Chapter 54
The poison clawed its way down her throat, its presence fierce and undeniable.
Her insides burned. It was maddening.
It felt as if her esophagus were melting.
Angela clutched her throat, gasping and choking. Thick veins bulged blue on her forehead, as if they might burst at any moment.
Panting, she collapsed lengthwise onto the sofa.
It felt like death. Truly, like death. The poison was dragging her toward it. That was expected, yet the agony was anything but.
Pain was always like this. No matter how often it struck, she never grew used to it. She had thought she’d be fine, having endured countless torments in Grace’s shadow.
She had even boasted to herself that age would make her stronger, able to bear more. But this pain was unbearable.
Tears streamed from Angela’s eyes. She thought of Kalian, who had said he wasn’t skilled at soothing a crying woman.
She wanted to wipe her tears for his sake, but she couldn’t. Not a single part of her body would obey. Tears flowed endlessly down her temples, unceasing.
How long did she writhe like a worm, struggling in vain? At some point, her body’s tension gave way. The convulsing, thrashing form stilled, as if nothing had happened.
Angela thought the world had gone silent too. She felt nothing. Even the pain seemed distant, someone else’s. It no longer hurt.
She wanted to close her eyes just once and open them again.
The tears blurred her vision. So she shut her eyes for a moment—but that was the end. She lacked the strength to open them again.
She wanted to open them, to live, to not let it end like this, but it was death in the end. Angela was sucked into some silent darkness. Her shattered soul sank endlessly.
“Miss… Miss…”
Rita was the first to find Angela. Despite knocking countless times, there was no response.
After hesitating dozens, hundreds of times, Rita opened Angela’s door without permission, bracing for punishment.
“I’ll just step in for a moment,” she whispered, her voice trembling with fear, barely audible. But there was still no reply, and what greeted Rita was Angela, slumped lifelessly on the sofa.
“Ah… ah… AAAAAH!”
Screaming, Rita cried out for help, for someone to save her. At her desperate calls, servants rushed in from all directions.
But no one could bring themselves to touch Angela, lying so still on the sofa. She looked as if she were merely sleeping, and they feared that disturbing her would provoke a terrifying scolding for causing a commotion.
“What’s all this noise?”
Yvonne entered Angela’s bedroom. Intending to shoo away the gathered servants for disturbing Angela’s quiet space, she stopped short when she saw her.
“Miss…?”
The young lady she had raised was in a state Yvonne had never seen before. Not even during the worst cruelties of her childhood had Angela looked like this. Why?
Yvonne stumbled toward Angela. She checked for breathing, for a pulse, touching her body in search of any sign of life. But life had vanished from her.
That couldn’t be.
“Fetch a physician. Now.”
Yvonne gave the order calmly. She feared that if she screamed, someone might notice Angela’s condition was dire, so she forced herself to act composed, as if to deceive even her own mind.
Even so, the servants scattered as if whipped. One person could have gone to fetch a physician, but they all bolted in a frenzy.
Amid the chaos, Yvonne fumbled for Angela’s hand. She kept rubbing the hand, devoid of human warmth.
“Don’t tease me. Get up.”
Yvonne whispered tenderly, as she had when she first became Angela’s nursemaid.
“You’ve scared me enough. That’s enough of this game.”
She spoke gently, as if coaxing the young Angela.
But Angela’s lips remained sealed, her eyes tightly shut, her body motionless. Her heart was the same, as if it had decided to stop forever. Not even a breath could be felt.
She couldn’t be dead. How could she die? How could she leave Yvonne like this? They had been together all this time—how could it end this way? It was unthinkable.
“Open your eyes, I’m telling you. Look at me, please.”
Calling her “Miss,” Yvonne began to sob uncontrollably. She had never wanted an ending like this.
Even when she cursed Angela as a wretched girl, she had never, not once, wished for her death.
The growing coldness of Angela’s hand was unbearable. Yvonne pulled her into her arms and moved toward the fireplace.
Carrying the limp body was no easy task, but Yvonne managed to bring Angela to the hearth. She wanted to give her warmth.
It would be fine then. It was just too cold here, that’s why her body temperature had dropped.
Lon in winter was chilly, and Angela wasn’t accustomed to the cold.
In winter, Yvonne always brought her warm tea before bed.
She’d pile two blankets on her, wrap a scarf around her neck to prevent a cold, and put mittens on her hands when she went out.
Dressed so thinly, it was no wonder her body had grown cold. By the warm fire, she’d be fine soon.
Her hands would warm again, the pallor of her lips would regain color.
Those corpse-like closed eyes would open soon, her delicate lashes lifting to reveal her green eyes. That had to happen.
If it did, Yvonne would listen to anything Angela said, no matter how harsh. She’d take every cruel word with a smile.
But Yvonne knew. If she smiled like that, Angela wouldn’t utter a single harsh word.
That’s the kind of girl she was. Her precious miss.
“Mother…”
A small voice came from behind, and for a moment, Yvonne thought it was Angela speaking.
As she swallowed her choking tears, Beatrice knelt beside her, her face already streaked with tears.
“Why… why…”
Beatrice couldn’t finish her sentence, staring at the two of them. Yvonne, struggling not to cry, spoke.
