Since the moment Angela stormed out of the estate, Yvonne had neither eaten nor slept. She had slapped her before—once even hard enough to send her stumbling on unsteady feet—but this time, something was different.
Back then, when Angela had been struck unjustly, she glared at Yvonne and Grace with fury blazing in her eyes. But when Kalian’s message came, announcing the annulment… she didn’t even look at them.
She simply collapsed.
Collapsed so completely, it was as if something deep inside her shattered beyond repair. Not a single cry for help, no trace of resistance—just sudden, silent ruin.
And then, she left. Stormed out of the estate without a backward glance.
Three nights had passed, and she had not returned.
The first day, they searched until despair made them stop.
The second day, they waited, hoping she would return on her own.
The third day, Yvonne sent knights toward the western region, where Kalian had gone.
Now, it was the fourth day—and still no word.
Yvonne was unraveling.
Since arriving at the Bilton estate, Yvonne had always been with Angela—from the days when she was a helpless child, to the time she grew into a young woman who could twist hearts like a devil. They had never truly been apart.
At most, a picnic.
At most, the royal palace.
At most, Florence’s estate a few days ago.
Angela was always somewhere Yvonne could run to, if she wished.
But now… she was nowhere.
The girl who had always made her presence known through arguments and collisions was simply—gone.
“Haa…”
Yvonne exhaled deeply. But her lungs still felt like they were being crushed. She bit her dry, cracked lips.
“My lady!”
It was then that a maid burst through the door, breathless and pale, something clutched in her hands.
“M-My lady…! Hah, hah… look at this, please. Th-this was found just outside the estate—!”
Panting heavily, the maid placed it on the table.
A letter… and a lock of soft, golden hair.
“Ah…”
Yvonne staggered. And then collapsed to the floor.
“My lady!”
She didn’t even hear the maid’s scream.
What she did hear was the sound of her world crumbling into dust.
—
“They say I’m your nanny. Is that why you smile at me like that?”
Yvonne remembered it vividly—Angela giggling in her cradle, grasping Yvonne’s finger, her eyes bright and trusting.
She had been so small, Yvonne once feared she wouldn’t survive. But she grew strong. And Yvonne had been so proud, so grateful for every day she lived.
Still, Angela was always smaller than other children her age, and Yvonne worried constantly.
Yvonne had lost her own child during the war. She entered the Bilton estate soon after. Maybe that was why Angela never felt like just a noble’s daughter. She had become something else. Something closer.
The title of “duke’s daughter” was all for show—Angela’s life was little better than that of a slum child.
Grace, her mother, left bruises each time she touched her. Dominic, her father, never cared enough to ask if his daughter was even injured.
Yvonne feared that a child so starved of love might never fully grow up.
But Angela did grow. Beautifully.
Even with a cold, distant father and a cruel, relentless mother—she became kind. Gentle. Warm. And that warmth filled a space in Yvonne’s heart that had long gone cold.
“I wish you were my mother, Yvonne.”
Yvonne could still hear those words, as clearly as if they’d just been spoken.
She had wanted to be Angela’s mother. She believed, once, that she could be.
But no matter how hard she tried, she could never love Angela more than she loved Beatrice.
Not because Angela wasn’t worthy—but because no child in the world could compare to the one born from her own body.
Beatrice and Angela.
Standing between them, Grace always forced Yvonne to choose—and she always chose Beatrice.
It broke her heart to watch Angela suffer. She wanted to protect her, to become her shelter. But the thought of her own daughter being hurt in return… that was unbearable.
And so she lived with guilt.
She stayed by Angela’s side, not as a mother, but as a nanny. Because that was the only love she could safely offer.
So long as Angela never laid a hand on Beatrice, Yvonne would remain by her side—no matter how sharp her thorns, no matter how painful it became.
She had steeled herself for a lifetime of tending to that thorny girl.
But—
“What if I told you to bring me Beatrice right now?”
“Answer me, Yvonne. If I demanded to see her—would you pretend to be relieved I woke up safely? Huh?”
“Say it again. Say you were worried. Say you were surprised. Try and lie to me again, and I’ll tear Beatrice’s filthy face apart so you won’t recognize her—even as her mother.”
The moment Angela uttered Beatrice’s name, everything ended.
Whatever fragile peace had remained after Grace’s death—was gone.
Yvonne had once believed Angela was just a wounded child. That her hatred came from pain. That she could forgive.
But now… Angela was just another Grace.
The night Yvonne realized it, she dreamed.
Pale skin that accepted nothing. Green eyes that scorned the world. Golden hair that seemed to strangle the air itself.
In that dream, Angela—who looked exactly like Grace—was shoving a crying Beatrice into a dark cupboard.
The next morning, Yvonne woke up changed.
She shed the guilt and duty that had weighed her down. She made a decision she had never dared to before.
To rise above Angela.
To protect Beatrice—no matter the cost.
“Yvonne… Yvonne, open the door… Please… I don’t want to be in here… Hic… I hate it here…”
All the pity. All the sorrow. All the tender, desperate wishes to do something for that child—they were buried in the past.
And she swore to never dig them up again.
And yet… here they were.
Forced back into the light.
“Call the steward.”
The moment Yvonne regained consciousness and read the contents of the letter, she gave her order.
