The Double ( or More ?) Life of The Fake Heiress

Owen approached the table, his gaze pausing for a mere moment on James before giving a courteous nod and then sliding into the empty chair next to Mirabella, greeting her with a polite “Ma. Mirabella”

James was momentarily frozen, his expression a snapshot of bewilderment.

After finishing the last slice of fruit in her hand, Mirabella turned to Owen, wiped her hands with a napkin, and said thoughtfully, “I’ll take your pulse.” NôvelDrama.Org owns © this.

“Thank you,” Owen replied with a slight smile, the usual solemnity on his handsome face giving way to a more serene expression.

He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a slender wrist, the veins as distinct as a road map, and placed it on the table, palm up.

Mirabella’s hand settled on his pulse. For a moment, her face took on the rare focus of a healer. Seconds later, she withdrew her fingers and spoke calmly, “You’re recovering well. Continue with the medication I prescribed for another week, then you can stop.”

“Got it, thanks,” Owen said with a nod, aware that his condition had markedly improved. Whether it was a placebo effect or not, he certainly didn’t feel the agitation he had while taking Dane’s pills.

“It’s nothing,” Mirabella said with a casual wave, only to notice James offering her a napkin. She glanced at him, her look a silent question.

James looked effortlessly composed with a hint of nonchalance in his eyes. He simply said, “For your hands.”

Mirabella still looked puzzled.

Without another word, James placed the napkin in her hand that had just taken Owen’s pulse. The fleeting cool touch of his fingertips against her palm caused an almost imperceptible shiver through Mirabella’s hand.

–

She cleared her throat, averted her gaze, and, lowering her head, used the napkin to wipe her fingers a concession to his gesture. James smiled slightly as he leaned back lazily in his chair, stretching an arm across the back of Mirabella’s chair in a clear display of territorial claim. He was not looking at Owen, but the message was unmistakable.

Witnessing this exchange, Owen’s face turned expressionless. It was just a pulse check; was there a need for such dramatics? Meanwhile, Asher had been paying close attention to the conversation between Mirabella and Owen. In fact, he had taken Owen’s pulse himself before Mirabella had arrived at the club.

From the onset of Owen’s illness to his so–called recovery, Asher had not detected anything unusual in his pulse. If he hadn’t seen Owen’s physical transformation with his own eyes, he might not believe Owen was ever sick.

Despite his skepticism about the medical skills of a young woman barely out of her teens, Asher had to admit that Owen’s recovery wa indeed thanks to her.

Casting a glance at Mirabella, Asher wondered how she had diagnosed the condition from the pulse. Yet, although he was curious, he wasn’t about to ask. Unlike his father, he couldn’t bring himself to address a young girl as a mentor. It just felt inappropriate.

Collecting his thoughts, Asher remembered something and shifted his chair closer to Owen. He then pulled a bottle from his pocket and, seemingly on purpose, handed it to Owen in front of Mirabella.

Owen looked surprised as he took the bottle from Asher.