"Good." Anastasia sat on the bed. "You must live, Noelle."
I looked at her with hollow eyes.
"Why?" My voice was barely a whisper. "Why should I live?"
"Because you're young," she said gently. "Life continues."
"But I feel like I'm already dead."
Anastasia fell silent for a moment.
"Kholod went too far," suppressed anger colored her voice. "Acting so impulsively before all the facts were established."
"It doesn't matter anymore, Mother."
"Noelle—"
"Mother, I want to rest." I pleaded softly.
She studied me, complex emotions flickering in her eyes. Finally, she stood and left the room.
That evening, Anya came.
She entered while I sat by the window, staring into space.
"Noelle," she called.
I turned. She looked unwell too.
"Are you... all right?" Her tone held unusual concern.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice frighteningly calm.
"You're not fine at all." She approached and sat across from me. "Noelle, you can't go on like this."
"Then what should I do?" I asked quietly. "Continue playing the perfect Mrs. Morozov?"
"I..." She opened her mouth but found no words.
"Anya, thank you for visiting me."
She remained silent for several seconds before standing. At the door, she turned back. "If you need anything, tell Mother and me anytime. As for Kholod... I'll make sure he doesn't disturb you as much."
"Thank you."
After the door closed, I gazed out the window again. The sky was overcast—it looked like rain.
Sudden nausea struck. I covered my mouth and rushed to the bathroom, retching over the toilet.
My stomach was empty—only the bitter taste of bile.
"Ma'am!" Darya hurried in to steady me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing..." I leaned weakly against the wall. "Probably caught a cold."
"I'll call the doctor—"
"No." I stopped her. "I just need rest."
