The sound of metal wheels rolling down the hallway had become normal to Oriana a long time ago. Gurneys coming and going, nurses speaking in hushed voices. Even the clock across from the chemotherapy room seemed to move slower than the rest of the world.

Oriana sat near the window with a blanket over her legs and a closed book between her hands. Other people waited around her for their turn. An older woman chatted with her husband while he carefully adjusted her IV drip, a small boy slept against his mother's shoulder, and farther off a man argued with his daughter because she insisted on buying him something sweet after the treatment.

It was strange how quickly a person could get used to watching other people's lives.

The nurse appeared holding a clipboard.

"Oriana Perez."

She looked up right away.

"Here."

The nurse smiled with a tired kind of warmth.

"We'll finish up quickly today. How are you feeling?"

Oriana let out a small laugh.

"Do you want the honest answer or the polite one?"

"Honest."

"Like I got hit by a car."

The woman ended up laughing too.

"Then I'll run the medication slow today so you don't get as dizzy."

"I love you a little for that."

Oriana made a dramatic face before standing up slowly from the chair. Her legs hurt more that week and her body felt heavy, as though she'd slept badly for months. She walked to the treatment room without help anyway.

She didn't like seeing herself in the hospital mirrors anymore. Her face was still pretty — or at least that's what the nurses kept saying — but she could barely recognize herself. Her skin was paler, the dark circles deep, and her hair growing back short and uneven after falling out again.

As she settled onto the bed, she heard her phone buzz inside her bag. She grabbed it quickly out of habit, though deep down she already knew it wouldn't be anyone important.

An ad.

Again.

Not a single message.

Not a single call.

Nothing.

She put the phone away slowly and rested her head against the pillow.

At first she'd believed her family would show up sooner or later. Even after leaving university, even after the arguments, she'd kept thinking the anger would fade once they understood she simply didn't want that life.

The Perez family had produced lawyers and businesspeople for generations. Oriana was the brilliant daughter meant to carry on the legacy. Top grades, three languages, a guaranteed future — until one day she dropped everything to study pastry-making.

Her mother stopped speaking to her for weeks.

Her brother said she was embarrassing the family.

And her father — her father just looked at her like he no longer understood who she was.

Then the cancer came and everything got worse.

The visits began to space out. Then came the excuses. Then silence.

Oriana ended up learning something painful: some people know how to stand beside you in success but disappear when your life stops looking pretty.

The nurse connected the treatment while she spoke softly.

"Did you finish the book you were reading?"

Oriana's expression shifted a little.

"Almost. I've got the last chapter left."

"The one about the duke?"

"Yeah."

"It's got you obsessed."

"Because everyone in it suffers horribly."

"That doesn't sound very encouraging."

"But they keep living."

The nurse finished preparing the medication and smiled before stepping out.

Oriana picked up the book again as the treatment began to drip slowly. The cover was slightly bent from being opened so many times. She'd bought the novel by chance at a small shop near the hospital and ended up reading it through entire nights.

The story was about Ender Hall, a duke who lost his sight after a magical accident and was left isolated from the world along with his terrible temper. His fiancee, Priscilla, abandoned him shortly after he went blind, and the story followed the moment he slowly rebuilt his life alongside Rebeca, a kind and patient woman.

Oriana knew it was a simple novel.

She liked it anyway.

Because Ender kept going even when he felt there was nothing good left for him.

Because Rebeca didn't try to save him with empty speeches.

Because the characters' pain felt human.

And because while she read, the fear of dying stopped feeling so heavy.

Several hours passed before she made it back to her small apartment near the hospital. It was raining outside, and climbing the stairs left her breathless halfway up.

"This should count as extreme exercise at this point," she muttered while digging for her keys.

The apartment was small, warm, and full of baking supplies. Books, molds, recipes taped to the fridge, and a box of utensils she could barely use since getting sick.

Sometimes she wondered what it would've been like to open the bakery she'd dreamed about for years.

Maybe a small cafe.

With full display cases.

Tables by the window.

Regular customers.

The sound of a bell every time someone walked in.

She dropped her bag on the couch and walked slowly toward the kitchen to make tea, though she ended up too tired to bother. Her body hurt too much that night.

So she simply settled into bed with the novel in her hands.

The last chapter.

