Four days, four days, four days…
Four days?
Angela had suffered from relentless insomnia for as long as she could remember—she had long since given up on deep sleep.
And yet, she had supposedly been lying unconscious for four whole days? She could hardly believe it.
To her, everything had seemed perfectly normal. She had fallen asleep at dawn as usual, had an awful nightmare, and then woken up in the morning—just like any other day.
But the more she tried to deny it, the more the bizarre circumstances loomed over her.
A dream that felt more real than reality.
Four days of unexplained slumber.
A strange, persistent pain in her heart.
And that black mark—like mold—spreading across her chest, only to vanish in an instant.
There was no way to explain any of it.
Unless… she accepted that the light—whether god or devil—that had appeared in her dream had been toying with her.
If she acknowledged that, then suddenly, everything made sense.
“This is insane.”
Angela muttered, her tone sharp and dismissive.
She was still tangled in these labyrinthine thoughts when—
“My lady, please try this.”
Yvonne had returned, carrying a tray of soup fit for an invalid.
She had left earlier, saying she would prepare something easy on the stomach since Angela hadn’t eaten in days.
Now, setting the tray on the bedside table, she pulled up a chair and sat beside Angela.
When she dipped the spoon into the soup, it became clear—she intended to feed Angela herself.
Angela stared at her, unblinking.
Sensing this scrutiny, Yvonne began to ramble.
“I thought something mild would be best since eating anything too strong on an empty stomach wouldn’t do you any good. Tomorrow morning, I’ll call for Doctor Haim. If he says you’re well, I’ll arrange for proper meals.”
She spoke in a tone as gentle as if she were tending to her own child—despite not being able to meet Angela’s gaze directly.
Angela, watching her, suddenly grew curious.
“Yvonne.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Were you worried?”
At the question, Yvonne froze, the spoon she had just lifted hovering in midair.
She wasn’t even trying to hide her flustered reaction.
“W-what?”
“You said I was unconscious for four days. Were you worried?”
“O-of course! Of course, I was! You have no idea how shocking and distressing it was. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’ve woken up, my lady.”
Yvonne managed to stammer out a response that she assumed would please Angela.
Then, as if to silence her before she could say anything else, she scraped the spoon against the bowl’s rim and brought it to Angela’s lips.
It was almost as if she were trying to shut her up.
“Hmph, is that so?”
Angela replied indifferently before accepting the spoonful of soup.
With nothing to chew, the warm liquid barely lingered in her mouth before sliding down her throat.
She continued to stare at the spoon approaching her again, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
To the light she had met in her dream.
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that it must have been some kind of transcendent being.
It had said that it heard prayers—prayers demanding punishment for a golden-haired girl.
Prayers offered every single day. So persistently that they became a nuisance.
And who had been praying?
Angela’s gaze darkened.
The woman before her, fussing over her like a mother feeding her child—could it be her?
Angela sharply narrowed her eyes.
Yvonne was staring at Angela’s lips, her expression unreadable.
“What if I told you to bring Beatrice here right now?”
Yvonne’s face instantly turned ashen.
She looked utterly disbelieving, despite having clearly seen Angela’s lips form the words.
Beatrice.
Who was she?
She was the only other person in the Bilton estate—aside from the master, Dominic, and his daughter, Angela—who bore the Bilton name.
She was also Yvonne’s daughter.
Which meant—
Beatrice was the illegitimate child of Duke Dominic Bilton and Yvonne, Angela’s own nanny.
It had happened when Angela was five years old.
Of course, in the mighty Paleon Empire, it was not uncommon for nobles to keep mistresses.
And Yvonne, who had entered the Bilton estate as a widow after losing her husband and child to war, was hardly an inappropriate choice for a lover.
But laws and logic had no bearing on human emotions.
Grace, the Duke’s wife and Angela’s mother, had been in fragile health ever since giving birth. She spent more time in bed than on her feet.
And then, her husband had an affair with a mere servant.
Grace had been furious.
Even on her deathbed, she had not stopped cursing them.
Her lips, chapped and wasted by illness, never ceased their bitter muttering.
“You made me miserable, so how dare you find happiness? You’ll be wretched for the rest of your life. The moment you think you’ve found joy, new misfortune will begin. Remember this—you will be unhappy.”
With such a history, how could Angela and Beatrice possibly get along?
Ever since Beatrice had learned to toddle, Angela had made her life a living hell.
Pinching, scratching, leaving marks—those were kind punishments.
Angela, even as a child, had possessed a cruel intelligence.
She knew exactly how and when a person’s spirit would break.
For instance—
While Angela sat comfortably, enjoying her books with Yvonne’s attentive care, she would force Beatrice to kneel in a corner of the room.
Beatrice, despite having done nothing wrong, would sob uncontrollably, begging for forgiveness.
But it was pointless.
Angela would simply gaze at her with doll-like beauty and an empty, detached expression.
“Hush, Beatrice.”
“If a single tear of yours stains my precious carpet, I’ll roll you up in it like trash and throw you out of the mansion.”
When Beatrice went pale with fear, Angela would chuckle softly and return her eyes to the book in her hands.
Her emerald-green gaze would sweep across the pages with ease—while Beatrice’s amber eyes desperately fought to hold back tears.
It was a pitiful sight.
Even an outsider would have been pained to witness it.
How much worse must it have been for a mother?
And so, on the rare occasion that Yvonne could not bear to watch any longer and tried to intervene
“My lady… My lady… Please, punish me instead. It was my fault. I’ll take the punishment, my lady. Please… please punish me instead…”
“Yvonne?”
