From Rags to God of War

Announcement

Nicholas walked in a few steps, stopping in the middle of the room. "We just got married. Suddenly, even for me. You must be shocked. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, much less scared. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do." He looked at Isabella, his gaze steady, without any readable emotion. "For now, this is for the best. We have plenty of time. You can adapt, and I, well, I also need to adapt."

Isabella didn't know how to respond. Nicholas's clarity, without pretense, without flattery, felt strange yet calming.

Then, another question emerged. "Whose house is this?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper. "You said you didn't have a job. You came in a beat-up car. But this house is bigger than the Weber family's house." Her eyes swept across the room, trying to process all the conflicting information in her mind.

Nicholas was silent for a moment. His face remained flat. There was a cautiousness in his gaze. "This house belonged to my grandfather," he answered, stiffly. "An inheritance." He sounded like he was explaining a commonly known fact.

"Then what about you?" Isabella asked again.

"Me? I'm still the Nicholas you saw this morning," Nicholas replied, a little more casually, as if it wasn't important. "I don't have a job. I don't have money. This house is an asset I can't touch or sell. I can only live here, if I want to." There was a faint sarcastic tone in his voice, as if he considered all this luxury a burden. "I'm still a poor, unemployed man. You heard right. And now you're married to a poor, unemployed man."

Isabella frowned. The explanation felt awkward. How could such a magnificent house, with so many servants, have an owner who was poor and unemployed?

Nicholas sighed. "Rest. I'll leave you alone. If you need anything, the butler named Benson is downstairs. Or you can call me from the room next door." He pointed again towards the adjacent room. After saying that, Nicholas turned and walked out, quietly closing Isabella's door.

Isabella was alone. She walked to the window, opened the thick curtains, and gazed at the sprawling garden below. She touched her skin, which still felt rough from years of mistreatment by the Weber family. Slowly, she began to feel the relief that came with freedom.

The sun began to dip towards the west. The sky turned a golden-orange hue. Isabella had just come out of the bathroom feeling refreshed. She put on a dress provided by the servant; the fabric felt soft and cool against her skin. Her hair, which used to be dull and messy, was now clean and neatly arranged. Although she still looked a bit thin, her face now appeared brighter, and her eyes no longer showed chilling fear.

Isabella indeed looked beautiful; her beauty only truly emerged after she was cleaned up. There was an aura of softness emanating from her.

A soft knock sounded at the door. A female servant peered in. "Madam, dinner is ready."

Isabella followed the servant down the stairs. The dining table in the main dining room was massive, made of gleaming dark mahogany, adorned with tall candles. However, only two place settings were laid out, one at the head of the table, and another beside it.

On the plates, there were eggs. Just fried eggs. Two each, with a light sprinkle of pepper. There was a slice of plain toast beside them, and a glass of water.

Nicholas was already seated. He ate calmly, unhurriedly. He gestured to the chair beside him. "Sit."

Isabella hesitated, but then she sat down.

"Eat," Nicholas said, not looking at her. "It might not be as good as your old home cooking, but this is what I have."

Isabella picked up her fork. She began to eat. The eggs tasted bland, but her stomach was hungry. She ate calmly, observing Nicholas occasionally. The man ate neatly, silently. He didn't force conversation.

When Isabella finished one egg, Nicholas stopped eating. He put down his fork quietly. His eyes shifted to Isabella's hand, which had accidentally lifted as she reached for toast. Isabella's wrist showed faint lines. Not fresh wounds, but old scars, like faint, healed incision marks. Perhaps from rough work or carelessness in the past.

Nicholas narrowed his eyes. He saw another scar on the back of Isabella's hand. And on her finger. Nicholas examined every line, every mark on Isabella's skin.

"Wait a moment," Nicholas said, his voice more serious than before. He stood up silently and left. A few moments later, he returned carrying a first aid kit, placing it on the table between them.

"Let me see," Nicholas said. He extended his hand. Isabella hesitated. She pulled her hand back slightly.

"Don't be afraid," Nicholas said. "I won't hurt you. I just want to see your wounds." Isabella finally complied. She placed her hand on the table.

Nicholas took Isabella's hand carefully. His fingers felt warm, but his touch wasn't overly gentle. He examined the scars one by one. Then, he took a bottle of antiseptic liquid from the kit, poured a little onto a cotton swab, and slowly dabbed the cotton onto Isabella's wounds.

Isabella winced slightly. The sensation was stinging, but Nicholas was very meticulous. He cleaned every line, every mark. Then, he took out a tube of salve and applied it in circular motions. His movements were expert, almost flawless. As if he had done this often.

Isabella observed Nicholas. His face was intensely focused as he treated her wounds. His movements were so precise, so deft. His fingers were nimble.

These weren't the movements of an ordinary person. These were the movements of someone trained in critical situations. Nicholas was a man with no job, but he had skills like this?

Nicholas saw Isabella looking at him with curiosity. He didn't comment. He finished his work, then took a thin bandage and neatly wrapped Isabella's wounds.

"You often treat wounds?" Isabella asked, curious.

Nicholas raised his head. He put away the first aid kit, placing it back to the side. "Often," he replied curtly. He then said, "In the past, I was used to seeing worse wounds than these. Even treating more severe ones." He sighed. "There, if you couldn't treat yourself, you'd die. So, you learn."

"There? Where?" Isabella asked, pursuing him.

Nicholas seemed to hesitate for a moment. "In the past, on the battlefield," he said. The words just slipped out, an unintentional slip. He didn't even realize it.

Isabella's eyes widened. "Battlefield? You were a soldier?"

Nicholas sighed softly, as if he didn't want to discuss the topic. He didn't even look into Isabella's eyes. "No. Just participated." He then replied again, "I just carried supplies. The lowest person there. Nothing important." Nicholas ended his sentence with a cold tone, as if covering something up.

Unable to endure Isabella's gaze, Nicholas rose from his chair. "It's late. You should sleep."