Ender finally accepted smiling again thanks to the people who stayed by his side. Rebeca cried as he asked her to stay with him, and for some reason that made Oriana close the book for several seconds.

She felt a strange knot in her throat.

Not because the scene was sad.

But because she wanted something like that too.

Someone waiting for her.

Someone telling her that staying mattered.

She opened the book again slowly and finished the final pages under the dim lamplight.

When she reached the end, she lay staring at the ceiling in silence.

"So unfair," she whispered with a tired smile. "Even a fictional man had a better love life than me."

She laughed alone after saying it, though the laugh didn't last because she started coughing hard. Her chest burned immediately and she had to cover her mouth while trying to breathe.

The attack passed slowly.

Too slowly.

Her body was shaking by the time she managed to lie back down.

She grabbed her phone on impulse.

No messages.

Not even tonight.

Oriana stared at the screen a few more seconds before turning it off.

And though she tried to stay awake, exhaustion gradually dragged her under.

The rain kept falling outside.

The book stayed open on top of her.

And the room remained completely silent.

The next morning, a nurse assigned to Oriana called her phone repeatedly.

No one answered.

So she went to the apartment. No one opened the door for hours.

When they finally got inside, Oriana was still lying on the bed with a peaceful expression, as if she'd simply fallen asleep while finishing a story she'd liked too much.

She died holding on to the story.

Sound came first.

Glass breaking.

Then voices.

"Lady Priscilla, please calm down!"

"I'm not going back to see him — how many times do I have to say it?!"

Oriana's eyes flew open and a sharp pain shot through her head. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she tried to understand where she was. The ceiling above her was enormous, decorated with golden moldings and a chandelier far too elegant for any place she'd ever seen.

She blinked several times.

This wasn't her room.

It wasn't the hospital either.

She sat up slowly and felt something strange the moment she lifted her hand. Her skin looked different. Whiter, finer. Long dark hair fell over her shoulders like a cascade and that alone was enough to freeze her whole body.

"No," she murmured.

The door swung open and a woman in a maid's uniform rushed in.

"Lady Priscilla, thank heavens you're awake! I thought you'd truly lost consciousness forever."

Oriana's stomach dropped the moment she heard that name.

Priscilla.

The maid hurried over.

"Are you feeling ill? I'll call the doctor."

"Wait." Her voice came out hoarse. "What's today's date?"

The woman frowned.

"The date?"

"Just answer me."

"June fourteenth."

Oriana stopped breathing for a second.

June fourteenth.

The day after Priscilla abandoned the duke.

She remembered that chapter perfectly.

She remembered the cruel words, the public humiliation, the way the entire nobility began despising Priscilla after she broke the engagement with Ender Hall once he lost his sight.

Her head started pounding harder.

The scenes appeared one after another inside her mind — the novel, the characters, Ender sitting alone in that dark room while Priscilla told him she wasn't going to waste her youth on a blind man.

Oriana felt nauseous.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

The maid kept watching her with concern.

"Lady Priscilla, I really am calling the doctor."

"No, I don't need one."

"But you hit your head when you fainted, and you've been acting very strangely since yesterday."

Yesterday.

Right.

The breakup had just happened.

Oriana pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to breathe slowly. Everything felt too real — the weight of the sheets, the faint perfume in the room, the ache in her body.

She wasn't dreaming.

She'd died.

And now she was inside the novel.

The maid spoke again, quieter this time.

"The baron asked about you a moment ago."

Oriana raised her head.

Priscilla's father.

Dorian Van.

In the novel he barely appeared because he spent most of his time sick and busy trying to save the family from debt. The original Priscilla hardly paid him any attention.

"Where is he?"

"In his study, though..." The woman hesitated. "He's not feeling well today."

That she remembered too.

The debts.

The family's ruin.

The creditors.

It all began right after the breakup.

Oriana got out of bed slowly and nearly lost her balance standing up. The maid rushed to steady her.

"Lady Priscilla, easy."

"I'm fine. I think."

Walking in this body felt strange — like wearing new shoes that hadn't broken in yet. The room was enormous compared to her old apartment, but there was something sad about it. The furniture was elegant though neglected, and the flowers by the window had dried out.

The entire mansion seemed exhausted.

As they walked down the hallway, two maids began whispering the moment they spotted her.

"I heard the duke didn't say a word when she broke the engagement."

"I heard he smashed a glass after she left."

