Page 89 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

But their words feel distant, and unimportant compared to the weight of what's just been shared. Because despite our years of careful rivalry, despite all the games we've played and power we've contested, I recognize something in Scarlett's eyes that transcends all of that.

Fear.

Not the kind that comes from social missteps or lost status, but the deep, primal fear of facing something beyond your control. The kind that makes all our careful posturing and political maneuvering seem suddenly, horribly trivial.

The roses continue their climb up ancient stone walls, their beauty unchanged by this revelation. The fountain carries on its carefully choreographed dance of water and light. Everything remains perfectly, precisely as it was designed to be.

Except now, standing in this carefully curated display of power and prestige, I find myself wondering why this woman who I’d previously assumed would be an enemy who now looks so…

Vulnerable.

"Why don't we walk and talk, Barbieri?" I suggest, watching how the morning light catches the new, shorter length of her hair. It makes her look younger somehow, more vulnerable – everything she's spent years ensuring she never appeared to be.

She rolls her eyes with dramatic flair, though the gesture lacks its usual bite. "Well," she drawls, "I guess it would be good promo to walk next to the one everyone's talking about. Your new look is causing quite the stir, Prescott."

We fall into step together, our heels clicking against cobblestones in perfect synchronization. Behind us, I sense rather than see my Kings adjust their formation – Matteo and Zander dropping back slightly, while Ares, Marcus, andRen create a loose perimeter that gives us space to talk while maintaining protective oversight.

The whispers follow us like autumn leaves in the wind:

"Prescott and Barbieri walking together?"

"Something's definitely changed..."

"Look how different they both look..."

"When were you diagnosed?" I ask quietly, keeping my voice steady despite the growing knot in my chest. The roses continue their climb up ancient walls beside us, their beauty suddenly seeming almost obscene in its persistence.

"A month ago." The words fall between us like stones into still water. Her fingers brush absently against her shortened hair – a gesture that speaks volumes about how recent this change must be.

"Does it run in your family?" The question emerges carefully measured, already calculating possibilities, treatments, options that might exist.

"No." Something darker enters her tone. "It was given to me."

I glance at her sharply, confusion warring with growing suspicion. "Given to you?"

A bitter smile plays on her lips as she mutters, "This is my punishment for not obeying the rules of the Royal Elite Party."

"What rule did you break?" The roses seem to lean closer, as if they too want to hear this revelation.

"My role was to bring Domino in," she admits, each word carrying weight of consequences already being paid. "Like a dog who needs to be put back on a leash. Instead..." She gestures vaguely at nothing. "Instead, he's become some sort of shining light who's been lifted from the pits of hell thanks to a certain someone."

"You realize I hate him," I remind her, though my mind is already racing through implications, through possibilities that make my blood run cold.

Her laugh holds no humor. "Oh, I know. I see it in your eyes." She pauses, considering her next words carefully. "And yet, at the end of the day, isn't he a Ruthless King again? After being stripped of the title by the same woman he once deemed his Ruthless Maiden and demise?"

She has a point, though the truth of it tastes bitter on my tongue. But my thoughts are already elsewhere, calculating darker mathematics:

How long does she have?

The question pulses through my mind like a second heartbeat. Even with treatment, even with the best medical care money can buy – how much time remains for someone who's been "given" an illness as punishment?

My eyes find Marcus walking behind us, his clinical precision suddenly seeming like a lifeline. Could he help? Could the research that saved his own life, that put his parents into remission, offer any hope for this unexpected ally?

The morning light catches Scarlett's shortened hair, making it look almost like burnished copper rather than its usual fierce red. How many rounds of treatment has she already endured? How many more await her? The slight tremor in her hands when she gestures suggests she's already experiencing side effects, though she hides it well.

This isn't fair, something in me rages against the injustice. We're supposed to be playing games of social warfare, of carefully calculated power moves. Not facing mortality at an age when we should be planning our futures.

The roses continue their relentless climb up ancient walls, their thorns gleaming like warnings in the sunlight. Each bloom perfect, precise, absolutely uncaring about the human drama unfolding beneath them. Nature's reminder that beauty and cruelty often walk hand in hand.

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