Adelia nodded immediately—a silent confirmation of everything Rachel had just said.
"We don't care who you are, because we're in the same boat—we're all daughters of high-ranking corporate elites. What we care about is only one thing: are you going to tell us or not? Or are you going to stay this stubborn, pretending you can handle everything on your own?"
"You're not a protagonist in a fantasy novel, Margaret—someone whose fate is always paved with luck and who has the power to do everything alone just because the author wills it. You're a human being. You have no idea when your luck will turn for better or worse. And when the worst comes, you can't just rely on yourself. To go beyond your limits, you need help."
Her tone remained as cynical as before, sharp and piercing, as if every word were deliberately designed to test Margaret's patience. Adelia's eyes, widened to the point of a glare, combined with that biting tone, made Margaret gasp instantly.
Margaret squeezed her hands against her skirt again, though more gently this time, before finally letting out a sigh—one that signaled she had made a decision.
"I know... I know you're worried about me, and I'm grateful for that."
Her tone was utterly flat, as if every word emerged without weight or emotion—even more hollow than Rachel's infamously rigid voice.
"In truth… I wasn't exactly avoiding anyone, but… I suppose it could be interpreted that way. After the accident, I intentionally distanced myself from my phone and everything else. I spent all my time at home, reading in my private library, or working through problems in my notebooks—studying the material that I assumed was being covered in class."
"I did that so that when I finally returned to school, I would only need to ask about the things I truly struggled with. That is the reason why I didn't reply to messages or take calls from anyone, especially from you two."
What she had said wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't entirely a lie either—a safe choice of words that felt comfortable on her tongue. The fact was, she had indeed spent most of her recovery time at home, tucked away in her private library, drowning in stacks of books that seemed to swallow time whole.
But that truth was only half the story. The other half, the part she guarded fiercely within her heart, was that between the pages of those books, she was secretly conducting her own investigation. She was trying to decipher who could have possibly sent her those "gifts"—the meticulously arranged bouquet of roses and the simple yet elegant black tote bag.
Margaret had obsessed over every tiny detail, guessing and linking clues like a meticulous detective. Her heart would skip a beat every time a new possibility surfaced in her mind.
She hadn't stopped there. Driven by an insatiable curiosity, she had even gone as far as asking her father for Producer Cire's phone number, hoping to get answers from someone who might know more about the mysterious figure behind the scenes. But reality had hit a dead end; Producer Cire was just as much in the dark as she was.
"I am truly sorry, Miss Margaret. I was so overwhelmed in that moment that I accepted the gifts from him without even thinking. I didn't have the chance to observe his movements or any defining features that I could recall with clarity."
"However… if I force myself to remember, he seemed to be a man about one hundred and eighty-five centimeters tall. He was wearing a black mask and a black cap. Beyond that… I know nothing. I couldn't even catch a glimpse of his eyes because the brim of his hat was pulled so low, shielding his face entirely."
That was exactly why, the moment the school bell rang for break, Margaret had bypassed the cafeteria and headed straight for the library.
Upon arrival, she approached the librarian. Her voice was calm but firm as she requested permission to access the student archives kept in the restricted records room—a place where the school's most sensitive documents were stored.
Initially, the librarian eyed her with blatant suspicion. He even went as far as to reprimand her, warning that those documents were strictly off-limits to students. Only faculty held the keys to those archives, and any unauthorized access was a serious breach of school regulations.
Margaret caught her breath, feeling the walls close in for a split second, but she quickly summoned her wits. She offered a brilliant, logically sound excuse that sounded just convincing enough to create a sense of urgency.
The librarian's eyes narrowed, weighing her words in the heavy silence. Finally, after several seconds that stretched like minutes, he gave a slow, reluctant nod. Margaret was granted permission—but for fifteen minutes only. It was a razor-thin window of time, but it was enough to satisfy her hunger for answers, at least for now.
Margaret's hands moved in a blur, flipping through page after page, her eyes scanning the student data with clinical precision.
She was hunting for any male student with a height approaching one hundred and eighty-five centimeters. Based on her own observations, such a thing seemed nearly impossible; the average height of the boys in this school barely hit one hundred and seventy centimeters, and not a single soul reached the one hundred and eighty mark. As for the girls, they averaged around one hundred and sixty, sometimes a little more.
Margaret's fingers flew across the paper, matching the records against her mental notes. Every second was thick with tension, hope, and a mounting sense of frustration.
But then, suddenly, Adelia's voice called out from behind her, shattering her concentration and making her whole body jolt in shock. Panicked, she slammed the files shut and hurried out of the room, empty-handed. And that was how she ended up here, in the cafeteria, sitting across from the two of them.
"If I had been even a second late leaving that room—if I hadn't made it back to the seat where I usually read… they would have started imagining the worst. After all, I'm always seen sitting right there."
"And if they had caught me stepping out of that restricted records room… it would have been like walking straight into hell—not just because of the suffocating heat, but because the sheer tension would have robbed me of my very breath."
She didn't finish her sentence. Instead, she chose to fall silent for a moment, biting back the words that felt as though they could only complicate the situation further. She waited, heart hammering, to see how Adelia and Rachel would react.
But all she met was a faint furrow in Rachel's brow and a thin, forced smile from Adelia—expressions that seemed to drip with dissatisfaction, lingering curiosity, and a hint of mounting unease.
Margaret let out a breath, silently chanting a mantra of caution to herself—reminding her soul to guard every word and watch every step with absolute precision.
"Regarding my swollen lip..."
She paused for a beat, drawing a deliberate breath before continuing.
"It's not from the accident, nor is it a mosquito bite or a side effect of the medication."
"I accidentally hit it against my desk lamp while reaching for a book on the shelf right in front of my study table. At that moment, I was putting my weight on my right leg, but because it still hurt, I lost my balance."
"I tried to shift my weight to my left leg, but I ended up slipping slightly. Luckily, I managed to grab the edge of the desk so I didn't fall—though my lip still took the hit against the lamp."
"The injury isn't severe; it's just a bit swollen and tender. It happened last night. I've been applying ointment and honestly thought it looked better this morning since the purple bruising had faded… I guess it hasn't fully recovered yet."
This time, she lied. It was a cold, calculated lie, meticulously woven into every word and every deliberate pause she chose.
Yet, what made the situation so complex and eerily fascinating was the way she delivered it.
Her voice remained flat, emerging as a calm, steady whisper, while her face betrayed not a single hint of tension or nerves. Her gaze stayed sharp and serious, looking them straight in the eye, projecting an aura of someone who was sincerely admitting to a clumsy, embarrassing mistake.
"I'm so sorry, Adelia… Rachel…"
"The truth is, I can't tell you everything. But this is the best way—the best excuse I can offer… so that you won't have to worry about me anymore."
She continued to reassure herself, her fingers still tightly gripping the fabric of her uniform skirt.
In her heart, she repeated her reasons like a mantra, desperate to silence her doubts: the decision she was making now was for the best. It wasn't because she was disloyal, or because she wanted to alienate the people around her.
Margaret simply wanted to shoulder the responsibility herself, convinced that if she handled it correctly, she wouldn't have to burden anyone else. Yet, the shadows of recent events clung to her, a suffocating pressure in her chest that was impossible to ignore.
Deep down, Margaret knew a painful truth: not everything must be laid bare, and not every secret must be shared—even with those closest to her.
There are times when keeping a part of your feelings, a fragment of your experience, is the only way to protect yourself—and them. It is a way to reflect, to breathe, before finally being ready to speak the truth.