Chapter 53
Could a place be so meticulously maintained just by daily sweeping and dusting?
Angela wondered if some kind of magic lingered in Grace’s room.
Otherwise, it seemed impossible for a space abandoned by its owner for so long to remain free of even a speck of dust.
An eerie stillness hung over the entire room. It felt as though Grace’s presence still lingered here.
Angela’s gaze swept over the remaining furniture, conjuring memories of Grace.
Over there, on that bed, Grace had beckoned to her. Angela would approach, only to be met with a sudden slap across the face.
What was the reason? Simply because she’d come too slowly? Or too quickly? Or with a tearful expression? Why, why, why. Any excuse would do.
But the most frequent reason was this: why, of all places, had Angela been born from her womb? Angela agreed.
Her mother’s womb was the last place she would have chosen.
But was that something Angela could have controlled?
She had simply taken root in Grace’s womb as fate—or some god—had decreed, her only crime being born from it.
Yet Grace tormented her relentlessly, as if her very existence was a sin.
At that table, Grace would always force Yvonne to make impossible choices.
Despite her frail frame, Grace seemed to overflow with savage strength in those moments of cruelty.
She reveled in watching Angela, who was never chosen, her laughter so wide it seemed her mouth would tear.
Angela’s sorrow was her sustenance, devoured with glee.
Angela felt her breath quicken as she scanned Grace’s bedroom.
Her eyes landed on the wardrobe. That wardrobe had been the source of her deepest torment.
As if compelled, Angela walked toward it and opened its door.
For the first time, she stepped inside of her own volition. She closed the door behind her, shutting herself in.
The suffocating silence, the throat-constricting darkness—it was all still there, unchanged.
Angela curled into herself, holding her breath.
Grace had loved hearing Angela beg for her life.
Knowing this, Angela wanted to clamp her mouth shut and refuse to plead, but she couldn’t bear it.
In that wardrobe, the worst possibilities clawed at her mind.
It was why she’d told Yvonne there was a monster inside. Being locked in here wasn’t just confinement—it unleashed a torrent of relentless imaginings.
Limbs being torn apart. Starving until death claimed her.
Trapped forever, reduced to a skeleton. Lashed by Yvonne’s whip until her legs broke. Every horrific scenario flooded her mind.
Her head burned. It felt like lava coursing through the crevices of her brain.
Angela wanted to rip her scalding mind out, douse it with cold water, plunge it into ice to cool it down.
But such a thing was impossible.
Yvonne, ignorant of the truth, called her a liar.
It wasn’t like that, but Angela had no way to explain. No one else had ever been locked in this wardrobe.
Yvonne accused her of wanting to trap Beatrice in here out of jealousy, branding her a selfish child. Angela, who had always been Beatrice’s substitute, while Yvonne was the cruel one…
“…!”
See, even after forgiving Yvonne and Beatrice, her mind conjured these thoughts again. It could only imagine the worst.
Angela opened the wardrobe door, which had remained steadfast even after Grace’s death. But why… why wouldn’t it open?
Bang, bang!
She pounded on the door with her fists. It didn’t budge.
“Hnngh, ha!”
Her breath flipped in an instant. Grace must have locked it from the outside. She’d trapped Angela again.
“Open it… Open this door… now!”
Screaming, Angela burst out of the wardrobe, spilling into the center of Grace’s room like water breaching a collapsed dam. She gasped for air, clutching her chest and doubling over as she panted. The air clawed its way into her lungs.
Then, coming to her senses, Angela began to look around Grace’s room. No one was there, and nothing blocked the wardrobe.
With trembling hands, she clutched her hair. She felt like she was losing her mind.
It was because this wretched place still existed. A space that should have vanished long ago was preserved in this pristine, perverse way.
The moment the thought struck her, Angela began tearing Grace’s bedroom apart. She yanked the blankets off the bed, flinging them far away, and ripped the pillows to shreds.
Pop! The pillows burst, spilling their cotton and feathers. White feathers, so unlike Grace, floated in the air before brushing Angela’s shoulder and falling to the floor.
But Angela didn’t stop. She knocked over every candlestick on the shelf, flipped the table, kicked the chairs, and pulled out every drawer, hurling them aside.
Then she froze. One of the overturned drawers had spat out something.
With uneven steps, Angela approached and picked it up. It was a piece of paper, folded into quarters.
What was this?
All of Grace’s belongings were supposed to have been burned. But this room had always been Grace’s domain, so this must be something she left behind.
Still struggling to steady her ragged breathing, Angela carefully unfolded the paper.
“Oh…”
It was unmistakably Grace’s handwriting. Her rigid, unmistakable script awaited Angela.
She began reading the short lines. Soon, tragedy filled her eyes.
What was this…?
What was this?
If this was punishment for desecrating the room of the dead, it was too cruel.
