CHAPTER 185: WHEN THE NUMBNESS CRACKS

–Jane–

I closed my eyes and finally slipped into sleep—only to feel myself slowly dragging back awake.

Suddenly, I was back in that cold house again. Back to clawing for money while living with relatives who barely tolerated me. It was fine at first... but little by little, I began to feel useless. A single short mistake and I was treated like I was worthless. I was never a clean freak or obsessively organized; sometimes I’d get caught up working, and a chore would slip my mind.

The scolding was awful. The shame was awful. That feeling of being a burden, living like some useless freeloader—believing everyone saw me as just another unwanted relative with no future.

I was back under the rain again, trembling from the sting as the bamboo cane hit me over and over while they hurled words like poison. In those moments I kept wishing they would just kill me already—like they killed my cats.

All my belongings were thrown into the rain-soaked mud. I had nowhere to go.

A blast of loud music snapped me back to the present. Relief washed over me—loud, drunken music had never sounded so merciful.

I sat up, choking out a sob as the memory gripped me. I could see it all again—my two cats. My sweet white one with striped spots bleeding out in my arms, and my gentle little calico, still breathing... still staring at me... as if asking why I didn’t save them.

It had been so long since I cried like this. So long since I felt anything other than numbness. I clutched my chest, overwhelmed by how much it hurt—so sharp it felt suffocating.

I shoved the duvet away and rushed into the bathroom. I turned on the faucet and splashed water onto my face again and again, trying desperately to contain it. To push it all back down. To stop myself from feeling.

"Jane!" David’s voice boomed from outside. "I got clothes for you here." The door slid open a crack. "Oh—Jane? I’ll just leave this here."

My breathing was uneven. I flexed my fingers—open, close, open, close—trying to calm myself. Then I stepped out. I switched on the lights and saw the shoes and dress David had picked. It wasn’t too flashy—conservative, which he knew I preferred.

A bitter smile tugged at my lips as I remembered how I even met them.

My grandfather had worked for their family for decades.

They found me that night—in the downpour—when Damon silently took off his coat and wrapped my cats in it. Then he looked at me with that low, monotone voice and asked,

"Want to cremate them?"

No one had ever asked me anything like that. David was there too, quietly patting my shoulder.

I sighed and slipped into the dress. I put on light makeup, tied my hair into a ponytail, and headed out wearing my flats—only to find Logan waiting, smirking, holding a pair of white stilettos. He wore a coat... with no shirt underneath.

"Who are you trying to impress with that body?" I asked dryly, bending down to change into the heels.

"You," he snickered. "And everybody."

"Whatever."

I nearly twisted my ankle on the first step. "Damn it." But I kept walking, and Logan followed.

We reached the garden where they were already drinking like maniacs. Chef Wally was showing off flaring tricks with the bartenders, and Keiko was dancing with half-naked courtesans with oversized chests. Seriously—did none of these men know how to wear a shirt under a coat at these things?

"Surprise!" David yelled, hopping in front of me.

"Seriously? Do any of you understand that a shirt goes before the coat?" I gestured at them—all of them—just in time to see Chef Wally shrug, grin, and remove his coat too.

The courtesans cheered. Logan leaned in to tease me, and I stepped back with a grimace. David was laughing like an idiot.

God help me. I do not want to shoot them.

Livana, have mercy on me, because I might kill your men.

"We’re kidding," David finally announced, chuckling as he slipped a shirt on and motioned for the others to follow. Some did, thankfully. Chef Wally handed me a mojito.

I glared at Logan, who just grinned wider and raised his beer in salute. I clutched the drink and downed it in a single pull.

"Hey, calm down," Logan said, patting my shoulder.

"Well, since you planned the party, I might as well get drunk," I muttered bitterly as I headed to the bar, slipped onto a stool, and kicked off my shoes.

"You don’t look well," Chef Wally murmured. "But you slept all day. You should have plenty of energy."

"I feel restless. And I like your mojito."

