In the next instant, she felt something wrong beneath her collarbone.
Lowering her gaze, she saw blood slowly seeping through the pale lotus-pink fabric of her dress, spreading in a dark, blooming stain.
It had to be the bite he'd left days ago. Somehow, it had torn open again.
The only explanation was the struggle just now.
Lucas Robin instinctively stepped back when he saw the spreading red.
Behind the monitors, the director sucked in a sharp breath. "Cut the feed—now! Switch cameras!"
Josephine sat frozen, her expression dazed. In her ears, she could still hear the man's low, amused breathing.
"Can't take it already? There's still more, though. How... disappointing."
The live broadcast was forcibly cut, but the trending charts had already exploded.
#JosephineDurandLiveAccident#
In the dressing room backstage, the door was locked from the inside by her manager, Victoria Henry.
Josephine collapsed into the chair, her dress soaked through with cold sweat.
Victoria crouched in front of her, hands trembling as she lifted the hem of the dress.
On the inside of Josephine's thigh were five unmistakable bruised fingerprints.
They stretched from the root of her thigh inward, the indentations deep, the edges blooming into a dark purplish hue that was almost indecently intimate.
Higher up, her waist was mottled red, as though someone had seized her there with brutal force and hoisted her upward. The faint shapes of knuckles were still visible on her skin.
"What is this? Is someone abusing you?!" Victoria's voice sharpened, panic rising. "Who did this? Lucas? A staff member? Tell me. I swear, I don't care what it costs today, I'll—"
"No…" Josephine shook her head, her throat tightening as tears spilled uncontrollably. "No one touched me…"
Victoria didn't believe her for a second. She wasn't some naïve girl who had just got her first job in showbiz.
"Then where did these marks come from? Did they grow there on their own?"
Josephine wrapped her arms around herself, her nails digging into her skin. She needed the pain to confirm she was awake.
Her waist still felt as though it had been nearly snapped in two. Her collarbone was bleeding.
And beneath it all lingered that heavy, aching soreness.
Every sensation reminded her how real the dream had felt.
"Vicky…" She lifted tear-filled eyes, her voice trembling. "I think… something is haunting me."
Victoria froze.
"It's been days," Josephine continued. "Every time I fall asleep, I have the same dream. There's a man in it. He… pins me down. I can't move. I can't wake up. And when I do, these marks are on me…"
She reached up and undid the frog closures at her collar, pulling the neckline down.
Beneath her collarbone, aside from today's fresh wound, there were faint pink remnants of older marks—and the bite that had reopened, still oozing blood.
A chill crawled up Victoria's spine.
She suddenly recalled Josephine's strange behavior this past week—her insistence on checking hotel surveillance footage, her late-night calls sobbing that she couldn't sleep, her daytime haze like a wandering ghost.
She had dismissed it as stress and exhaustion, but Josephine had always been the most resilient of all her artists.
This wasn't just pressure.
"The man in your dream…" Victoria swallowed carefully. "What does he look like?"
Josephine shook her head, her watery eyes rimmed red. "I can't see clearly. It's like he's shrouded in mist. I can only hear his voice."
Every time, he was forceful—so forceful it felt like he might kill her.
She didn't dare say that part aloud.
Because if the marks in the dream appeared in reality… Then if he killed her in the dream... She might die in real life, too. She truly believed that.
Silence fell over the dressing room.
A knock sounded at the door. "Hey, Vicky, the production team wants to hold an emergency meeting."
"To hell with that," Victoria snapped toward the door. "Josephine's in shock. She's not seeing anyone today."
She turned back, staring at the bruises on Josephine's body, her expression hardening.
"I don't care if it's a man or a ghost. I'll find someone who knows how to handle this. Tomorrow we're going to a fortune teller to get something to... I don't know––ward this off. Whatever dirty thing is clinging to you, we'll drive it away."
Before she could finish, Josephine shuddered violently. Her gaze lifted toward the vanity mirror.
The mirror reflected nothing unusual—just her own pale figure, the unmistakable marks along her neck, the disheveled dress.
And yet... For a fleeting second, she thought she could see him in the glass. A tall, imposing silhouette clad in dark robes, his form blurred and indistinct.
Her breath stopped. She stared at the mirror, not daring to blink.
But there was nothing there.
***
A few days earlier.
After the wrap party, the delayed kick of red wine hit her on the ride back to the hotel. Josephine leaned against the backseat of the dark van while Victoria talked through her upcoming schedule.
Her head felt heavy. Her stomach burned faintly.
"Josephine? Are you listening?" Victoria nudged her.
"Mm…" she murmured vaguely, pressing her warm forehead against the cool car window.
Back in her hotel room, she kicked off her heels almost immediately and hurried into the bathroom.
Cold water splashed against her face. In the mirror, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glossy with moisture.
An inexplicable unease stirred in her chest. She hadn't even drunk that much.
She showered quickly, then slipped into the silk slip she had brought—a thin, cool nightdress. The fabric clung to her overheated skin, bringing slight relief.
She threw herself onto the soft bed and closed her eyes.
Darkness settled over her.
And then she dreamed...
The dream was blurred and indistinct—everything unclear except for touch, magnified a hundredfold.
She felt herself lying on an unfamiliar bed, the mattress thick beneath her. The air carried the scent of aged wood mixed with faint medicinal herbs.
Her body began to heat inexplicably.
"Mmh…" she shifted restlessly.
A faint rustling came from beside her. Then something cool approached.
Not the chill of air conditioning––a cooler presence, seeping through the thin fabric of her nightdress.
It felt so good.
Half-delirious from the strange heat rising inside her, she followed instinct and edged closer to that patch of coolness.
When her cheek pressed against firm, faintly cool skin, she couldn't help a soft sigh of relief.
Her arm even lifted unconsciously, wrapping around him, seeking more of that soothing chill.
But the body she touched stiffened sharply.
In the next second, a strong hand clamped down on her shoulder.
The grip wasn't gentle. It carried rejection—and scrutiny—as though about to push her away.
"Mm… don't…" she protested vaguely, suddenly anxious. The fire inside her needed that coolness.
Instead of letting go, she pressed closer, her burning cheek rubbing against the cooler curve of his neck.
The hand on her shoulder paused.
In the darkness, she sensed his breathing grow heavier.
"So this is your favorite trick, huh?"
The male voice was low and hoarse.
Cold. Nearly mocking in its understanding.
"Can't you think of anything besides sending women to my room?"