Chapter 47
“Why… how could you…”
“If I hadn’t done that, how could I have claimed you? It was all because I loved you. Don’t you understand my heart?”
It was a trivial reason.
If Grace’s belly hadn’t been swollen, if the child inside her hadn’t been his seed, Dominic would have thrown her out of the mansion without hesitation.
“A child needs a mother.”
Grace, holding their child hostage, whispered words of love to Dominic. When he told her he’d cast her out after the child was born, she pleaded with pitiful eyes, begging him not to take the mother away from the child.
Yet their daughter, Angela, born of that union, was so unlike Dominic in every way that he couldn’t help but suspect Grace had worked some kind of sorcery. From head to toe, she was entirely Grace. Though she was his child, he couldn’t bear to look at her.
Dominic fled from the house that held two Graces. The blood-soaked battlefield was preferable. Out there, nothing could torment him. The source of his anguish was his wife and his child.
Reaching out to the child’s nursemaid was an act of rebellion against Grace. If her declarations of love were genuine, he thought, this would be the first time he could truly wound her.
And Dominic’s plan succeeded. Grace seemed to loathe Beatrice, the daughter who resembled him, with a ferocity that consumed her.
Grace grew weaker by the day. She wasted away as if cursed, just as she had cursed others, growing frail until she finally died.
If only she had simply died… If that had been the end, Dominic might have turned away, dismissing her as some wretched woman from his past. But even in her final moments, Grace delivered him to hell.
“Hah, you come because I’m dying…”
“You said you had something to say. Let it be your last words, and go.”
At Dominic’s cold words, Grace let out a ghastly chuckle and left behind a final testament: Angela was not his child.
Even if he couldn’t love her as he did others, even if the thought of Grace’s blood in her drove him to madness, he had endured because he believed Angela carried half of him. But even that wasn’t true.
She was nothing. A product of Grace’s curse, a trace of Grace’s existence in this world. Something to be erased.
How could he make her suffer more? How could he drive her to the point of wanting to hang herself?
Dominic watched Angela, who arrogantly lived as his daughter, pretending not to see her while calculating every moment. The more brazenly she held her head high, the more he schemed about how wretched she would feel when he brought her down.
And now, this moment was the culmination of all that time. He had finally crushed the last piece Grace had left behind. He had planted the worst memories in her and led her toward death.
Dominic looked down at Angela, collapsed on the floor, listening to his words, his face devoid of emotion.
There was no pity. What might seem pitiable to others was nothing in his eyes.
“You, who aren’t even my child, have enjoyed everything the Bilton name could offer. You’ve had more than Beatrice ever did. Do you know how laughable that was to me? You, a vulgar thing like you, daring to…”
Angela covered her ears. She didn’t want to hear Dominic’s words anymore. It didn’t feel like he was talking about her. She couldn’t believe that the only thing she had was no longer hers.
But Dominic knelt on one knee before her, pulling her hands away from her ears.
“Listen clearly. You are not my daughter. You are nothing to the Bilton family. You’re just the refuse of that woman, Grace.”
Angela struggled desperately to free her hands from Dominic’s grip. She had to cover her ears. These weren’t words meant for her.
No matter how much Dominic despised her, he wouldn’t say such things. He was her father, no matter what anyone said. This had to be a mistake.
“The filthy trace that woman left behind. The horrific proof of her existence in this world. A wretched piece of her. That’s who you are.”
No matter how much Angela thrashed and tried to deny it, Dominic kept pressing her. He endlessly reminded her that she was nothing but the filthy remnant of Grace. He wouldn’t let her cover her ears, pouring wounds into them without pause.
When Angela’s bloodshot eyes gave way, her entire body going limp as if she would collapse, only then did Dominic release her and stand upright.
Adjusting his disheveled attire, Dominic looked as if nothing had happened. The only one shattered and broken was Angela.
Then, before Angela, who could barely hold herself up from the floor, Dominic placed something down. The sound of it hitting the ground with a thud rang out like thunder, making Angela flinch.
Propping herself up with her arms, Angela looked at what Dominic had placed before her. It was a small glass vial filled with a green liquid that matched the color of her eyes.
She stared at it, transfixed. She thought she knew what it was. The realization sparked a terrifying imagination, intensifying her trembling. She didn’t want to hear another word from Dominic’s mouth.
But Dominic opened his mouth anyway, acting as if he would end everything today. Perhaps it was the surge of emotion from dredging up the past.
She should have returned to her room when Dominic had seemed willing to let her go earlier. Now, every moment was filled with regret.
“A drop in your meal each time, and you’ll be able to leave without anyone noticing. By your birthday, it’ll all be over.”
She didn’t need to hear what “it” was to know. It was her life. He meant he wouldn’t even allow her to breathe the same air anymore.
“If you take it and leave quietly, I’ll at least let you depart as a Bilton. It’s the only chance you’ll have to die as my daughter.”
Angela stared blankly at the man handing her poison. What kind of expression did he have? He looked so bored, as if he might yawn at any moment. He seemed more eager than she was for this moment to pass.