"Thank you, Jane. You’re the best," he grinned. "By the way—we got escorts here for you."

I turned to look—sure enough, they were smiling at me. Kenzo, effortlessly handsome, approached and sat beside me.

"So, the boys planned all of this, huh?" I chuckled dryly. "Now I feel special."

"You are special," Kenzo replied smoothly. "Every woman is special."

"Suave," I muttered with a little wink, sipping the next drink Wally handed me. "What made you agree to Logan’s plan?"

"You," he answered again.

Of course he was flirting. I glanced at Wally, who both shrugged and nodded like an accomplice. Logan was busy twirling girls around on the dance floor like some smug peacock.

"Good for you," I muttered, finishing my drink. "Give me vodka."

"You’ve already mixed a lot of drinks," Wally warned.

"Just give it."

He sighed and handed it over. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted to forget. I wanted to bury that nightmare again so deep it couldn’t claw back up.

Five shots in, the world tilted, and David pulled me into his arms to dance. I just stood there and laughed—empty, tired laughter—as he wiggled around doing some ridiculous chicken dance.

–Logan–

There’s something about Jane that I can’t quite pinpoint. I’m good at reading emotions—better than most—and yet she gives me nothing. Emotionless. Expressionless. I know that kind of person. The kind who hides everything. The kind who buries pain so deep that they eventually go numb.

Livana was like that.

Laura? She lets everything pour out—anger, sadness, panic—because Livana is always there to catch her when she falls.

But Livana herself? She rarely showed anything. She only ever broke when Laura needed her to be strong. She was the pillar, so she didn’t cry much.

Jane... she’s the same breed. I don’t know her whole story, but I know she used to live a "good" life with relatives until they threw her out. I don’t know the details, but Damon sponsored her because her grandfather worked for the family for decades.

From what I heard, her grandfather was a highly paid assassin—one of the Blackwell family’s biggest assets. But he retired, then died. They took Jane in thinking she would be like him. I think she is. Damon even trusts her with Livana—protection, errands, the smallest details—because she’s reliable. She’s a clean freak. Back at the mansion, I rarely see her sleep. Does she survive on three or four hours? Maybe less?

She left earlier saying she needed the bathroom, but instead she’s walking across the yard barefoot on the spiky pebblestone path. No one notices. They’re all busy. Jane has a talent for becoming invisible.

She doesn’t even flinch. Not once.

Keiko pulled me toward her for a kiss, but I gently pulled away and patted her head.

"Have fun, okay?"

I followed Jane—not close enough to be obvious, but enough to see she didn’t go inside. She looped around the garden instead, then stopped when she spotted a cat rolling lazily on the grass.

"Pspss..." She crouched down with a soft chuckle. "Snowball..."

I blinked. That cat isn’t Snowball. That white tabby with the big striped marking is Moon.

"Snowball," she whispered again, and the cat purred as it walked toward her. "I miss you." Her voice cracked—just barely—as she lifted the cat into her arms and buried her face in its fur.

For a moment she clung to it like she was holding something she lost long ago. Then, as if realizing she slipped, she released the cat and stood abruptly. Without looking back—without noticing I saw—she headed straight inside.

"Jane," I called softly, but she didn’t turn. She’s holding herself together by threads, and she doesn’t want anyone to see when they finally snap. I’m not the person who can pull her open.

She went straight to her room and shut the door.

"Hey, are you alright?" I asked through it.

"I’ll just sober up. Go back."

I know what that means—leave me alone before I break further.

So I gave her space. But I didn’t leave completely.

Instead of returning to the party, I stepped outside her window—slightly ajar—and took out a cigarette. I was about to light it when I heard it—

Her voice.

The quiet, broken sobbing of someone who never lets herself be heard.

Even with the loud music blaring from the party, I could hear her crying. Really crying.

I froze. I tucked the cigarette back into its case.

Then I just... stayed.

Silent.

Listening to the expressionless girl who wears a deadpan face like armor finally sob her heart out.