Chapter 240 - 241: Come here, you dramatic dove

Words : 1069 Updated : Oct 10th, 2025

Chapter 240: Chapter 241: Come here, you dramatic dove The bowl clicked gently against the table as Isabella set it down, her brows already furrowing the second she saw Ophelia’s face. "Opehlia, have you been crying?" Isabella asked, her voice softening in surprise, eyes narrowing as she examined the pink-eyed girl standing in the doorway like a ghost who hadn’t yet realized she was dead. Ophelia gave the tiniest nod, tears still fresh on her lashes, her bottom lip trembling as she walked inside like a scolded kitten. "Yes." Isabella blinked, gently stretching out her arms like she was summoning a child. "Come here, you dramatic dove." "I—I woke up and didn’t remember Shelia was dying... until I started washing up," Ophelia sniffled as she shuffled closer. Her voice cracked like a snapped twig, every syllable soaked in heartbreak. She sat beside Isabella, body crumpling into her like she was made of nothing but water and sorrow. Isabella hesitated, one arm wrapping around her while the other reached up to smooth Ophelia’s messy hair. The poor girl clung to her waist like a wilted vine, sobbing quietly into her clothes. Isabella blinked slowly, resting her chin on Ophelia’s head as her eyes drifted over to Cyrus. The look she gave him? A dagger wrapped in lace: Damn you. You knocked her out so hard she woke up grieving. Cyrus, who had just taken a seat again with his usual elegance, met her stare with a tight, guilty smile. The kind of smile that said, "I’m sorry... but it worked, didn’t it?" Isabella rolled her eyes and looked back at Ophelia, whose trembling shoulders made their shared patch of floor feel like it was pulsing with sadness. She smelled faintly of floral soap and heartbreak—soft and sharp all at once. "Breathe, Ophelia. You’re going to turn to mist if you keep crying like this," Isabella muttered, patting her back rhythmically. After a few moments, Ophelia peeled away from her, eyes puffy and glassy. "Did you see her last night?" she asked in a whisper, like they were discussing something cursed. "Will she be okay? Can you save her?" Her hands shot forward, clutching Isabella’s with urgency. Isabella stilled. Her gaze flicked briefly to the ceiling as if expecting help to fall from above. Unfortunately, her "help" was a smug, glowing menace with no respect for trauma or timing. Her heart tugged at the sight of Ophelia’s hopeful expression. There was only one person—or rather, system—that might know if Shelia could be saved. And Isabella was in the middle of the Petty Olympics, giving that system the silent treatment of the century. She bit the inside of her cheek. She would not lose to Bubu. "Mmh... there’s hope," Isabella finally said. "But I’m not certain yet." Ophelia lit up so fast it was almost offensive. "So you can save her?!" she gasped again, her chubby cheeks stretching into something close to a grin as she wiped her runny nose—on the back of her hand—and then promptly placed it back on Isabella’s hand like nothing happened. Isabella’s eyes darted to the damp hand on hers. Her smile faltered. Her soul tried to leave her body. There was a beat of silence. Then, as though rising from some inner chamber of divine patience, she offered a thigh-lipped smile. "Mmh hmm." Turning to Cyrus, her voice had that sharp edge she used when she was giving orders that sounded like suggestions. "Cyrus, please get Ophelia some soup. She seems... hungry." Cyrus stood up immediately, his posture flawless. Isabella turned back to Ophelia with that controlled politeness that royalty probably learned in finishing schools. "Ophelia, love, you should wash your hands before eating. That is the only proper way." Ophelia nodded earnestly like a student in a lecture, then—without warning—lunged into a hug. Isabella almost shrieked. If this had been anyone else, they’d be on the floor already. She stiffened like a steel rod as Ophelia squeezed her tightly, rubbing her tear-slick face all over Isabella’s shoulder like she was drying a hand towel. But this was Ophelia. Her Ophelia. A sad, snotty Ophelia. So she endured it with slow, ginger pats on her back. "Okay. It’s okay," Isabella said, half sweetly, half like she wanted to crawl into another body. "Now, now. Run along, dear," she added, finally prying Ophelia off and giving her a gentle nudge. Ophelia, bright-eyed and grateful, scampered off toward the back room to wash her hands, the curtain flapping in her wake. The moment the fabric stopped swaying, a soft chuckle rolled across the room like warm smoke. Isabella turned, narrowing her eyes. Cyrus was still standing, having paused mid-step on his way out. His head was slightly tilted, his lips curved in a rare smile as he looked at her like she was something precious and hilarious all at once. "Tsk," she scoffed. "Go get her the soup, lest she comes back and has nothing to occupy herself with and starts crying again." Cyrus gave a dutiful nod and disappeared through the side curtain. Isabella let her shoulders drop and sighed as she leaned back, her back on the wall. She rubbed at her temples briefly, then let her fingers trail down her cheek with a soft groan. Her peace lasted about twelve seconds. Because from above her head, a very familiar voice chimed in. "Oh? That was awfully sweet. What’s the occasion, your Royal Iconness?" Isabella didn’t even need to look up. Her body went rigid, eyes closing as she let out the slowest, most controlled inhale of her life. Then, very slowly, she opened her eyes and spoke with the weariness of a mother talking to a child who had just painted the walls in mud. "What is it?" Bubu floated lazily above her, arms folded behind her glowing head like a smug little cherub who’d been eavesdropping from the afterlife. "Oh well, nothing. I thought you were giving me the silent treatment," Bubu sang, spinning mid-air with a smug sparkle and a mock-whistle that didn’t even sound human. Isabella let out a sigh so long and sharp it might’ve cut a curtain in half. "I am," she said, the words clipped. "But can you explain why the hell you are suddenly floating around like the demon you are?" Bubu giggled, flipping onto her back in the air like a child lounging in a pool.

Chapter 240 - 241: Come here, you dramatic dove

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