To him, Angela was an annoying insect. A temporary nuisance. Something to crush and be done with, without a hint of regret. She still couldn’t comprehend it all.
“You can die in disgrace, exposed as not my daughter, or you can be buried cleanly in the family tomb as my daughter. Choose.”
Choose. Choose. Choose. That damned word, choose.
Dominic called her Grace’s refuse, but in this moment, it was Dominic who reminded her of Grace.
He was the one acting more like Grace, shoving two horrific choices in her face and taunting her to pick the less terrible one.
That wretched woman. The one who drove her to this point.
Dominic might despise Grace, but the one who loathed her most in this world was Angela.
If she ever met Grace in hell, she wouldn’t let her off. Even if only bones remained, she’d shatter them to pieces.
Even that wouldn’t be enough for what Grace had done to her, to those she held dear, and to the man she’d believed without doubt was her father.
Standing before Dominic, who awaited her choice, Angela picked up the small glass vial with the green liquid.
She hadn’t made any decision about what to do. But if she left it there, by tomorrow she’d no longer be his daughter.
He might think she feared losing the Bilton name, but what Angela truly dreaded was being severed from him. She didn’t want to stand before him as nothing, not his daughter.
She wanted to be family. Not cherished like Yvonne or Beatrice—she didn’t even dare hope for that—but just family. To be tied by a single name, to exist in the same world.
Even that was now an immense wish, so Angela had no choice but to clutch the vial that would kill her.
Angela left Dominic’s study without even the presence of mind to bid farewell. Yesterday, she had at least made it to the stairs, but now she collapsed right outside the door in the hallway.
A wave of exhaustion washed over her. She had only listened to his words, but it felt as if Dominic had devoured everything inside Angela, leaving nothing behind.
She looked down at the small vial in her hand. The first gift she had ever received from the man she called father. And yet, it was death itself—what a cruel irony.
Angela let out a grotesque laugh. Then her face crumpled as if she might cry. In that moment, she recalled Kalian’s words, how he’d said he didn’t know how to comfort a weeping woman. She began to laugh again.
For a long while, she acted like a madwoman, until she finally rose from her seat. The path to her room felt unfamiliar for the first time.
It wasn’t her room anymore. There was nothing in this mansion that Angela, no longer the Bilton heiress, could claim as her own.
The shameless nursemaid, the fiancé who had finally opened his heart, the kind-hearted younger sister, the indifferent father—none of them belonged to Angela.
Oh, but one thing. The only thing she could wholly possess was this poison.
“Here you go.”
Anette handed Tristan a letter bearing the imperial seal.
“This should get you into the Bilton ducal household.”
“Yes, understood.”
Tristan looked down at the letter with an uncharacteristically apologetic expression. It felt wrong to use Her Majesty the Empress for his friend’s romantic schemes.
To think that he was supposed to pose as a physician sent by the Empress out of concern for Angela. Truly, it seemed nothing but Angela mattered to Kalian.
Flabbergasted, Tristan had asked, “You know you’re defying an imperial order by being here, right? And now you’re going to use Her Majesty?”
Kalian, with a disgustingly tender look, had simply replied, “Please.”
Thankfully, Kalian’s information that Angela and Anette were close proved correct. Anette, laughing, had said, “Was Count Florenche always such a romantic?” before readily writing the letter.
“I was feeling uneasy, not knowing how to help. I’m glad I can do something, even if it’s just this. Take good care of her.”
At Anette’s angelic words, Tristan finally smiled.
But there was something that had been nagging at him since he entered the Empress’s quarters. A young girl standing beside Anette, her eyes sparkling as if pleading to be taken along.
Wait—now her gaze seemed to say she wanted to be the letter in Tristan’s hand.
Having stayed awake all night, Angela went to Dominic’s room as soon as morning broke. She was allowed entry without hesitation, and inside, a warm scene unfolded.
Dominic was having tea with Beatrice seated across from him. It felt almost staged, as if meant for Angela to witness. But perhaps this was simply their everyday life, one Angela had never known.
A father returned home after a long absence, a daughter waking to share his morning, a family sipping tea and catching up on missed moments.
Angela thought there were still parts of her left to be hurt. The proof was that she could still hold her head high, pretending to be strong. The proof was that she could still square her shoulders.
She could keep anyone from noticing she was wounded.
Until she was completely broken, she wasn’t truly broken. Until she could no longer lift her head, she could still be hurt more.
But now, it felt like the end. The limit. Angela could no longer hold her head up with pride. The final, ultimate wound had been dealt. This was the last.
Before entering Dominic’s room, she had intended to demand why she had to die when Grace was the one at fault. But instead, she said something else.
“I wanted to share a meal with you, Father, now that you’re home after so long. Just the two of us, quietly.”
Silence was her answer. Dominic showed no reaction, as if her words were a mere breeze rustling his hair before vanishing.
Beatrice, unable to bear the awkward atmosphere, began glancing around nervously.
In that silence, Angela held on. Even if she couldn’t have it, couldn’t she borrow it? That was… something she could return later.