"Shh, keep it down."

Oriana felt secondhand embarrassment.

Yeah, Priscilla had been terrible.

When they reached the study, the maid knocked softly.

"My lord, Lady Priscilla is here."

Silence for a few seconds before a tired voice answered.

"Let her in."

Oriana stepped inside slowly.

The man behind the desk looked up immediately. Dorian Van was younger than she'd imagined while reading the novel — maybe because the illness made him look drained. He had deep dark circles, long dark hair in disarray, and stacks of documents piled in front of him.

But the moment he saw his daughter, his expression changed.

"Priscilla, I heard you fainted."

The concern in his voice was so genuine that Oriana went still.

"I'm fine."

"That's clearly a lie. Your face is white."

He tried to stand quickly and ended up coughing hard before bracing himself against the desk. Oriana reacted almost on impulse and walked toward him.

"Don't get up so fast."

Dorian stared at her in surprise.

She was surprised too.

Because the gesture had come out naturally.

The baron smiled faintly.

"Now you're the one scolding me."

Oriana lowered her gaze, uncomfortable.

She didn't know how to act around him. He wasn't her father, and yet the way he looked at her hurt a little.

As if he genuinely loved his daughter.

Dorian sighed wearily before sitting back down.

"I heard rumors from the capital this morning."

Of course he had.

The entire nobility had to be talking about the scandal.

"Father..."

"I'm not going to ask why you ended the engagement," he said calmly. "If you've already made that decision, arguing won't change anything."

Oriana felt a knot in her throat.

Because there was no anger in his voice.

Only weariness.

"There's something you should know, Priscilla," he continued, arranging some documents. "The family's situation has gotten worse these past months. I'd planned to resolve some of the debts through that marriage, but we'll find another way."

She looked at the papers on his desk. Seals. Contracts. Numbers.

Enormous debts.

And suddenly she understood something important.

The novel never really explained how hard Dorian Van fought to protect his daughter.

Everything had always been told from the duke's side.

Oriana thought of her own family and looked away.

She didn't want to go through another life feeling useless.

She didn't want to spend another life waiting for the end.

Dorian watched her in silence.

"Do you regret it?"

She raised her head.

"Regret what?"

"Breaking the engagement."

Oriana took a few seconds to answer.

"No. But I do regret a lot of other things."

The baron seemed confused by the response.

And honestly, so was she.

Because she was speaking as both Oriana and Priscilla at the same time.

Dorian let out a small, tired laugh.

"You've been talking strangely lately."

"Maybe I hit my head too hard."

"Or maybe you're finally growing up."

She barely smiled.

After leaving the study, she walked through the mansion alone for several minutes. The servants kept watching her oddly, as though expecting another fit of arrogance at any moment.

The original Priscilla had a horrible temper.

That she remembered too.

She reached an old kitchen at the back of the first floor. It was practically abandoned — full of boxes, dust-covered utensils, and a broken window letting in cold air.

But the moment Oriana stepped inside, something in her settled a little.

Kitchens. Flour. Sugar.

This she understood.

She approached a worktable slowly and ran her hand across the surface.

Dust. Lots of dust. A voice came from behind her.

"Lady Priscilla... what are you doing here?"

An older cook was watching her, completely baffled.

"Thinking."

"That worries me a bit."

She laughed quietly.

"Me too."

The man kept staring at her strangely.

"Do you need something?"

Oriana looked at the empty shelves for a few seconds before speaking.

"Is there still flour in this house?"

"A little."

"Butter?"

"Very little."

"Eggs?"

"If the chickens haven't fled the debts, yes."

She let out a more genuine laugh this time.

The cook's eyes went wide.

That woman had probably never laughed like that in front of the staff.

Oriana took a deep breath.

"I want to use this kitchen."

"I'm sorry?"

"And I want to sell pastries."

Silence.

The man blinked several times.

"Lady Priscilla... do you actually know how to cook?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"That stung a little."

"Forgive me, but two months ago you set boiling water on fire."

"That was a complicated situation."

The cook ended up laughing despite trying to hold it in.

And that small reaction made something inside Oriana feel lighter.

Because it had been a very long time since she'd talked to someone so normally.

The man crossed his arms.

"And what kind of pastries are you planning to sell?"

She looked around the kitchen one more time.

Then smiled slowly.

"The kind that make people want to come back tomorrow."

