The next morning bobae woke before the bell.
Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, her head heavy, body aching like she had spent the night holding herself together—which she had. For a moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the mansion breathe.
Footsteps approached.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Bobae," Mrs. Lee's voice called gently. "Are you awake?"
Bobae sat up immediately. "Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Lee entered without waiting for an invitation. She looked as she always did—composed, calm, her hair perfectly arranged. In her hands was a folded file.
She smiled.
Not unkindly. Not warmly either.
"Sit," Mrs. Lee said.
Bobae obeyed.
Mrs. Lee took her time, smoothing the file on the table, as if choosing the right moment. When she finally looked up, her gaze was steady, observant.
"You had a… difficult night," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Bobae's fingers tightened in her lap. "I'm sorry if I caused any inconvenience."
Mrs. Lee tilted her head slightly. "You didn't cause it," she said softly. "But you were close to it."
Silence stretched.
"For a household like this," Mrs. Lee continued, "perception matters. Even more than intention."
Bobae swallowed.
"You are young," Mrs. Lee said. "And kind. Those things can be… misunderstood."
Bobae understood perfectly.
Mrs. Lee slid the file toward her. "Effective immediately, you'll be reassigned to the west estate. Housekeeping. Lower visibility. Fewer interactions."
Bobae's breath hitched.
"I—did I do something wrong?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Mrs. Lee smiled again, slower this time. "Wrong is such a harsh word."
She leaned forward slightly. "Let's call it… precaution."
Then she paused.
"This will protect you," Mrs. Lee added. "And it will protect your family."
Bobae lowered her gaze. "I understand."
Mrs. Lee studied her for a moment, then nodded in approval. "Good girl."
She stood, adjusting her sleeves. "Pack only what you need. You'll leave before noon."
At the door, she stopped.
"One more thing," Mrs. Lee said without turning around. "It would be wise to avoid unnecessary conversations. Especially emotional ones."
The door closed quietly behind her.
Bobae remained seated, staring at the file in front of her.
She pressed her lips together, forcing herself not to cry. This wasn't anger. It wasn't punishment.
It was erasure.
And that, she realized, was far more dangerous.
She stood up and start packing her bag. When she finish packing everything, she exhales feeling exhausted, she brought out her pen and a book, she tore some part of the it and write a note, she hid it in her locker and exit the room.
Clarapov:
A passing maid whispered it to another in the corridor, their voices low but careless.
"Bobae's been moved," one said. "West estate. This morning."
Clara stopped walking.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then she continued, her steps unhurried, her face perfectly composed. She waited until she was alone before allowing herself to breathe.
So it was done. It worked. She smiles.
She entered Bobae's former room without knocking. The door swung open easily, as if the space had already accepted the absence.
The bed was bare. The wardrobe door hung open slightly. A single hanger swayed, abandoned. The room smelled faintly of soap and something warm—something that didn't belong to a servant's quarters.
Clara closed the door behind her.
She walked slowly, deliberately, fingertips brushing over the desk, the mirror, the windowsill. No signs of struggle. No mess. Bobae had left like she lived—quietly.
Clara smiled.
A slow, satisfied curve of her lips.
"You made the right choice," she murmured to the empty room.
She turned toward the window, looking out over the estate grounds. From here, everything looked orderly. Controlled. Predictable.
As it should be.
Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—elegant, composed, untouchable.
And yet—
Her smile faltered.
For a brief, dangerous moment, Clara felt it: the irritation, sharp and unwelcome. Not fear. It was unease.
If she meant nothing, Clara thought, why does her absence feel like a treat, instead of an answer?
She straightened immediately, shaking the thought away.
Bobae was gone.
Distance would erase whatever foolishness had begun.
Clara reached up and adjusted her hair, reclaiming her calm, her certainty.
"This is how things stay in place," she said softly to herself.
She turned off the light and left the room, closing the door with quiet finality.
Like proof that something had been removed.