Chapter 213 Mirror Image
Juniper did not know when she had fallen asleep.
She only remembered that crack in the door, the cold wind drifting through, and that lingering scent of medicine in the air.
She had stared at that crack for a long time, until her hands and feet went numb, before finally reaching out to close the door.
Then she sat against the door until dawn.
In the end, she still did not have the courage to walk out.
At seven in the morning, Juniper came downstairs.
She had changed into a new dress. Pale yellow, giving her complexion a healthy glow. She wore carefully applied makeup, covering the dark circles under her eyes.
Dylan stood at the foot of the stairs. When he saw her, his gaze swept across her face, then moved away.
No nod.
No words.
Juniper's smile paused for a moment.
"Dylan." She spoke first. "Where's William?"
Dylan did not look at her, just gestured toward the dining room.
Juniper clenched her fingers, then smiled and nodded.
"Thank you."
She walked toward the dining room.
Dylan turned and left in the opposite direction.
Pushing open the dining room door, the lighting was soft.
She saw that wheelchair again, and that person.
Then she smiled and walked over.
Just as she was about to pull out a chair to sit down.
William looked up at her.
"Isabella was very good at cooking. You're family, so you must be good at cooking too."
Juniper's smile froze.
One second.
Two seconds.
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
She could not cook.
All her life, she had never set foot in a kitchen.
She was an adopted daughter, not the family's servant.
She did not even know how to turn on a stove.
But William was looking at her. Those eyes were like a dry well, fixed on her.
He said, "You're family."
He said, "You must be good at cooking too."
She refused to lose to a corpse.
Juniper smiled.
"Yes. Of course I can."
William nodded.
"Then you'll make breakfast today."
The thought of cooking for a corpse felt ridiculous and absurd to Juniper.
But thinking of William, Juniper gritted her teeth and endured it.
She clenched her fingers and turned toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was huge.
Polished stainless steel countertops, a whole row of knives—she could not even name all those pots.
A butler stood by the sink. Seeing her enter, he froze for a moment.
"Ms. Miller?"
Juniper smiled.
"I'm here to cook. You can go."
The butler looked at her, hesitating.
"Ms. Miller, what would you like to make? I can help you prepare—"
"No need." Juniper interrupted. "I'll do it myself."
The butler nodded, dried his hands, and left.
Only Juniper remained in the kitchen.
She stood before that row of cookware, not knowing which to touch first.
There were ingredients in the fridge. She opened the door, looking at those raw things, covered in dirt, with names unfamiliar to her.
She picked a few that looked familiar—tomatoes, eggs, and some greens.
Then she started looking for a pot.
Forty minutes later, Juniper walked out carrying a tray.
On the tray were three plates of food.
Fried eggs, a charred lump that could only be identified as fried eggs by its shape.
Vegetable salad, with a pool of water at the bottom of the plate.
And a bowl of soup, unclear what it was, with a layer of white foam on the surface.
She placed the tray on the dining table.
William looked at those three plates and did not move.
This could not even be called breakfast.
Nothing like what Isabella made.
William did not even reach for the utensils. He directly reached out and flipped the tray over.
The porcelain plates shattered on the floor, fragments scattering across the floor. The soup splashed onto Juniper's dress.
She stood there, motionless, staring blankly at the fragments on the floor, the food mixed together, the soup splattered everywhere.
She did not know what to do.
Did not know why William had suddenly lost his temper.
William looked at her.
In those eyes like a dry well, something suddenly flickered.
Isabella's figure overlapped with Juniper's.
He suddenly felt he was despicable.
Felt that the one who should have died was not Isabella, but himself.
Back then, he had treated Isabella the same way.
But Isabella had not said a word.
She had knelt on the floor, picked up the fragments piece by piece, and silently cleaned everything up.
Gradually soothing the anger in his heart.
But Juniper just stood there like a puppet, at a loss.
He thought, she is not her after all.
How could she compare to her?
"Pick it up."
William spoke.
"Haven't you always wanted to replace her?"
His voice was low.
"What she could do, you should be able to do too."
Juniper stood there, looking at the soup, unable to bring herself to do it.
The mess at her feet was like the contents of a filthy slop bucket.
How could a normal person pick it up with their hands?
"William, don't be angry."
"I'll have someone clean it up."
She forced a smile; this smile was her weapon—no man had ever been able to resist it.
But what greeted her was a cold statement.
"I said, pick it up."
Eyes sharp as blades stared at her. Juniper did not dare object again.
Turning her head away, suppressing her discomfort, she crouched down.
Her fingertips touched the slimy foam and immediately jerked back.
She looked up, eyes brimming with tears, looking at William.
"William!"
William did not even look at her.
She bit her lip and stood up, crying.
Leaning close, revealing her cleavage.
"Don't treat me like this. Tell me what's bothering you."
She reached out to touch William's shoulder, but was slapped away.
The back of her hand burned with pain. Even with her so-called noble bearing, she could no longer endure it.
Her mind was in chaos, not understanding what had gotten into William.
Only when she bent down to pick up the fragments did she feel the atmosphere in the room ease a little.
William was indeed less angry now.
He watched Juniper picking up the broken plates, his chest tightening.
Two figures overlapped again.
She always used her body to protect you, and you—how did you repay her? Isabella, Beatrice gave you your life, remember that well. Everything you suffer from now on is what you deserve.
"Live well for me. I'll make you regret marrying me."
William's chest felt weighed down by a stone, so heavy he could not breathe.
He was treating Juniper the way he had treated Isabella.
The grievances and pain Isabella had endured became increasingly clear.
Every vicious word he had said to her, every cold look.
All pressing down on his chest, tighter and tighter.
Something was about to spill from William's eyes. He turned his head and held it back.
But when he turned back, he found himself facing Isabella's cheek.
Behind the veil, Isabella kept her head lowered, not looking at him at all.
William could not help thinking, she has not spoken to me all morning.
He thought again, maybe Isabella is afraid of me.
I do not have to be William. I can be Donny, or I can be Ambrose.
He took her hand and placed it on his face, kissing it gently.