003
I could understand their hesitation—at least on a rational level.
Yes, I’d given an order. But from their perspective, opening the Marchioness’s door without permission wasn’t a simple matter. Still, understanding was not the same as forgiveness.
Should I just punish them all for the inconvenience?
The thought flickered and quickly died. More than anything, I just wanted to get inside. And frankly, doling out punishment was a hassle. It took time, energy—and I wasn’t in the mood.
“Move.”
I shoved past the maids and opened the door myself.
They gasped, clearly not expecting me to act. Not that it would’ve mattered if they had. None of them would have dared to stop me.
And truthfully, even I didn’t understand why I was doing this. I had no particular affection for the Marchioness, no urgent business with my nursemaid. Beonne could count on one hand the number of times she’d voluntarily entered her mother’s chambers.
And yet, here I was.
Maybe it was just the age. Beonne was still young enough to crave scraps of parental affection—even when she pretended otherwise. Maybe my sudden, impulsive act was proof that some small, stubborn part of me hadn’t given up hope.
SLAM!
The heavy door flew open with a loud crack. Three pairs of eyes turned toward me.
Kicking the door had been effective—dramatic, even. Everyone noticed me. Though, unfortunately, the effect didn’t last.
“I’ve said what I came to say. I’ll take my leave.”
“No—don’t!”
The Marquess didn’t even spare me a second glance. After coolly delivering his final words to the Marchioness, he turned and walked out.
The Marchioness let out a broken wail and collapsed, but the nursemaid caught her before she hit the floor.
I wasn’t hurt by it—not anymore. But being dismissed, ignored like that, left a bitter taste. There are few things more humiliating than being treated like air to your face.
“Aaaahh—!”
The Marchioness screamed, clutching handfuls of her own hair. Her once-elegant curls whipped through the air as she tugged at them violently. Her gaunt face, hollowed by grief, looked almost pitiful—until you saw her eyes.
Bloodshot, venomous, deranged.
There’s an old saying: a daughter follows in her mother’s footsteps.
Looking at her now, I understood.
The woman clawing at her scalp, seething with resentment and grief—that was the same woman Beonne had become at the end. A mirror reflection of her mother, twisted and broken by years of disappointment and misplaced obsession.
The Marchioness had once been the only daughter of the renowned Countess of Fisson—a family famed for their wealth and power in trade. She’d married the Marquess of Elient at eighteen, after years of relentless pursuit.
Even now, the story was legend in high society. How she’d fallen in love with him at first sight. How she’d thrown herself at him day after day.
She’d stalked his every move, bribed those close to him to learn his habits. He had been twenty-four at the time—a young, dashing noble who’d inherited his title early after his father’s untimely death. A rising star in the aristocracy. Women flocked to him.
But she—she used everything she had to drive them away. Her money, her status. She even resorted to threats and public humiliation. There was nothing she wouldn’t do. He was everything to her.
So when they finally married, she’d believed she’d won. That she was the happiest bride in the world.
Rumors flew that the Countess of Fisson had emptied her coffers for the dowry, nearly bankrupting the family in the process. But she didn’t care. She thought even that astronomical sum wasn’t enough to reflect her worth.
Let people whisper that she’d bought her husband. It didn’t matter. He was hers now. And in her mind, her future was a shimmering path of roses and gold.
But reality—
Reality was cold.
The Marquess was colder.
He never smiled, never touched her, never even feigned affection. Why he’d agreed to marry her remained a mystery. Maybe the rumors were true—maybe it was the money. Maybe something else. Only he knew for sure.
What was clear was this: he had never loved her.
He gave her the courtesy due to a Marchioness, and nothing more.
Year after year, she withered in that cold distance. As he aged, his mature allure only deepened—while her yearning twisted into desperation.
She wanted him. Still. Madly. Entirely.
So madly that even her own child—his child—barely registered.
If he had shown the faintest affection toward their daughter, perhaps things might have been different. But I wasn’t a son. I could never be his heir.
So to him, I meant nothing.
To her, he meant everything.
And together, they left me with less than nothing.
“This is all your fault!”
The scream snapped me out of my thoughts.
She was staring at me now, eyes blazing with hatred.
“If only you’d been born a boy!”
I couldn’t help it—laughter slipped out. Dry. Bitter.
As if that would’ve changed anything.
She was deluding herself. The Marquess didn’t neglect us because I was a daughter. He simply didn’t care. About either of us.
But there was no point explaining that. Logic doesn’t reach the ears of the mad.
“Aaah! You—! It’s all because of you! Die! Just die already!”
She lunged. Her hand slashed through the air, fingernails grazing my cheek.
“My lady, please! Calm yourself—!”
The nursemaid grabbed her arm, struggling to restrain her. But they say madwomen are strong, and the Marchioness proved the saying right.
With a strength that defied her frail form, she threw off the nursemaid and came at me again.
Her eyes—blood-red, wide, wild—promised murder.
Even I couldn’t stay indifferent in the face of that.
Survival instincts kicked in. Before I could think, my body was already moving. I dodged backward and grabbed the door handle.
BANG!
Something heavy slammed into the door. I felt the vibration shudder through my spine.
I was grateful, for once, for how solidly built these manor doors were.
“…My lady?”
The maids stationed outside stared in alarm—first at me, then at the door I was leaning against, as though unsure which was more unbelievable. I met their eyes with a face as composed as polished stone. I’d had plenty of practice. If there was one thing Beonne—no, I—had perfected, it was shameless poise. Among the nobles of the empire, she’d once been considered unmatched in gall.
A maid’s gaze held no power over me.