The news that Lady Priscilla wanted to turn an abandoned kitchen into a pastry shop traveled through the mansion faster than any rumor from the duke scandal.

The servants whispered in the hallways whenever she appeared. Some thought the broken engagement had finally driven her mad; others figured she was simply bored and would abandon the idea within a week.

Priscilla heard all of it.

And honestly, she couldn't blame them too much.

That morning she stood on a chair trying to clean a window thick with dust while arguing with the mansion's cook.

"Lady Priscilla, get down before you crack your head open again."

"I'm cleaning."

"You're making it worse."

The man let out a weary sigh.

"Never thought I'd live long enough to see you fighting a kitchen."

She climbed down carefully and surveyed the room. It was still a disaster — old boxes stacked in a corner, mismatched utensils, worn-out furniture, and an oven so ancient it looked capable of exploding at any moment.

But she liked it anyway.

Because this place had potential.

"We need new paint," she murmured.

"We need money," the cook corrected.

That shut her up for a few seconds.

Yes.

That was the real problem.

The Van family was practically bankrupt. Dorian did his best to keep up appearances with the nobility, though every week brought more letters from creditors and more servants leaving the mansion to find better work.

Even basic ingredients were starting to run out.

Still, Priscilla kept pushing.

She spent the following days cleaning the kitchen alongside the cook and two young maids who ended up helping more out of curiosity than obligation.

One of them, Lara, watched everything with obvious distrust.

"Lady Priscilla, do you really intend to sell food to people?"

"Yes."

Lara was still confused.

"But noblewomen don't work."

"Then I'll be the first one who does."

"That still sounds weird."

Priscilla looked up from the sack of flour she was trying to move.

"Lara, a week ago the entire capital was saying I abandoned a blind duke because he was ruining my future. I'm past the part where I worry about looking elegant."

The girl didn't know what to say.

And honestly, Priscilla wasn't acting out of pride either.

She simply didn't want to go back to lying in a silent room waiting to die.

That was all.

The first recipes were a disaster.

The oven burned two full trays.

The dough for some small rolls came out hard as stone.

And the caramel ended up stuck to the ceiling after the cook tried to move the pot too fast.

"I'm going to pretend that never happened," he said, staring at the mess.

Priscilla was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

"You know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"I still think we can sell it."

"Lady Priscilla, that could be used as poison."

Despite everything, the atmosphere started to change little by little.

The maids stopped seeing her as a spoiled noble playing at cooking and began helping for real. Lara organized the ingredients, the cook corrected mistakes, and even some of the other servants started lingering near the kitchen just to taste whatever they were making.

Because when something actually turned out right — it turned out really right.

Priscilla knew how to cook.

And it showed.

The sweet aroma filled the mansion's hallways from early in the morning. Freshly baked bread, melted butter, vanilla, and sugar. Even the most serious employees ended up drifting toward the kitchen with increasingly absurd excuses.

"I came to check the window."

"You're the gardener."

"Well, I wanted to check the plants growing on the frame."

Priscilla burst out laughing as she handed him a small pastry.

The man took a bite and his eyes went wide.

"Lady Priscilla... marry me."

"Don't let my father hear that. And no."

The whole kitchen dissolved into laughter.

And even though she still felt strange inside this new life, those small moments made everything hurt a little less.

Dorian started showing up quietly in the afternoons.

He never interfered much. Sometimes he simply stayed.

Priscilla noticed something quickly: he looked worse every day.

More tired. Paler.

He coughed often when he thought no one was listening.

And still he smiled every time she offered him a taste.

"What's this?" he asked one afternoon.

"Apple tart."

"Quite a luxury, tasting one from you."

"Because it is."

Dorian laughed softly before taking a bite.

Then he went quiet for a few seconds.

"It's good."

Priscilla raised an eyebrow.

"That sounded extremely emotional for you."

"I refuse to get emotional over a tart."

"Coward."

He shook his head and kept eating.

After a few minutes he spoke again.

"The staff seem livelier lately."

She looked at him.

"I think everyone needed a distraction."

"Including you."

Priscilla lowered her gaze to the dough she was preparing.

Yes.

Including her.

Because even though she had a different life now, a different face and a different name, she still carried that uneasy feeling inside her chest. That quiet fear that everything would disappear too quickly.

But cooking helped.

A lot.