“Yes… Yes, my lady.”
“Bring me the cane.”
Beatrice’s situation only worsened.
Angela would never tolerate Yvonne shielding Beatrice under the guise of motherly love.
But that was six years ago.
When Beatrice turned twelve and was officially recognized as the Duke of Bilton’s daughter, Angela could no longer torment her as she pleased.
Instead, she began treating her as if she did not exist.
Even when they crossed paths at the dining hall, in the corridors, in the gardens—no matter where they encountered each other within the estate—Angela never spared Beatrice a glance.
She completely ignored her very existence.
And yet, for Beatrice, being disregarded and abandoned was undoubtedly preferable.
Even now, the mere mention of Angela’s name would make Beatrice tremble, her eyes welling up with fear.
And now, all of a sudden, Angela was saying she would summon Beatrice again?
Only a fool would fail to grasp what that meant—Angela intended to treat Beatrice as she had in the past.
“M-my lady…”
“Answer me, Yvonne. If I were to call for Beatrice this very moment, would you still think it was a blessing that I woke up safely? Hmm?”
“I… I, my lady… T-that is…”
Yvonne struggled to speak.
No doubt, in her mind, she was vividly imagining Beatrice’s frail body wasting away under Angela’s relentless torment.
A woman who would do anything to protect her child—could she truly be worried about someone who had treated her daughter so cruelly?
Her concern was an obvious farce.
Angela no longer merely suspected that Yvonne had prayed for divine intervention—it had solidified into certainty.
“I wish Yvonne were my mother.”
Angela scoffed bitterly at the childhood wish she had once whispered in secret, afraid someone might overhear.
Yvonne never answered her.
See?
With a flick of her fingers, Angela gestured for Yvonne to clear away the barely touched soup.
Yvonne, pale and biting her lip, quickly gathered the dishes and stood up as if she had been waiting for an excuse to flee.
For someone who had fussed so much about Angela needing to eat, her concern had vanished the moment her own daughter was mentioned.
Angela called after her retreating figure.
“If you ever dare to utter nonsense about being worried or relieved again, I’ll make sure you can’t even recognize that wretched girl’s face after I’m through with it.”
Yvonne’s hands shook violently.
The clattering of the soup bowl against the tray betrayed the uncontrollable tremor.
Angela added coldly,
“Yvonne.”
“…Yes, my lady.”
“Shut up and get out.”
She lay back in bed, closing her eyes as if she intended to sleep.
From the edge of her hearing came the faint sound of stifled sobs.
Was it fear? Or anger?
But if it was an accidental slip, Yvonne quickly suppressed it.
Without another word, she left Angela’s chambers.
Not even the customary Good night, my lady was spoken.
“Wretched woman.”
Angela muttered viciously, biting her lip as she curled up on her side.
Her heart throbbed painfully, as if the thorny vines from her dream were growing, pressing inward, threatening to pierce her from within.
It was the instinctive posture of a wounded beast trying to hold onto whatever warmth it had left.
That night—
Angela could not sleep.
It felt as though the entity tormenting her heart had come to reclaim the four days of slumber she had stolen.
As a result, she spent the entire night awake.
And then, as the sun rose and swept away the remnants of dawn, news arrived at her door.
Yvonne was to become the Duchess of Bilton.
The Paleon Empire was lenient when it came to noblemen and noblewomen taking lovers.
However, when it came to legitimizing children born of those affairs, the process was far stricter.
For a child born out of wedlock to be acknowledged as part of the family, the consent of the spouse and all legitimate children was required.
This was why Duke Dominic Bilton had been unable to recognize Beatrice as his daughter for so long.
His wife, Grace, had refused to acknowledge Beatrice’s existence, even on her deathbed.
It was only after Grace passed away six years ago that Beatrice was finally accepted into the Bilton family.
The moment the funeral was over, Dominic had approached Angela with the documents for Beatrice’s official recognition as his child.
It took Angela two full days before she returned the signed papers.
Most had expected her to rip them apart in fury.
“A half-blood bastard as my sister? You might as well tell me to die. Over my dead body.”
The decision had shocked many.
If bets had been placed, no one would have won.
The social circles buzzed with speculation.
Angela Bilton was either insane or had used Beatrice’s recognition to gain something massive in return.
And as gossip spread, the conclusion many arrived at was this—Yvonne was bound to become the next Duchess of Bilton.
People whispered that it was time to start currying favor with Yvonne before she became too untouchable.
Some lower nobles and merchants even sent her gifts in advance.
But Yvonne, at the center of these rumors, remained silent.
And then—she chose to stay as Angela’s nanny.
The world was baffled.
People whispered, confused.
Yet Angela never questioned her, and Yvonne never gave an explanation.
Even after Beatrice became an official daughter of the ducal house, Angela and Yvonne continued their roles as lady and nanny for six more years.
A long time, by any measure.
And now, after all these years—she had finally decided to become Duchess?
“Ha… Haha! Hahahaha!”
Angela burst into laughter, rolling on her bed in manic amusement before gripping the sheets in frustration.
This was how Yvonne chose to respond—by fortifying her position.
No doubt, she had realized she needed power to protect her daughter.
Yvonne was, after all, a terrifyingly devoted mother.
Angela howled with laughter, then tore at the blankets in rage.
“I wish Yvonne were my mother.”
She had never imagined her childhood wish would manifest in this form.
The past crashed over her like a tidal wave.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