With a horribly contorted expression, Angela stumbled backward, unsure what she was retreating from. Then she fled Grace’s room entirely. She was escaping.
It felt as though Grace’s specter clung to her back, still alive, still breathing, lingering by her side.
Angela, my darling girl.
She could feel Grace’s cold breath at her ear.
Angela barely made it back to her own room. She vaguely recalled refusing a maid’s offer to help her along the way, but the memory was hazy.
The only thing that stood out clearly was the letter from Grace, clutched tightly in her fist. Its contents were unthinkable.
[To my beloved Dominic]
The letter began like that. Angela thought that single line was enough to enrage Dominic.
Grace was truly a remarkable woman. She knew exactly how to ruin someone’s mood. And Angela had learned that from her.
[How is my darling daughter doing?]
The next line shattered Angela. Darling daughter?
Not once in her life had Angela felt loved by Grace.
The woman had boldly written a lie. The neatly penned words, devoid of expression, hid the traces of deceit, and that injustice stung.
[Have you tormented her enough?]
The third line. From there, the letter veered into a strange direction.
Grace kept addressing Dominic. Have you tormented her enough? Have you hurt her enough? Have you made her cry enough? Have you finally driven her to want to die?
The relentless questions came one after another, each one choking her breath. Then Grace added:
[I believe you’ve done well.]
An abrupt declaration of faith. As if there could be such a thing between Dominic and Grace.
Angela could almost see Grace’s wicked smile within the letter. The certainty that Dominic had done his utmost to torment her made Angela hesitate to read further. But she couldn’t stop.
[You are a cruel person.]
The accusation was absurd. Of course, Angela herself had just criticized Dominic’s nature during her confrontation with Kalian, thinking she might have inherited that same cruelty. But even so, Grace had no right to call anyone else cruel.
Grace was the cruelest person in the world. Compared to her, anyone else’s cruelty paled into insignificance.
And yet, she was the one who had left behind a letter like this.
In it… it was written that Angela was truly Dominic’s daughter.
[If our Angela isn’t your child, whose could she be? Foolish man. Pathetic man… Pay the price for turning your back on me by living a lifetime of misery.]
Grace mocked Dominic. She scorned him as a fool who couldn’t even recognize his own child.
And whose fault was that? It was because of the lies she’d left behind, like a will.
Unknowing, Dominic had been deceived by Grace’s lies and was poisoning his own daughter.
He watched with twisted delight each day as Angela consumed the poison mixed into her meals, urging her to die, to vanish from his sight.
Grace, who had orchestrated such a vile act, had the audacity to call Dominic a fool.
No, she was the devil! If Grace were still alive, Angela wanted to scream in her face, to curse her for her wickedness.
Angela crumpled the letter in her hand and flung it into the fireplace.
There was no hesitation. This was something that shouldn’t exist in the world.
It wasn’t enough for Grace to tear Angela apart; in the end, she would destroy Dominic too… her own father.
The fire in the hearth roared as it devoured the letter, reducing their secrets to black ash in an instant.
It was done. This was the end. Dominic would never learn that Angela was his true daughter.
As long as the one mouth that knew the secret was silenced.
Angela immediately rummaged through the side table.
Two green bottles emerged. Grasping the one filled with poison, she returned to the sofa. The green liquid sloshed inside.
“I never wanted to hold this again… I should’ve thrown it away back then.”
Angela wondered if this was always meant to be her fate.
In this mansion, haunted by Grace’s unyielding specter, it seemed the only way Angela could escape was through death.
No, worse—if she were unlucky enough to be buried in the family crypt, she’d never escape. She might become a ghost like Grace, forever bound to this wretched place.
But if it meant meeting Grace again, Angela was willing. If she could confront her, she’d slap her face first.
She’d grab her by the collar, demanding to know how she could do such things, tormenting her until Grace begged for forgiveness through tears.
If becoming a ghost trapped in the Bilton estate was what it took, then fine—she could accept that.
Biting her lip hard, Angela twisted off the poison’s cap and tossed it aside.
No scent rose from the gaping maw of death.
The sweet tang of syrup was absent here. That absence confirmed it was true poison.
A single drop each day for a month could kill without leaving a trace.
But if she downed it all at once, it would likely bring the ending she’d imagined.
That was why Angela hesitated, time and again. Why was she doing this?
Yet she had no choice but to act, because she no longer held any hope of happiness.
Angela’s life had been a tragedy from the moment of her birth. She’d never truly known happiness.
Whenever a fleeting moment of joy came, misfortune followed like an inevitable toll.
And it wasn’t just her who suffered—those around her were swept up and wounded too.
Look at it now. Everything was an utter mess. This Bilton estate was a stage that forced Angela to walk a path toward tragedy.
There was no such thing as a happy ending in her story.
After wavering, Angela finally brought the bottle’s rim to her lips. She poured the green liquid into her mouth.