The amount the kidnappers demanded was staggering—equivalent to five years of the estate’s operating budget. Even Yvonne, who had worked at the Bilton estate for decades, had never seen such a sum.
But she was going to pay it. Dominic’s approval didn’t matter. Even if it meant being removed from her position, she didn’t care.
The lock of Angela’s golden hair clenched in her hand demanded it.
Even if they fought. Even if they wounded each other again.
Angela had to remain part of this household.
Letting her disappear… was unthinkable.
She had never once imagined the Bilton estate without Angela.
Pale-faced, Yvonne waited for the steward. She had just sent the maid away, but now she was growing impatient. Childishly, she bit her nails.
—
A room with no windows—no light, no sense of time. Angela sat in the silence, not knowing how long it had been.
“What do you think?”
Tristan suddenly asked, eyes dropping fondly to the flower bracelet still tied around her wrist. Angela looked at her, puzzled.
“Do you really think your crew will let me go once they get the money?”
She asked the question even though she already knew the answer. Tristan gave a half-hearted shrug and said, “Beats me.” It was no better than saying nothing at all.
“Great. That’s a real confidence booster.”
Angela let out a dry laugh. If only she knew who had placed the bounty—at least then she could start thinking of a way to respond. But there was nothing. No information, no plan. All she could do was wait to be disposed of.
And that helplessness—it crushed her. Was she supposed to sit still and hope for a stroke of luck? The weight of her own powerlessness pressed on her shoulders, hour by hour, breath by breath.
“I’ll get you out of here.”
Tristan spoke the words as casually as if she were offering a snack.
“I’m serious. I’ll help you escape, so stop looking like the world’s already ended. I may not look it, but I’m Kalian’s best friend. I can’t let his bride waste away in a place like this, can I?”
She was making promises now. Bold, grand ones. The problem was, they were so absurd they didn’t inspire even a flicker of belief.
Angela had seen how Tristan was treated by the others. Honestly, calling them “your crew” had been generous—Tristan didn’t seem part of them at all. And on top of that, she couldn’t even walk properly without a limp. And now she wanted to help Angela escape?
What was that if not a suicide pact?
“What? Don’t trust me?”
Angela copied her earlier shrug. It said everything: Not even a little bit.
“Still, try believing. It’s not like you’ve got any other options right now.”
Tristan grinned again, the same carefree smile as the day they met. She never smiled like that when the other men were around. And yet she expected Angela to trust her, just like that?
Angela’s silence was laced with doubt.
But then—for the first time, excluding stories about Kalian—Tristan finally said something useful.
“You’ve been here for five and a half days.”
Angela straightened at that. So she was listening now. Her expression said, Go on.
“You slept for three of them straight. It’s been two and a half since you woke up. Honestly, we thought you were a goner.”
Three days of sleep?
A creeping déjà vu ran down Angela’s spine. She remembered nothing of it, but the thought nagged at her—had she once again met that cursed light in a dream?
Her eyes turned sharp. Almost instinctively, her hand moved to her chest.
“You still don’t believe me?”
Tristan noticed her expression and laughed awkwardly, mistaking her suspicion as doubt in her. Angela opened her mouth to explain—but then—
“Ugh—!”
Tristan’s face shifted, and she abruptly threw the hood back over Angela’s head.
Angela didn’t need to ask. She already knew.
The others were coming.
She sensed them approaching the room—how Tristan always knew before they arrived was a mystery, but her instincts were never wrong.
Angela obediently brought her hands behind her back. From beneath the hood, she could hear Tristan’s muffled chuckle. Her wrists were tied—again—with just enough slack that she could escape them at any time.
Moments later, the door burst open.
Heavy footsteps marched toward her. Soon, someone would pull off the hood.
Angela braced herself, ready to feign the glare of sudden light.
But—
“Take her.”
The plan shifted.
Someone grabbed her by the bound arms and yanked her upright. Angela jerked away from the touch, glaring even through the fabric.
“Where are you taking me?”
“It’s time to go home, my lady.”
Home—what a lie. Angela had a sinking feeling that wherever they were taking her, it wouldn’t be anywhere she could call home.
She yanked her arm away again, voice steely and defiant.
“I won’t take a single step until you tell me exactly who in the Bilton family you plan to hand me over to.”
“Hahahaha!”
The man laughed—loud, mocking, echoing off the walls. Then he barked a command to his subordinate.
“Bring her.”
That tone—cold and final—left no room for negotiation. There were only two possibilities: either her family had already paid, or her family had given her up.
No… Yvonne…?
As the seed of doubt took root in her mind, someone lifted Angela and slung her over their shoulder like a sack of grain.
If she was taken out now, it was over.
She didn’t know who was on the other side of this transaction, but it was surely one of the worst names her mind could summon. They weren’t taking her to tend a garden of flowers.
“Put me down—now!”
Angela kicked and thrashed, using what little freedom her legs had to knee and strike the man holding her.
But he didn’t budge. Solid as stone.
I’m really going to be sold off to these monsters, she thought, despair creeping in.
And then—
“A gentleman lets go when a lady tells him to.”
“What…?”
“No wonder women don’t like you.”
A cheery voice, light and out of place. And then—
“Tristan, what the hell did you just—urgh! ”
Came the sound of something brutal.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
