and looked at the handkerchief, running her thumb over the embroidered letters.
"Once I find you, I will divorce Asteria immediately and marry you, my Love."
She kissed the handkerchief—a slow, lingering kiss, her lips pressed against the fabric like she was kissing a person. Her eyes were half-closed, her expression soft in a way it never was around other people.
Every time she held the handkerchief, she looked like she had just lost her mind. Her obsession with it was well-known among the household staff—the way she would disappear into her office for hours, the way she would talk to it like it could hear her, the way she would threaten anyone who dared to touch it with having their hands cut off.
Keres was the one who washed it. Keres was the only one who could touch it and was the only one who could have it.
She folded it carefully, reverently, and placed it back in the drawer. She locked it, tested the lock twice, and leaned back in her chair.
Her eyes drifted to the window again, to the city below, to the people living their lives, unaware of the obsession burning in the office above them.
"Fifteen years," she murmured. "I’ve waited fifteen years. I can wait a little longer."
~~~•••~~~
Eisenthurn Mansion – Guest Suite
Asteria was asleep.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the morning sun, the only light coming from a small lamp on the nightstand.
The IV drip still hung beside the bed, its liquid dripping slowly, a soft counterpoint to Asteria’s shallow breathing.
Faye never left her side.
She sat in the chair beside the bed, her back straight, her eyes fixed on Asteria’s face. A basin of cold water sat on the nightstand, and every few minutes, Faye would dip a small towel into the water, wring it out, and place it gently on Asteria’s forehead.
She watched the clock, timing each change, making sure the towel never stayed on too long or too short.
Whenever the towel was no longer cold, Faye would dip it again, her movements practiced and efficient. She would wipe Asteria’s face afterward—her cheeks, her jaw, her neck—to ensure her fever will go down.
Because Asteria’s fever had returned again this time.
Faye’s worry had deepened with every passing hour. She had hoped the medicine would work, hoped the rest would help, and that Asteria’s body would finally start fighting back.
But the fever persisted, its refusing to give Asteria any peace.
Until someone knocked on the door.
Faye’s head snapped toward the sound, her hand pausing mid-dip. "Come in."
The door swung open, and Alfonso stepped inside. He was dressed casually—slacks and a white coat—and his face softened when he saw his wife sitting vigil beside the bed.
"Honey." He approached slowly, he then leaned down and kissed her forehead, his lips lingering against her skin.
"I’ve been looking for you everywhere."
Faye smiled weakly, her eyes drifting back to Asteria. "I’ve been here."
Alfonso pulled a chair from the corner of the room—a wooden one, upholstered in cream-colored velvet—and set it down beside his wife.
He sat, his knees brushing against hers, his presence a warm weight in the quiet room.
He looked at Asteria’s pale face, the unnoticeable dark circles under her eyes, the IV drip, the towel on her forehead. His brows furrowed.
"Oh? Asteria is still weak..." He paused, his expression were a little troubled. "Are you sure she doesn’t want us to rush her to the hospital?"
Faye sighed, her shoulders sagging. "Yeah, her fever came back this again." She reached out and adjusted the towel on Asteria’s forehead, smoothing the edges. "That’s why I fed her, let her have her medicine, and then got her back to sleep."
Alfonso nodded slowly, his eyes still on Asteria. He had seen a lot of sick people in his life—had seen the aftermath of violence and disease and neglect—but something about seeing Asteria like this, so small and fragile in the massive bed, made his chest ache.
"She looks like Keres when she was little," Alfonso said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. He kept his voice low, barely above a whisper, careful not to wake the sleeping girl.
"Hehe. We spoiled our daughter so much back when she was a sick child. Now she grew up as a strong brat."
Faye smiled, nodding. The memory of those days—the sleepless nights, the worried doctor visits, the way Keres would cling to her hand and refuse to let go—felt so distant now, like another lifetime.
"It’s better than having Keres always sick," Faye said quietly. "I would die from worrying if Keres didn’t grow up healthy."
Alfonso reached over and took her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. He lifted their joined hands and kissed her knuckles, his lips warm against her skin.
"But because of you," he said, his voice soft, "Our little Keres became the strong Keres she is today."
Faye appreciated his gratitude. Years of being married to each other had never faded like a withering flower—if anything, their love had grown deeper, stronger, more resilient.
Faye and Alfonso made sure that every day they would grow together, not apart. They had learned that lesson early, in the hard years, and they had never forgotten it.
"I wish Keres will be like you for Asteria," Faye murmured, her eyes drifting back to the sleeping girl.
Alfonso chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Haha, I’m not sure. That kid is too much like me when I was young. Stubborn. Prideful. Terrible at admitting when she’s wrong." He paused, his expression softening. "But she’ll get there. She just needs time."
Both of them giggled—soft sounds that filled the room with warmth. They were still smiling when Asteria stirred.
She whimpered in her sleep—a small, broken sound, barely audible. Her fingers twitched against the sheets. Her brow furrowed.
Both parents’ heads snapped toward Asteria.
Faye leaned forward, her hand hovering over Asteria’s arm, not quite touching. "Dear? Can you hear me?" Her voice quivered slightly, her worry spilling out through the cracks. "Do you need something? Anything?"
Alfonso could see how worried Faye was—the tension in her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes, the way her hand trembled just slightly.
But Asteria remained unconscious. Her breathing evened out again. Her brow smoothed. She had simply been reacting to something in her dream or her battered body.
Faye let out a slow breath and sat back in her chair.
Alfonso reached over and placed his hand on her knee, grounding her. "Honey, don’t worry too much." He paused, thinking. "How about this? If tonight her fever is still there, we will rush her to the hospital. No more waiting until tomorrow. Okay?"
Faye nodded frantically, her relief was visible on her face. "Y-Yes! That’s better!"
Alfonso squeezed her knee and stood. "I’ll just call someone," he said. "I’ll be back in a bit."
He stepped out of the room and closed the door softly behind him. The hallway was silent. He pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his coat and pressed a speed dial.
The line rang twice before someone picked up.
"Hello," Alfonso said, his voice low and serious. "Yes. I want you to gather everything I need before you leave there." He paused, listening. "Yes. Thank you."
He hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. For a moment, he stood there, staring at the closed door, thinking about the girl on the other side—the girl his wife had claimed as a daughter, the girl his daughter was being forced to marry, the girl who had saved Keres’s life fifteen years ago and never asked for anything in return.
He had his own plans. His own investigations. His own ways of protecting the people he loved.
He opened the door and went back inside.
Faye was exactly where he had left her, sitting beside the bed, watching Asteria sleep. She looked up when he entered, and something in her expression eased at the sight of him.
Alfonso pulled his chair back beside her and sat down. He reached over and took her hand again, holding it tightly.
"Don’t worry, honey," he said softly. "I’m here." He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "Calm down."
Faye leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder, her eyes still on Asteria. She didn’t say anything—she didn’t need to.
Alfonso understood. Even though she didn’t say it aloud, she needed someone to anchor her while she’s worried for a sick child.
And Alfonso was happy to be that anchor. He always had been, and he always would be.