“She’s just cold for a moment. It’s okay. She’ll be okay. She’ll be fine soon.”
As Yvonne rubbed Angela’s slender arm with her palm, a voice from the past echoed over her own.
“It’s okay.”
A lie.
She had said it was okay, but she was a liar.
If it was really okay, Angela would open her eyes and scold her for being noisy.
Burying her face in Angela’s chest, Yvonne began to wail.
Kalian stared blankly at the messenger from the Bilton mansion. Meeting Kalian’s gaze, the servant’s mouth moved as if compelled by some strange force.
“I’m sorry.”
The messenger had apologized without cause, yet not a shred of resentment stirred in them. They understood the hollow, shattered look in Kalian’s eyes.
As with all such news, it was too sudden. Angela’s death. That she, of all people, had taken her own life with poison.
Lately, Angela had been visiting Kalian’s estate more often, their relationship finally seeming to soften, only for it to end like this. A tragedy.
Though it wasn’t their fault in the slightest, the messenger couldn’t help feeling guilty and bowed deeply.
“That’s impossible.”
After a long silence, Kalian’s voice came, unchanged from usual—polite, steady, and resolute, just as it always was.
“…”
The voice clashed so starkly with the broken gaze the messenger had seen moments before, and with the gravity of the moment, that they cautiously lifted their head to steal a glance at Kalian’s face.
“!”
Where had the desolate eyes of a man blindsided by his fiancée’s death gone? The messenger couldn’t hide their shock as they looked at Kalian.
He was a different person now. His face was impassive, devoid of any unstable emotion.
It was only later, watching Kalian’s actions, that the messenger understood this was his struggle to reject Angela’s death.
“Angela’s bad habits must be acting up again. She didn’t need to call me like this—I would’ve come if she’d just asked.”
Muttering as if to himself, Kalian ran a rough hand through his refined features and turned away from the messenger.
He headed straight for the Bilton mansion, moving with a purpose that seemed to see nothing else, outpacing even the messenger.
But the Angela he hoped to meet, with her mischievous habits, wouldn’t be there. Only her lifeless, pallid body would be waiting for him…
The messenger worried whether Kalian, acting as if he’d lost his mind, could bear such a sight.
Their eyes reddened as they clenched their teeth, lingering for a moment before following Kalian to the Bilton mansion.
“You’re really so shameless—who did you get that from? Your mistress?”
“Miss Angela isn’t shameless!”
Mary snapped back at Anette, pouting her lips. Then she turned her gaze to the Marchioness of Chartier, her eyes sparkling with a clear desire for money.
“Your Majesty, you’re rich, aren’t you?”
“Richer than you, at least.”
“Then lend me some money.”
That was why Anette had called Mary shameless. Tapping the table to draw Mary’s attention back, Anette lifted her teacup and asked.
“Why on earth does a palace-bound girl like you need money? If you need something, just say so.”
“Well…”
Mary lowered her head, then lifted it, twisting her body shyly as she spoke.
“It’s Miss Angela’s birthday soon… I really want to give her a gift…”
Oh. Anette realized Angela’s birthday was approaching. Last year, she’d received an invitation but hadn’t attended. Back then, she’d thought of Angela as “the most insufferable girl in the world.”
This year, though, she’d definitely go. She was just thinking she should prepare a gift when Mary, regaining her confidence, raised her voice boldly.
“No way you don’t trust me, right? I’ll have plenty of money when I get to the Bilton mansion. I’ll pay you back, I promise!”
“What do you want to buy her? Your mistress probably doesn’t lack for anything.”
Anette let out a chuckle at the absurd request. Mary, brimming with pride as if she’d chosen the perfect gift, answered triumphantly.
“Comfortable shoes!”
“Shoes?”
Angela surely had shoes in abundance. Her dressing room might even rival Anette’s, who had only recently become empress.
“Shoes? The Bilton heiress probably has hundreds of pairs.”
It didn’t seem like a gift worth proclaiming so boldly, Anette pointed out, but Mary shook her head.
“Comfortable ones. She hurt her leg, didn’t she? Her usual shoes must be uncomfortable, so I want to get her low-heeled, comfortable shoes.”
Anette nodded, impressed. It was a thoughtful idea. But it still didn’t seem like an extraordinary gift.
“It’s a sweet thought, but wouldn’t the Bilton servants have already taken care of that?”
“Oh…”
Mary’s face darkened instantly. She mumbled glumly, her lips trembling.
“They won’t. No one will care.”
Unable to bear Mary’s dejected expression, Anette nodded to the Marchioness of Chartier.
“Bring something worth money.”
Mary let out a jubilant “Waaaah!” and finally broke into a wide smile.
“I’ll definitely pay you back, Your Majesty.”
Anette waved her hand dismissively.
“No need. It’s nothing to a child.”
But Mary insisted stubbornly.
“No way. If I don’t pay you back, it’ll be like the gift came from you. I want to be the one to give it.”
“Goodness, fine. Do as you like.”
Anette let out a wry laugh at Mary’s persistence. Just then, the door burst open. The intruder, Natalie, was discourteous, but her expression was so inexplicably grave that there was no time to chide her.
Anette soon noticed the black envelope in Natalie’s hand. A notice of death.