“Aaaaaaaaagh—!”
A shrill scream pierced through the thick door behind me. I raised a hand and beckoned to the knight standing nearby. He approached, stiff and hesitant. I pointed to the door handle.
“Hold it.”
He looked at me as if I’d spoken nonsense, but obeyed all the same, fingers wrapping hesitantly around the knob just as it rattled violently beneath his grasp. Reacting instinctively, he pulled the door shut again with a grimace. The screaming intensified.
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He cast me a pleading glance.
I ignored it and turned instead to the nearest maid, gesturing with a flick of my fingers. She flinched, then crept toward me like a child fearing punishment.
“Block it.”
“…Pardon?”
My brows furrowed. Irritation was beginning to stir. I pointed to the knight’s sword, sheathed at his hip.
“Hook that onto the handle. Wedge it.”
“Excuse me?”
I raised an eyebrow, and that was all it took. She startled into action, fumbling to unfasten the sword and wedge it across the door’s handles, securing them tight.
The knight stared, first at the blade bracing the door, then at me, eyes full of disbelief.
SCREEEEECH—
“Milady, please!”
Nails, perhaps—scraping wood. The sound was enough to make the skin crawl. Behind it came the familiar voice of the nursemaid, her pleas strained and desperate.
I turned to the stunned assembly and offered them a bright, sugar-sweet smile.
“Well then. Thank you for your service.”
No one moved. They stood frozen, mouths opening and closing like fish on dry land.
With a small wave, I turned my back on them without regret. Only two maids, snapping back to their senses, hurried after me.
Thinking back, the Marchioness had certainly seemed more unhinged than usual today. It likely had something to do with the Marquess, whom I’d just seen in her chambers—something I had never witnessed in my entire life.
She visited his chambers often, forcing her way in to argue, to plead, to weep. But the Marquess had never once set foot in hers. He’d even stationed knights outside his study to keep her from barging in.
That the two of them had produced a child together at all was a miracle.
Some, emboldened by their own idiocy, whispered that I wasn’t his child.
Those who dared say it aloud—who looked at me with doubt—were punished, severely. Maiming was the bare minimum. Death was sometimes necessary. Even so, the rumors never truly died.
To be fair, they weren’t entirely baseless. I didn’t resemble the Marquess in the slightest. My features were a mirror of the Marchioness—there was no trace of him in my face.
What kept the gossip alive, though, was my hair.
The Marquess had deep blue hair. The Marchioness, a striking red. Yet my hair was neither—an unusual shade of golden brown. There was no one in either bloodline with hair like mine.
The Marquess never addressed the rumors. He didn’t confirm them—but he didn’t deny them, either. That silence only fed the fire.
People who didn’t like me would allude to the gossip with smug little smiles, taking any chance to insult me. Some even had the gall to say it to my face.
Naturally, I didn’t let that slide. I humiliated them. Fought them. Publicly, physically. I knew it ruined my reputation—but my pride wouldn’t allow anything less.
But was I really his daughter?
It was hard to believe that the Marchioness—so obsessed with the Marquess—would cheat. But it was just as hard to believe that a man so cold could’ve fathered someone so completely unlike him.
Only the two of them knew the truth.
If I really wanted an answer, I’d be better off asking the Marquess. Not the madwoman behind the sealed door. That is, if he’d be willing to answer at all.
I’d been afraid to know. Afraid of what I might learn. That’s why I’d clung so fiercely to the rumors, lashing out at anyone who echoed them.
Beonne Rossa Elient.
That name was everything. The title of “legitimate daughter of the Elient family” was my pride, the foundation I refused to let crumble.
“Should I just go ask him?”
“…My lady?”
The maids behind me blinked, bewildered by my muttered words. I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned my steps toward the corridor where the Marquess’s study lay.
The hallway, unlike the hearts of its owners, was tastefully adorned—old-world charm with just the right touch of opulence. I’d never thought to appreciate the decor before. Someone, clearly, had been doing their job well.
“M-my lady, that’s—!”
They realized too late where I was going. They scurried after me, flustered, powerless to stop me. There was only one place at the end of this hall. They knew it. So did I.
But I wasn’t afraid of the truth anymore.
If anything, I was curious.
Strike while the iron’s hot, they say. And I was burning with the urge to ask.
Whether I was his daughter or not—it didn’t change the course of my life. I’d lived well enough despite the rumors. Right up until the bitter end.
Even if that end wasn’t exactly a happy one.
The Marquess, of course, would continue as he always had—saying nothing. Denying nothing. Confirming nothing.
“I’m here to see the Marquess.”
Two knights stood before the heavy double doors. The surprise on their faces was plain.
They’d never seen me here before. Never seen me come near.
“He is inside, but…”
Their eyes darted toward each other, uncertain.
What was with everyone today? Maids, knights—they were all dragging their feet.
But I had no reason to wait. No obligation to be patient. Without hesitation, I pushed the door open.
They didn’t stop me. They weren’t there to guard against me, after all. Their orders were to keep the Marchioness out. I’d never come here before. There’d never been a need to restrict my access.
The door, gently handled for once, opened without a sound.
As expected, the Marquess sat at his massive desk, buried in paperwork. Beside him stood the steward, upright and composed, like a statue carved to attend his lord.
“My lady, you’re here,” the steward said, his eyes briefly flickering with surprise before quickly returning to calm. He bowed with perfect decorum.
Unlike the steward—who at least retained a trace of warmth—the Marquess didn’t even glance up.
The steward’s greeting had clearly informed him of my arrival, yet he didn’t so much as twitch. His eyes remained fixed on the document in front of him.
