Chapter 13
“Apparently, the late Duke pretended to be a good man while secretly abusing Lady Aclea (Duchess).”
“How could he do that to someone who saved his life? Poor Lady Aclea…”
“Well, at least the truth is coming out now. It must have taken a lot of courage for Lady Aclea to speak up.”
Tilda stood frozen like a ghost. The idea that her father had secretly abused Aclea was absurd.
“They say Count Nockilla helped Lady Aclea back then.”
“What? Count Nockilla is Lady Tilda’s husband!”
“Originally, Lady Aclea and Count Nockilla were in love, but Aclea was worried about the Vallinea family, so they pushed the two together…”
“How tragic… It’s like a story straight out of a novel.”
Tilda finally realized why Aclea was tarnishing her father’s name after his death. It was all part of a carefully crafted story, meant to justify her remarriage to Windson. By painting herself as a victim, she hoped to avoid being condemned for marrying again so soon.
“Then does that mean Lady Celestia, the Duke’s former wife, was also abused in secret?”
“No, I heard the two of them got along quite well.”
“What? How could that be?”
“They were probably cut from the same cloth. Lady Celestia must have been just like the Duke, benefiting from the Vallinea family’s influence.”
Tilda clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles turned white, trembling with rage. The reputation of her deceased father, who could no longer defend himself, was being dragged through the mud by Aclea and Nockilla’s despicable love affair. It was an act as offensive as defiling his grave.
‘That woman will gnaw at your memory like a worm devouring a corpse,’ Kallus had said ominously. Now Tilda fully understood what he meant.
Aclea wouldn’t stop at harming her family. She would ensure that the ghosts of the dead remained in eternal torment. This wasn’t just about seizing her place or taking her family’s possessions; Aclea sought to obliterate everything her family had worked for, to turn the legacy they’d built into nothing more than a fragile sandcastle swept away in an instant.
Snap.
Something inside Tilda finally broke. She felt the fragile string that had barely held her together snap, and with it, her tightly clenched fist relaxed. Her face grew cold and expressionless, much like her pale, bloodless hand.
Watching the maids gossip below, Tilda turned and walked back toward the carriage. This time, she didn’t bother to hide or move quietly. Her footsteps echoed loudly on the bridge over the stream, drawing the attention of the maids.
“Someone was up there! Do you think they heard us?” one of them asked anxiously.
“…I doubt it,” the other replied.
The maids resumed their work, pretending nothing had happened.
“And really, who cares if they did? It’s about to be public knowledge soon enough.”
—
When she returned to the carriage, the coachman asked, “Shall I take you back to Lord Kallus’ estate?”
“No, take me to the temple on the outskirts,” Tilda replied.
The coachman hesitated, surprised by the request. The sun was setting, and by the time they arrived, the temple might be closed. However, one look at Tilda’s icy expression silenced any further questions, and he urged the horses forward.
The temple was far from the city, but when they arrived, its doors were still open. The coachman hesitated unsure of whether it was wise to leave a noblewoman alone in such an isolated place. Yet Tilda ordered him to wait by the carriage with calm and firm voice. Reluctantly, he obeyed.
Inside, the small temple was sparse, with a simple altar, a statue of the goddess Vallinea, and rough wooden benches. It was so bare it almost felt empty, save for the soft sound of crickets chirping outside.
She picked a wildflower on her way in and carried it with her to the front of the temple, where she sat alone. In the quiet sanctuary, she clasped her hands and closed her eyes, her long lashes casting shadows over her pale cheeks. She breathed deeply and prayed.
‘To the goddess Vallinea,’ she began in her mind. ‘I used to come to you to confess my sins and correct my ways, but not today. Today, I come to break your laws, to bring judgment with my own hands.’
‘I offer you this prayer as I prepare to send divorce papers,’ she continued. ‘To punish the man who broke his vows and conspired with the stepmother who ruined my life.’
‘I will expose those who kill with their words and tongues of deceit,’ she vowed. ‘And I will drag the guilty into the flames of hell for destroying an innocent life.’
‘I only ask that you have mercy on your devoted follower as I fall from grace, descending into sin.’
With that, Tilda exhaled deeply, raised her head, and unpinned the brooch from her cloak. Without hesitation, she pressed the sharp pin against the back of her hand, drawing a thin, long cut. Blood welled up from the wound and dripped down her fingers, staining the white flower she held. The delicate petals soaked up the blood, creating a striking contrast between the crimson drops and the pure white bloom.
