Chapter 50
It was a brief remark. But Kalian instantly realized that Tristan was talking about the group responsible for Angela’s abduction.
Kalian stopped mid-stride, turning back. Blocked by Kalian’s sudden halt, Tristan, who had also come to an abrupt stop, continued.
“They kept insisting they’d die if they opened their mouths, so I had my suspicions, but it’s true.”
Tristan spoke, his usual easygoing smile gone.
“It was the work of someone from the Taran Kingdom’s royal family. The first prince, Rasil.”
Once again, Angela had breakfast with Dominic. It was a dining room they hadn’t used in a while. The Bilton mansion’s chef explained the morning menu at length before retreating, like the other servants, to a distance.
Dominic began the meal with a sip of lukewarm water. Angela, having dropped a green bead into her own glass, mirrored him and started eating.
Dominic seemed displeased, his brow furrowing sharply.
But that wasn’t Angela’s concern. She had no time left. And Dominic was the only one in the Bilton mansion who knew it.
So he ought to indulge her small act of defiance. After all, she would soon be gone, as he wished.
“How was the southern region?”
Angela spoke up suddenly as Dominic began cutting into a dish of smoked chicken.
The chef, thrilled at the master’s return, had boasted that this dish, prepared with great care, would be delicious—a meal to look forward to.
But at the sound of Angela’s voice, Dominic set down his utensils with a clatter. It hadn’t been her intention to ruin his appetite, and the chef would likely be devastated.
Regardless, Dominic’s gaze turned to Angela.
“Your recent campaign was in the south, wasn’t it? I was curious. I’ve heard it’s even warmer than Lon, but wasn’t it too hot?”
Dominic looked at her, a faint spark of curiosity in his eyes, as if wondering what she was up to. Perhaps it was a look that dared her to keep going.
Angela cut a small piece of the chicken Dominic had abandoned, chewed slowly, and chose her next words.
“When I read about the southern region, they said the weather is pleasant and the people are gentle. But seeing how they covet others’ lands, it seems human greed isn’t so easily swayed by the weather.”
“What are you trying to do?”
Dominic’s voice was icy as he cut her off. Angela gave a faint smile in response.
“Can’t a father and daughter share a meal and have a conversation like this? You’re being too harsh.”
She emphasized the word daughter, and Dominic let out a scoff. Seeing his cold smirk, Angela spoke again.
“If you don’t want to talk about the southern region, shall we try another topic?”
She waited, but Dominic gave no reply. Taking his silence as assent, Angela continued.
“What kind of person was Wendy Dawson?”
Bang!
Dominic slammed the table. The servants in the distance froze, unaware of the conversation, their shoulders stiffening visibly even from where Angela sat.
Dominic glared at her, his eyes blazing with fury. At this rate, there might not be a breakfast tomorrow. Reluctantly, Angela backed down.
“I’m sorry. I was just curious about what kind of person she was. Please, calm down.”
With that, Angela stubbornly continued her meal. Dominic’s refusal brought their conversation to a complete end.
Back in her room, Angela shook the two glass vials in her hand. Both contained green liquid, so similar that a glance could mistake them for the same.
But one was a poison that killed, and the other was merely sweet syrup tinted green. Life or death depended on which she drank.
Angela had been alternating between the syrup and the poison with her meals.
Some days, she longed to find peace and slip away like this. Other days, she desperately wanted to live. Her heart, singular though it was, split into countless emotions, each clamoring to be prioritized.
Since all were her feelings, none were less precious, and as she tended to each one, she found herself holding two green vials.
Today, for the first time, she had chosen the syrup two days in a row. It was because of the time she’d spent with Kalian. She had been too happy to want to die so easily, as Dominic wished. Why should she give up this happiness?
But the moment she returned to her room, Angela reached for the poison. Seeing Dominic’s expression—more pained by sharing a meal with her than by the thought of her drinking poison—tormented her.
Realizing once again that she had nothing left, her hand sought the poison first. She missed Kalian, but if he learned who Yvonne was, he would turn away from her too.
As Angela anxiously bit her lip, setting down the syrup vial and reaching for the poison’s cap, a knock came at the door. Hurriedly hiding both vials in a drawer, she stopped her thoughts and called out permission to enter.
She thought it might be Rita, but it was Yvonne who stepped through the door.
“What brings you here, Mother?”
At Angela’s words, Yvonne gestured to the table in the room, asking if she could sit. Angela, perched on the edge of her bed, stood and motioned for her to take a seat.
As Yvonne sat, Angela approached the table, sitting across from her. The memory of confessing that she wished Yvonne were her mother flickered through her mind.
Was that why Yvonne had come? Angela quietly waited for her to speak, though the sensation of holding the poison still lingered in her hand. She silently wished Yvonne wouldn’t say anything too painful.
Yvonne’s lips moved several times, hesitating, unable to speak clearly. Finally, the words she managed were these:
“I’m sorry.”
…An apology?
