The place they arrived at, following the sentry, was the deepest and most desolate part of the Bilton estate’s prison. A chill, like ice, seeped up from the floor.
Not just any criminal could be confined here. It was a place reserved for those awaiting execution—prisoners who had committed the gravest offenses, such as attempting to poison their master’s food.
It was in such a place that Angela found Mary, collapsed and unconscious. Overcome with emotion, she barely managed to suppress the lump rising in her throat before she issued a command to the sentry.
“Open it.”
But the sentry only shook his head firmly, as if he had already done everything within his power.
“I cannot. There is a strict order not to release her until permission is granted.”
Angela’s eyes flared with fury.
“Am I not granting permission right now?”
The green of her irises blazed red-hot. Angela’s fiery gaze bore into the sentry, but even though he clearly saw the rage flickering in her eyes, he did not waver.
“No matter what you say, I cannot comply.”
It was obvious whose orders he was following. It was painfully clear whose permission was required and whose command took precedence.
Glaring at Mary through the iron bars, Angela shoved past the sentry and stormed out of the prison. There was only one place she was headed.
Yvonne’s room.
Bang!
The door flew open violently as Angela strode in. She marched straight toward Yvonne, who was reclining against the bed, utterly unbothered. Even at Angela’s sudden intrusion, Yvonne showed no surprise. The timid creature who once flinched at Angela’s every word and recoiled at her every action had vanished.
“Release Mary. Right now.”
No matter how fiercely Angela raged, it would not work. Yvonne simply looked at her, then swung his legs down from the bed with a cold expression.
Moving at his own unhurried pace, Yvonne draped a robe over his shoulders, drawing a firm boundary as if to say Angela’s urgency had nothing to do with him. Grinding her teeth, Angela stepped in even closer.
“Didn’t Beatrice tell you? What happened yesterday was purely a misunderstanding on your part.”
Yvonne, now tying the ribbon of his robe, met Angela’s gaze squarely. It was the kind of look he had always wanted to direct at her, but not in this way. Angela clenched her jaw even tighter.
“So what if it was a misunderstanding?”
After fastening his robe, Yvonne tilted his head slightly and asked in a sharp tone, his voice shedding all formality like a blade.
“Does that erase everything you’ve done to my mother and me? You act as if getting slapped three times was some monumental injustice—”
Angela clasped both hands over Yvonne’s mouth, cutting off his words before he could say more.
“Yvonne… Don’t do this to me.”
Suppressing her erratic breathing, Angela spoke slowly and deliberately. Her faintly trembling headshake was almost pleading. But Yvonne remained unmoved. He forcefully knocked her hands away and retorted,
“And what did you do to me? Don’t you dare claim to be the victim.”
Angela wondered if she was dreaming. This couldn’t be real. Yvonne would never act like this.
In the past, Yvonne had gradually become accustomed to the choices Grace forced upon him. His hand always moved toward Angela, and his decisions came faster with each passing day. At some point, the guilt on Yvonne’s face had disappeared entirely.
When Angela whimpered that she didn’t want to be locked in the closet,
“Then should we put this little one inside instead? That would be cruel and selfish, wouldn’t it?”
He had murmured, gently patting Angela’s back as he pushed her into the darkness.
When Angela, starving for three days, begged for a sip of water,
“Just hold on one more day. We can’t let Beatrice go hungry, can we? You did it last time too, remember? You can do this.”
He had whispered, stroking her hair with an almost tender touch.
On days when she was beaten,
“If you apply this, the marks will vanish. There won’t even be scars. Don’t worry.”
He had said, carefully tending to her wounds.
That was Yvonne. That was how he had treated her. And yet, now, he was acting as if none of it had ever happened.
“Yvonne, you…”
Angela clenched her fists with the hand he had just swatted away.
“You used me as Beatrice’s shield. If you dare say you’ve forgotten, I’ll tear your mouth apart.”
“Then you should’ve stayed a shield. You’re the one who turned into a blade and stabbed us.”
His response was almost empty.
A blade…
Angela vividly remembered the first time she struck Beatrice.
That day, Grace had been more on edge than usual. Beatrice, who was growing older, was beginning to resemble Dominic more and more, and it irritated Grace beyond measure. Angela, on the other hand, was utterly exhausted from the endless abuse.
For once, Grace did not force Yvonne to choose. Instead, she simply grabbed Beatrice by the hair and started dragging her.
Grace, furious at the sight of Beatrice’s crimson hair, so much like her father’s, ordered a maid to fetch a pair of scissors, intending to cut it all off.
Even as Beatrice stumbled, struggling to walk properly, Angela did not say what she normally would have—that it was cruel, that she should stop. That day, she was simply relieved that, for once, she wasn’t the one being tormented.
Then, suddenly, Yvonne seized a fistful of Angela’s long hair.
“I’ll cut Angela’s hair instead.”
The room fell into silence. Even Beatrice, too young to understand, stopped crying. Angela’s face went blank, as if her soul had left her body.
Yvonne had made a choice, even without Grace forcing him to.
“Hah!”
Grace let out a pleased laugh. She seemed to like this unexpected turn of events. She let go of Beatrice’s hair and walked over to Yvonne.
“Fine. Go ahead, cut it.”
Handing him the scissors, Grace watched with satisfaction as Angela’s once-luxurious hair fell to the floor.
