Chapter 77

“Rosalian Manor” sounded romantic. People unfamiliar with its origins probably imagined something sentimental, like Anya’s Lounge—something named out of love. But the truth was, Julian’s grandfather, Isaac, had coined the name, forcibly combining parts of Rosalie’s and Julian’s names. No real meaning. No sentimental value. Just another illusion of something that never truly existed.

Rosalir rubbed her temples, thinking, “How the hell did I end up here? And with an injured foot?” The more she considered it, the more convinced she became that Anya must have sent her here after she blacked out.

As for the shirt, Rosalie believed Clara must have dressed her in it. After all, she had nothing else to wear except Julian’s clothes. Rosalie knew how much he despised her; there was no way he would voluntarily allow her to wear his clothes.

Having grasped the situation, Rosalie breathed out and dismissed the thought. She carefully got out of bed, avoiding weight on her injured foot, and headed to the bathroom for a quick wash.

Once finished, she went downstairs. Reaching the staircase, she nearly collided with Clara, who was coming up.

“Madam, why are you coming out alone? Your foot is still injured,” Clara hurried to her side, offering support.

“It’s fine. I’m not using that foot,” Rosalie replied.

With Clara’s help, Rosalie reached the dining room and sat down.

Clara said, “Madam, please have some breakfast.”

“Alright,” Rosalie replied.

She picked up her utensils, about to eat, when she remembered something. “Clara, thanks for taking care of me last night. Can you bring me the clothes I was wearing yesterday?” Rosalie asked while eating.

“Yes, Madam. They’ve already been cleaned. I’ll get them for you after breakfast.”

“Alright,” Rosalie nodded. “And next time, don’t put me in Julian’s clothes. If he finds out, you’ll be in trouble.”

That jerk might not be a complete germaphobe, but she could imagine his meltdown if he discovered she’d worn something of his. He’d probably kill her.