Uncertain why Yvonne was acting this way, Angela regarded her warily. Then Yvonne apologized again.
“I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
It wasn’t a mistake. It was unmistakably Yvonne’s apology.
Angela shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Not knowing the reason, she had no response to the apology. She waited quietly, assuming more would follow.
After a long pause, Yvonne spoke again, as if she had finally gathered herself. Though she tried to keep her voice steady, it wavered uncontrollably.
“No matter how frightening the mistress was, I shouldn’t have done it… I did something terrible to you, miss. You were so young, but all I could see was Beatrice. I was so worried that Beatrice, who couldn’t even speak, might be harmed by the mistress… I used you…”
Yvonne wiped the silent tears streaming down her face with the back of her hand.
“It wasn’t because I disliked you, Miss Angela. I cherished you… I loved you so much… But I didn’t know how to protect both you and Beatrice. So every time… I ended up hurting you… I’m sorry. I’m only apologizing now.”
“…”
“It must have hurt you so much because of me…?”
Angela stared blankly at Yvonne’s face, her apologies falling like relentless tears that soaked the tablecloth. Angela wasn’t crying—not because she wasn’t sad, but because the shock was too great for her to fully process.
Why was Yvonne acting this way all of a sudden? What had gotten into her? What did she want from Angela now?
“Miss.”
Yvonne’s voice, calling from close by, drew Angela’s gaze. Her eyes, thick with intent, seemed to emphasize that she had thought long before speaking. She continued, looking steadily at Angela.
“Shall we leave this mansion together?”
Angela couldn’t comprehend Yvonne’s words. Today, Yvonne was truly strange, spouting things Angela couldn’t make sense of.
To avoid death, Angela would have to abandon the Bilton name and leave this mansion. But why would Yvonne, of all people, want to leave?
She was the duchess now, surrounded by everything she could enjoy. What could have happened to make her say this?
“Why are you talking like this all of a sudden? Leave to go where?”
“This mansion doesn’t feel like a good place… It’s been that way since the mistress was alive. I hated this place so much… Back then… I should’ve taken you and Beatrice and left…”
Yvonne’s words left Angela momentarily speechless. That past was unchangeable, a time they could never return to. And yet, the thought crossed her mind that it would’ve been wonderful if Yvonne had done it.
If Yvonne had taken her hand and resolved to leave the mansion, Angela would’ve followed her anywhere. They could’ve fled far from Grace, the three of them living happily together.
Why hadn’t she said this back then? A surge of resentment welled up in Angela. And why bring it up now, when it was impossible to understand? Another wave of anger followed.
Why say this now, of all times?
Yvonne was the duchess now. And if Angela spoke up, Yvonne could reclaim her true child and become the mother of Count Florenche.
In the past, Angela might’ve begged to escape this wretched mansion together, but now Yvonne had too much to leave behind.
Angela couldn’t ask her to abandon it all and leave with her—not even if she still longed for those ten months in Yvonne’s womb.
“What’s the point of saying this now? It’s already in the past.”
“You’re right. It’s all in the past… All of it…”
“What’s this about? Did you fight with Father or something?”
“Father…? Ha, fight? As if that would happen. I just wanted to do what you wished, that’s all.”
Yvonne wiped her tears and spoke with a smile, but it didn’t bring any warmth to Angela. It was a hollow smile, drained of life, the kind Angela herself wore when she was struggling.
Why was Yvonne acting like this? Was it because Angela had said she still cherished her? Was it pity? Angela’s head felt like it would burst with all these thoughts.
“I don’t wish for it. I’m staying in this mansion. So should you.”
Angela lied. She wouldn’t stay in this mansion—whether she left by dying or by living, she had no place in its future. Yet the lie slipped out effortlessly.
If Yvonne could live comfortably and well in a place where Angela no longer existed, that would be the greatest revenge Yvonne could offer her. The fleeting desire to leave together was just a moment of pity. That emotion, incapable of achieving revenge or anything else, would probably fade quickly.
Yvonne didn’t respond. She seemed to accept it, at least to some extent. Unlike when she’d abruptly suggested leaving, she now kept her lips tightly sealed.
Then, after a pause, she spoke again.
“I’m sorry.”
She had drawn closer to Angela.
Yvonne hesitated, then gently stroked Angela’s cheek—the same cheek she had once struck. The redness had long faded, yet Yvonne’s touch was tender, as if the mark still lingered.
Gathering courage, Yvonne began to stroke Angela’s golden hair, now much shorter. Whatever thoughts crossed her mind, she swallowed a sob. Her lingering touch grew softer, more affectionate.
Unsure how to respond to such tenderness, Angela hesitated before offering this reply.
“It’s okay.”
Yvonne looked at Angela with surprised eyes. That expression suggested it was likely the right response. Perhaps this was what Yvonne had been hoping to hear with all her strange words.
Finally finding the answer, Angela looked at Yvonne and repeated the words she seemed to want.
“It’s okay, really.”
