Episode 22
Monica was at a loss.
“Excuse me, are you okay?”
The man clung to a small dogwood tree in the garden, its delicate white flowers trembling under his grip. The young tree, barely half a span taller than Monica, swayed with the force of his hold. His fingers were white from the pressure, sweat streaming down his face as he leaned desperately against the trunk.
“Oh my God!”
Startled, Monica hurried to his side, patting his back.
“Are you okay? Breathe.”
The man groaned faintly, struggling to inhale. Without thinking, Monica slipped her arms around his waist and pulled him towards her. Despite his earlier vice-like grip on the tree, he was surprisingly easy to drag to the ground.
Monica eased him down, laying him flat, then unfastened the cravat around his neck. She unbuttoned the top of his shirt and placed her hand firmly on his chest, rubbing in quick, circular motions. It was a technique she had used countless times as a battlefield nurse, on soldiers who had forgotten how to breathe amid the chaos.
“Breathe,” she commanded. “Don’t talk. Just exhale when I count. One, two—exhale. Three.”
The man, gasping and trembling, followed her rhythm. Slowly, his ragged breaths evened out. After about fifteen counts, he finally exhaled deeply, the tension in his chest easing.
Monica let out a sigh of relief, realizing only then that she had been holding her breath as well.
Ah.
And then, a second realization struck her like a lightning bolt. She understood why the man had reacted this way. She had seen it countless times during her years as a nurse: people flinching at loud noises, mistaking them for cannon fire.
He was no exception.
Enrique Sullivan. The name came with prestige, an old noble lineage with a proud military history. Yet here he was, clutching a tree, trembling like a frightened child.
Her mind raced with questions, but she forced herself to focus. The man’s hands were ice-cold beneath hers, his breath still uneven.
With her free hand, Monica lifted the hem of her dress and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. She didn’t care that the fabric was new—or that it had been bought by this man, who was now denying his identity.
“This is the Mollet Manor,” she said softly, her voice steady and firm. “This isn’t a battlefield. The war is over.”
The man murmured incoherently, his voice trailing off into silence. When Monica met his gaze, she found herself staring into his blue eyes brimming with shame, confusion, and a hint of vulnerability.
The expression was painfully familiar: the look of someone unaccustomed to exposing their wounds, accidentally revealing them to the wrong person.
Monica shrugged.
“It’s okay. I’ve seen a lot of people like you. Were you a soldier?”
“If you tell anyone, you’ll regret it,” he snapped weakly.
It was an ungrateful response, but Monica was used to it. She ignored his threat and asked, “Have you ever taken the ‘green pill’?”
His body stiffened.
“So, you have,” she muttered, exhaling heavily.
The ‘green pill.’ Monica had encountered it often during her time as a nurse. Administered to soldiers during the war, it was supposed to calm nerves and suppress trauma. Instead, it often left its users worse off—plagued by hallucinations, paranoia, and worsening mental states.
Monica sighed again, her fingers pressing lightly against his wrist. His pulse was erratic, racing wildly. The memories came flooding back—Arvid’s hospital, the endless days spent tending to soldiers, their desperate eyes, their trembling hands.
“Don’t say anything,” she murmured.
The man’s weakness didn’t inspire pity in her. Instead, it gave her an opportunity.
“If you don’t want me telling anyone,” Monica said, her tone casual but firm, “then answer one question for me.”
The man glared at her, his blue eyes sparking with indignation, but he said nothing.
“Are you triplets?”
His face gave her all the answer she needed.
Monica tilted her head, her gaze falling on the faint scar near his right eye. She leaned in closer, studying it carefully. The scar was identical to the ones she had seen before—on Luis, and on Garcia.
“But I’ve never seen twins with matching scars,” she said softly.
The pieces were falling into place.
“Garcia, Luis,” she whispered, naming the other two. “Both of them had this same scar. Subtle, but unmistakable.”
“… …”
“You have it too.”
She reached out, her fingertip brushing the scar on his right eye. He flinched away, but it was too late. Monica had seen the flicker of fear in his gaze.
But instead of pressing him further, she asked calmly, “Sir Enrique Sullivan, who are you?”
His silence spoke volumes.
“What do you want from me?” she continued. “Why are you pretending to be three different people? Is this some kind of game?”
“Nonsense!” he burst out suddenly, his voice loud and defensive.
“You called me ‘my love,’” Monica said flatly. “Don’t deny it. Luis did. Garcia did. And now you…”
She trailed off, watching as Enrique’s expression shifted from defiance to confusion.
“… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his voice unsteady.
Monica stared at him, her frustration growing. The man’s confusion seemed genuine—but how could that be?
If Enrique truly didn’t know, then there could only be one explanation.
Was it the Multiple personalities?
The thought chilled her to the bone.