That entire day, Angela had been forced to kneel, staring at the strands of her severed hair. Grace did not let her look away, as if she wanted the sight burned into her memory—so she would never forget what Yvonne had taken from her.
That night, Yvonne came to her, holding the scissors once more. He said he would fix her unevenly cut hair.
Angela had wordlessly grabbed the scissors from his hands.
Then, storming down the dimly lit corridor, she searched for Beatrice.
In mere moments, Beatrice’s brilliant red locks scattered to the floor.
Yvonne had screamed, pulling Beatrice into his arms.
Watching him, Angela had simply tossed the scissors aside and walked out of their room.
That was how it started. A shield shattered after enduring countless attacks, and some of its broken pieces happened to be sharp. Yvonne called it a blade, but it was merely a fragment of Angela, already broken.
Angela had believed all this time that Yvonne understood her. That was why, even after Grace left and Beatrice was officially recognized as the second daughter of the Duke of Bilton, Yvonne had remained by her side. She had thought that was the reason. So Angela, in return, had stopped tormenting Beatrice as if it were some kind of compensation.
It was impossible to return to the past, as if nothing had happened. Because of Yvonne and Beatrice, Angela had become the target of resentment from everyone in the Bilton estate, even though she had never sought their hatred. She had been condemned by the person she loved, and now, she was even being humiliated in her dreams.
On the other hand, Yvonne would never be able to forget what Angela had done to Beatrice.
Still, since the two of them had remained together until now, Angela had unconsciously held onto a fragile hope for their relationship. Maybe, one day, they could gather the broken fragments and piece them together, pretending as if nothing had ever shattered.
But she had been wrong.
“If you want to see that maid again, try kneeling. Apologize sincerely.”
Yvonne crushed any hope of repairing the shattered pieces beneath his foot. As Angela felt herself scattering under his heel, she sank to her knees before him, her shoulders bearing an invisible weight.
There was nothing left between them. The moment she realized that, her actions became easy. Angela had long since learned what to do in front of the Duchess of Bilton.
“I was wrong.”
All she had to do was humiliate herself.
“It was all my fault.”
She had to fold her shoulders, once held high in defiance, and lower her head.
“You should say exactly what you’re asking forgiveness for.”
Even as he coldly controlled her.
“I dared to torment Beatrice. I hit her, I hurt her. I made her cry.”
All she had to do was let herself be controlled like a toy, easy to manipulate.
“I’ll never do it again. I was wrong.”
She had to shrink her body, which she had once puffed up in a show of strength.
“Please, forgive me.”
All she had to do was beg the way he wanted.
She had done all of this before. There was nothing difficult about it.
“Good.”
Yvonne lowered himself to her level, crouching in front of her. Then, as if she had done well, he gently stroked her hair.
“Good.”
Angela lowered her lashes to hide the venom brimming in her eyes.
“Now go to Beatrice and ask for her forgiveness.”
Even when Yvonne made such a humiliating demand, she endured it.
“If Beatrice says she forgives you, then I’ll release your maid.”
There had been far more unbearable moments in the past. Besides, Angela was no longer as young as she had been back then. That meant there was much more she could endure now.
“Go on, beg.”
This was just another one of those moments.
—
The garden was cold, the air so crisp that one could feel how close winter was. Beatrice was there, wandering through the garden with a somewhat melancholic expression.
Did Angela’s hurried, determined steps seem aggressive? Beatrice’s elderly maid gasped in alarm, stepping in front of Beatrice protectively, as if Angela were some kind of assailant.
Even so, Beatrice flinched at Angela’s approach, retreating a few steps. The shadow of fear on her face made it clear—she thought Angela had come to slap her again, just as she had the day before.
But then, defying all expectations, Angela dropped to her knees before Beatrice. Both Beatrice and her maid froze in shock.
Angela edged closer, moving on her knees, almost as if crawling. The sight was so unsettling that the maid clapped a hand over her own mouth.
Ignoring the maid’s horrified gaze, Angela looked up at Beatrice.
Tears were already welling in Beatrice’s young face.
Angela quickly bowed her head, speaking first to prevent her from bursting into tears.
“Beatrice, I was wrong.”
A suffocating silence fell, so absolute that even the wind seemed to hush itself. Angela continued speaking, as if confessing to the empty air.
“I’m sorry for tormenting you. For hitting you, for hurting you, for making you cry every day. It won’t happen again. I promise. You probably can’t believe me, but I swear it’s true. Please, just this once, forgive me. I beg you, Beatrice. Please.”
Angela bowed her head so deeply that her long hair scattered over the ground. She curled in on herself as much as possible, making herself appear utterly insignificant, ensuring that Beatrice saw her as no threat.
She had to look weak enough to satisfy Beatrice.
But Beatrice gave no response.
Angela had no idea what expression she was making. She wanted to check if there was any hesitation, any sign of an opening.
Still, she waited.
If she raised her head too soon, Beatrice would see right through her, realizing her apology was empty, and that would be disastrous.
Yvonne was undoubtedly watching from his window, observing the scene unfold in the garden below. If Angela made even the slightest wrong move, then Mary—
The image of Mary, lying alone on the cold prison floor, flashed through Angela’s mind.
She lowered her head even further, her forehead almost touching the ground.
“Please, Beatrice. Forgive me.”
That maid, that little girl—Mary always had a way of making Angela act in ways she didn’t recognize.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
