CHAPTER 72: RASHES

Braelyn’s POV

There was a strange tingling sensation in my nose. I couldn’t recognise the strange scent mixed with a wide range of flowers.

The red spots increased on my wrists. My fingers moved before my mind caught up, nails dragging lightly over the red patches. I started slowly but the more I scratched them the worse the itch became and it seemed like red spots started to spread

Fear crawled up my skin. Puzzled and confused by what was happening.

The itch was sharp, sudden, like something crawling beneath my skin. I rubbed harder, trying to ease the uncomfortable prickling sensation, but it only grew worse

. The small red spots spread across my wrist like blooming marks, inflamed under the dim garden light.

A confused breath left me as I stared at them. I wasn’t allergic to anything. At least... not anymore. It had been so long since I last reacted to anything that I had convinced myself my body had outgrown those old childhood sensitivities.

I had been careful, always careful. There was nothing in this garden that should cause this.

But the itching kept spreading, crawling up my arm, tiny pinpricks turning into burning waves. My heartbeat quickened. I turned slowly, my gaze scanning through the garden beds.

The layout was different. The flowers were arranged differently. The scent was unfamiliar and sickly sweet, sinking into my lungs like smoke.

Then it hit me, Amelia. Did she know something she should not? Or was it just a coincidence? What did she change in the garden?

My stomach dropped. She had made a lot of changes to the house while the funeral preparations were ongoing. Of course, she would touch the garden too, as if everything she touched needed to bear the mark of her presence. My sanctuary, my one quiet place where I could breathe, was tainted under her hands.

My heart squeezed at the realisation. The garden was my favourite part of the mansion. I had chosen every plant myself. I whimpered, scratching harder. I didn’t have the luxury to dwell much on the situation

A tightness wrapped around my throat. The itch intensified, spreading to my chest and neck. I could feel the rashes popping on my skin underneath the clothes.

I swallowed, but the movement felt thick, strained. A swell in the throat was making it hard to breathe.

My mind screamed for me to leave. I turned around to the garden while my gaze darted around searching, trying to find the source while my body trembled with the increasing discomfort.

Something in the corner caught my eye, it was a small, soft yellow bloom tucked near the edge of the stone path, delicate but vibrant under the garden lamp.

Yellow Chrysanthemums. My blood ran cold. If there was one thing that terrified me during my childhood it was those flowers. I thought I made it clear to the servants never to bring this horse in

My breath hitched as the memory slammed back, the hospital bed, my father’s frantic voice, the doctor saying extreme allergic reaction, the way my throat had closed until I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.

I hadn’t seen that flower in years. I had avoided it so completely that I forgot I was allergic.

Why was it here?

Why would Amelia plant these?

The itching grew unbearable. My throat tightened more, breath coming shorter as I stumbled back. Panic laced through me, raw and sharp. I needed antihistamines, now. Despite not having an allergic reaction in years, my doctor always included them among my monthly prescriptions for emergencies.

I never knew the need would come tonight

I rushed out of the garden once I confirmed the cause, ignoring the cold wind biting into my already sensitive skin. Each breath felt heavier, my chest tightening like invisible hands were pressing against it.

I moved through the hallway, steps unsteady. My vision blurred at the edges, flickers of black dancing in my sight. I just needed to get to my room.

To my drawer. I kept emergency medication there. I hadn’t needed it in years. Why now? Why because of her? Why did she change the garden? Although Raphael didn’t know about my allergies because I had avoided them for years he knew how I could stand the sight of those flowers

As I rounded the corner, I nearly collided with Raphael. His brows knit together, eyes scanning my face and the reddening rash crawling up my wrist. He reeked of the after scent of sex..

"Braelyn.." His brows pulled together. He tried to reach for my arm. I evaded his touch knowing how sensitive the rashes were

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

My throat felt like it was closing, heat radiating across my skin. I pushed past him, my voice barely forming a sound. "Not now..." I could barely say with a swollen throat

"Braelyn." He tried to reach out again puzzled by my actions, but I moved faster, almost stumbling, one hand gripping the wall to steady myself. The hallway felt longer than it should. I could feel Raphael staring after me, bewildered, but I couldn’t waste breath explaining something I could barely understand.

The door to my room felt miles away. I forced it open, lungs struggling against the tightening pressure. My hands shook violently as I dug through my drawer, tossing aside documents and small trinkets until my fingers grazed the familiar white bottle. I fumbled with the cap, my hands slick with a cold sweat that burned against my skin.

The world tilted slightly, colours dimming at the edges. I swallowed the pill dry, forcing myself to breathe through the panic. Calm down. You know this feeling. You’ve survived this before. But the memories only made the panic worse.

I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers trembling against my knees. The itching continued, the burning sensation under my skin shifting to an overwhelming, raw discomfort. My heart pounded too fast, too loud. The room felt too small. I drew my knees up, pressing my forehead against them, trying to breathe.

It was only then, in the haze of panic and physical pain, that I realised something else, something more frightening than the Chrysanthemums or the reaction tearing through me.

I hadn’t told anyone about this allergy, only my dislike for the flowers, not Raphael, not the staff. No one in this house.

There’s a sick feeling in my stomach that got worse. Was this truly just a coincidence?