Elysium: Desired by the Cold-hearted Princess [GL]
Chapter 86 86: The Voice

Seraphina's Pov

I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection as the water dripped from my face, and my hands gripped the edge of the sink so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

I had hoped that washing my face would somehow wash away the frustration building inside me, but it only seemed to amplify it.

I pushed the damp strands of hair away from my face, letting out a sigh that felt heavier than it should. My father was dead, and I still couldn't bring myself to cry. Not even a single tear had escaped my eyes since I heard the news. Instead, I felt hollow, and beneath that hollowness, my anger grew, waiting to consume me whole.

I stared harder at my reflection, as if demanding an answer from the girl looking back at me. Her eyes were red but dry, her lips slightly trembling, but no tears. It made me feel like a monster—how could I not cry for my father? The man who had raised me, albeit imperfectly, was gone, and I couldn't even muster the decency to grieve the way I was supposed to.

But the truth was, sadness wasn't the dominant emotion in my heart. Anger was.

I turned the faucet back on, letting the water run over my fingers as I splashed my face again. The coldness shocked me, but it didn't soothe the fire raging inside.

I thought of Gianna again, the woman who had made my life miserable from the moment she entered it, and I thought of my father, who had married her under the pretense of protecting our family's reputation, knowing full well what kind of person she was.

He had made that choice, and in doing so, he had sacrificed me. His decision had placed me in a prison in my own home, and selfishly, he had only thought of himself with the excuse that he was protecting my late mother and me.

And now, he was dead.

My fists clenched against the sink, letting out a series of cuss words without realizing it. I was mad at her, yes, but I was mad at him too. How could he have been so blind? How could he have allowed Gianna to wreak havoc on my life when it wasn't as though he had married her because he loved her? How could he have watched and aided her when he was supposed to be my father, my protector?

Even in death, he had left me trapped under her thumb. She controlled everything now—our home, our finances, even me, and the worst part? I couldn't do a thing about it.

A frustrated scream bubbled in my throat, but I swallowed it down. Instead, I leaned forward, letting my forehead rest against the cool surface of the mirror. I was tired—so tired of feeling powerless, of being the weak and innocent Seraphina everyone thought I was.

The girl in the mirror still looked like her, but inside, I felt like a different person entirely. Numb. Detached. Like a shell of who I once was.

I exhaled deeply, lifting my head. My gaze fixed on my reflection, on the girl who looked fragile and breakable. That wasn't me anymore. At least I didn't want it to be. Something inside me had shifted a few days ago, and that shift had worsened the moment I learned of my father's death.

I felt different, but I wasn't sure if it was the good kind of different or the bad kind.

The steam from the bathroom fogged up the mirror as I wiped my face with a towel, trying to shake off the exhaustion I felt. I had barely taken a step toward the door when I froze.

That voice—*the same one from my dorm room yesterday*—was back.

"Have you made up your mind?" the voice asked, its tone eerily calm and patient. It echoed, but not like something coming from outside. It felt as though it came from *inside* my head or just behind my ear.

My heart raced as the memories of yesterday came flooding back. I had tried so hard to convince myself that I'd imagined it—that stress, fear, or even lack of sleep had played tricks on my mind, but now, it was undeniable.

This wasn't in my head. Someone—or something—was talking to me again.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, my voice shaky. "Made up my mind about what? And who are you? Show yourself!"

The voice chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it—just a bone-chilling, mocking tone. "Do you want to switch?" it asked again, this time more insistent. "This is your last chance."

The finality in its tone made my stomach churn, and my mind raced as I tried to piece together what was happening. Switch? Switch what exactly? My life? My body? My soul?

"I don't understand what you're asking!" I shouted, hoping—praying—that somehow I'd wake up from this nightmare. "You keep saying the same thing, but you won't explain anything! What does switching even mean?"

But instead of an explanation, the voice only laughed—a deep, maniacal laugh that sent shivers down my spine. I spun around, desperate to find some physical form, some *person* to confront, but the bathroom was empty.

My frustration and fear bubbled inside me, and I just couldn't take it anymore—the ambiguity, the taunting, and the annoying voice. It was like being stuck in a nightmare I couldn't wake up from, no matter how hard I tried.

"Fine!" I yelled, not caring anymore if this voice was real or if I was losing my mind. "Fine! I'll switch! Just tell me what the hell happens next!"

There was a pause, as though the voice was savoring my panic, before it responded with a single word. "Good choice."

Before I could react, the laugh grew louder, deafeningly so. It wasn't just in my ears anymore—it was in my mind, vibrating through my skull. My hands flew up to block my ears, but it was useless. The sound was *inside me.*

"Stop!" I screamed, falling to my knees, my head pounding as though it was about to split open. "Please, stop!"

The laugh didn't stop. It got louder, more invasive, as if it was feeding off my desperation. My vision blurred, the bathroom spinning around me. I felt weak, like the very energy in my body was being drained. My limbs grew heavy, my head throbbing, and I could no longer keep myself upright.

My body hit the cold bathroom floor, and everything else went black.