“The child in my womb — it’s mine and Edwin’s.”
“…What did you say?”
‘Why is that name coming up here?’ She turned both of them over in her mind, her brow creasing.
‘Surely not…’
“That day, at the banquet. You saw Edwin in the garden, didn’t you?”
“……”
“The woman in the garden with him — that was me.”
The shock landed.
She hadn’t wanted to know who it was, hadn’t needed to. But the fact that it had been Camilla—
“Naive and stupid, aren’t you. Couldn’t even recognize the person right in front of your face.”
“H-how long has this been going on?”
The carriage lurched violently — as if it had struck something large. She braced her feet to keep from sliding, though with her hands still bound behind her, keeping her balance was almost impossible.
“A long time. We’ve been seeing each other since you introduced me to him.”
She turned it over quietly.
Her memory placed it several years back — she had been fifteen, still at the Academy. She had introduced Edwin to Camilla, this new friend she’d made.
It was genuinely a surprise — but she felt nothing toward either of them. Her indifference to Edwin ran so deep that she couldn’t even locate a sense of betrayal.
She only wanted to understand why Camilla was doing this to ‘her’.
“But why now? Why come after me? I have no objection to you taking Edwin.”
“…What?”
“I have absolutely no interest in him. Are you wondering whether I feel betrayed? If you want an answer — I don’t. Not even slightly.”
“Ha.”
Camilla laughed through her nose, contemptuous. The look she fixed on Ivelina was layered with disdain. But there was still something that needed to be said.
“Either way, he and I are finished. No attachment, no regret — as you know well. And I now have someone else I care about—”
“That’s the problem, Ivelina.”
Camilla’s expression went cold and hard. When Ivelina said nothing, she continued.
“Your life has always come so easily.”
“Say what you mean plainly. Stop dancing around it.”
“You dissolved a ten-year engagement and walked straight into someone like Duke Hardeion. As though Edwin meant nothing — laughing all the way.”
“……”
“You had two men in the palm of your hand and played with them as you pleased, and all the while: ‘I don’t know anything, I’m just a kind, simple girl.'”
“……”
“‘I’m not interested in either of them. So why do men keep falling for me?’ That’s you. Am I wrong?”
Camilla was not in her right mind. When had she ever held those two men ‘in the palm of her hand?’
“Camilla — shouldn’t that speech be directed at Edwin?”
“…What?”
“He’s the one who had two women in the palm of his hand. Did I play you? I genuinely don’t understand why you’re angry at me.”
She walked through it methodically — Camilla’s accusations, the contradictions stacked beneath them, one by one.
“Can’t you say any of this to Edwin? Because you’re afraid he’ll leave you completely?”
“Shut up!”
‘Crack—’
“Ugh.”
Camilla struck her hard across the face.
With her hands bound, she had nothing to steady herself — the blow knocked her sideways, and she tasted blood. She’d bitten the inside of her cheek.
Camilla breathed in harsh, shaking bursts. Then she pressed one hand to her belly and slowly brought her breathing under control.
When she spoke again, her voice had come down.
“I have his child, and I still couldn’t have Edwin.”
“You said yourself you were sneaking around behind my back. If you had him then, what do you mean you couldn’t have him? That doesn’t hold together.”
The absurdity of it was maddening. Even now, she might be struck again — but she would say it.
The contradictions in Camilla’s words remained stacked and glaring.
“Didn’t you hear what he said? He denies the child.”
“……”
She had forgotten that.
So. To summarize this entire long preamble: Camilla had lost Edwin, and was taking it out on her.
“Edwin wants you dead. You, as the Duchess of Hardeion. He promised — if I helped him be rid of you, he would take me as his wife.”
‘And she’s stroking her belly while saying this, as if it’s something her child should hear.’
‘Remarkable prenatal education.’
“Camilla. Do you believe that?”
“…What?”
‘Ha.’ She laughed despite herself, dry and hollow. Perhaps the truly naive one here was not her at all.
“After everything he’s done to you — you believe that? What kind of man asks the woman carrying his child to do something like this?”
Camilla’s brow cracked sharply. Her face collapsed inward. Ivelina pressed on, without stopping.
“You want to make him that child’s father? A man like that?”
“What do you think you’re doing—”
“If that’s the case, you don’t need to envy me. From where I’m standing, Camilla, you’re the naive one. The foolish one.”
“Shut your mouth right now! What do you know!”
‘Crack—’
“Ugnh.”
The same cheek, struck again.
It blazed. She could feel the heat radiating from the skin, the stinging that didn’t stop.
She had genuinely considered Camilla a close friend. But clearly Camilla never had. She had never thought of Ivelina that way — not once.
The emptiness of it made her shake her head slowly.
Then Camilla reached into her bodice and produced a small purple vial. She uncapped it and lunged.
“What are you — ‘stop, no!'”
She twisted with everything she had.
But Camilla seized her jaw in a brutal grip and forced her mouth open.
“Just be quiet, Ivelina. We’ve said enough. It only upsets us both.”
Burning liquid poured down her throat. It felt like swallowing fire.
* * *
“Ugh.”
Her whole body ached as if she had been beaten from the inside. Her thoughts were returning to her in slow, unsteady fragments — but her throat was still raw and hot.
The sensation was thick and unwelcome. She had to push herself up and cough several times before it began to pass.
“…Where am I now.”
She shook her throbbing head and tried to focus.
She blinked slowly, several times, eyes struggling to adjust.
‘A hut.’
Small, wooden, old. Worn down and crude.
‘Right. What do I do.’
Her hands were bound more tightly now than before. During her conversation with Camilla, she had been quietly, continuously working at the knots — rotating her wrists, testing the give. They had been slipping loose, very nearly free.
‘I was so close. Infuriating.’
She rolled her body sideways on the floor and used the strength of her legs to push herself upright.
‘Start over.’
She began again — rotating her wrists, probing with her fingertips for any place the rope had shifted.
She was still slowly working at it when—
‘Bang.’
The door flew open. A shadow fell over her.
The figure was backlit by what remained of the sunset, and she couldn’t make out a face.
“Hello, Ivelina. Oh, no — wait.”
“……”
“Should I be calling you the Duchess of Hardeion now?”
* * *