Tilda placed the bloodstained flower on the altar as an offering.
“May the sacred flame of the goddess be with you,” she whispered.
—
“Who filed the death report?! How dare they!”
Windson roared, sweeping everything off his desk. The expensive statue on the desk shattered with a loud crash.
As important documents were soaked in spilled ink, he didn’t even glance at the mess. His assistant, flustered and panicked, tried to explain.
“Th-the authorities couldn’t find Lady Tilda’s body anywhere, and… Duchess Belmont agreed to it…”
“Aclea? Who does she think she is, agreeing to Tilda’s death like that?!”
“She had no family left, did she? Her maternal grandfather, the Pope, is away on another continent. The only person with any connection to her now is Duchess Belmont,” his aide said hesitantly.
“Don’t be ridiculous! Her seal isn’t on the divorce papers yet, so I’m still her husband *legally*!” Windson bellowed.
The aide paled at his furious outburst. Not long ago, he had ordered the divorce papers to be prepared, and now that Tilda was presumed dead, he was making such a scene.
‘Why didn’t he treat her better in the first place?’ the aide thought bitterly.
Even though the divorce had not been finalized, rumors had reached the authorities that Windson and Tilda were preparing for one. This led them to suspect that he might have been involved in her disappearance, which made him a prime suspect. That’s why the investigation into Tilda Vallinea’s whereabouts was handled through Aclea, her stepmother, rather than her husband. With Tilda’s maternal grandfather away, Aclea was the closest remaining relative.
Suppressing his frustration, the aide tried to calm him down.
“I understand, my lord. Perhaps it would be best to speak with Duchess Belmont, who will be arriving soon.”
“When is Aclea arriving?” Windson growled.
“She should be here any minute…”
Suddenly, the door burst open without a knock.
“Windson,” Aclea called as she entered.
She usually wore a bright smile, but today her expression was unreadable as she glanced indifferently around the wrecked office. The aide looked at her as though she were a savior, and she gave him a subtle nod, signaling him to leave. He bowed respectfully and quickly slipped out of the room.
“Aclea! How dare you approve of Tilda’s death without my permission!” He spat.
“I’ve ordered every guard and inspector in the capital to search every corner. But we couldn’t find a trace, not even a clue. There’s nothing more we can do,” she replied coldly.
“But you didn’t even find her body!”
Windson retorted as he angrily pulled out a cigar and lit it, puffing thick smoke that slowly wafted toward her.
Hidden in the haze of smoke, she let out a small, concealed sigh, but quickly composed herself. She softened her expression into one of tenderness, her voice gentle as she walked toward him.
“Windson, don’t just stand there. Come, let’s sit and talk.”
With a forced smile, she looped her arm through his and led him to the brown sofa, practically pushing him down to sit. She knew full well that despite his stubbornness, he was weak to a woman’s charms, especially when they were delivered with a sweet, docile demeanor. That was why she always used respectful language toward him.
Yet, his expression remained rigid as he exhaled another puff of smoke.
Lowering her voice, Aclea asked, “Do you really believe Tilda is still alive?”
“She can’t be dead,” Windson muttered.
“Perhaps she was deeply shocked by the news of the divorce…”
“If it weren’t for you, none of this would’ve happened!” He snapped, his voice laced with bitterness.
Ever since Tilda had disappeared, he had harbored a silent hatred toward Aclea. It was her suggestion to push for the divorce in the first place, and it was also her idea to propose a remarriage.
At first, Windson had scoffed at the notion. The idea of marrying his ex-wife’s stepmother seemed absurd, as if Tilda’s parents would rise from the grave to punish him. But Aclea had struck a nerve with her provocative words.
“How long will you keep chasing after her shadow?” she had teased him.
Aclea had been right. Windson had always felt inferior to Tilda, even after she became his wife. She had always seemed so elegant and untouchable, as if she belonged to a world far above his. He had believed, as Aclea had suggested, that if he backed Tilda into a corner, she would eventually come crawling to him, desperate and dependent.
‘I was such a fool.’
The day Tilda had filed for divorce was the day she had disappeared. Windson was plagued with the thought that he might have driven her to her death.
His leg jittered nervously as he fidgeted, unable to calm his racing mind. That’s when she gently slid closer, her soft body pressing against his side.
“Windson, no one could have predicted this outcome,” she murmured soothingly as she cradled his head against her chest, her fingers deftly plucking the cigar from his hand and extinguishing it in the ashtray.
