Chapter 90: The Birthday Party
Aracila immediately attempted a dispelling spell, but failed.
The jewelry box was wrapped in an intricate and complex magic formation that made it difficult to even approach.
“At this level… the enchantment must’ve been cast by a fairly high-ranking mage.”
Moreover, the structure of the spell was somewhat unfamiliar, suggesting that the artifact had been created at least several decades ago.
Whatever was inside, it was undoubtedly important—important enough to warrant such tight magical security.
“This won’t work. I’ll take it to Damian and have him help me open it later.”
Cradling the box in her arms, Aracila stepped out of the room. Then, struck by a sudden thought, she turned toward the dressing room.
A short while later, she emerged with the door locked behind her—her arms now full.
Along with the jewelry box, she had taken the dress from the portrait.
Vicky nearly fainted when she saw Aracila walk out with items from the room. But with no time to spare, she simply took back the key and rushed off.
While receiving the dress and tidying it up, Audrey asked,
“Milady, why did you bring these?”
“I want to find out what’s inside the jewelry box. As for the dress—let’s say it’s a gift?”
Aracila smiled sweetly.
Though she had ruined the dress she had originally received by spilling wine on it, it felt only proper to offer something in return. This dress would be her substitute.
A birthday present for the Duchess.
“Audrey, on the day of the Duchess’s birthday party, can you dress me up exactly how I ask?”
“Of course! What sort of styling did you have in mind?”
“Well, that’s the thing…”
***
After long and careful preparations, the Duchess’s birthday party was held in grand style.
Even the noblewomen she usually snubbed or ostracized were invited today—part of her plan to showcase her power and influence.
Looking down at the crowded ballroom below, the Duchess smiled in satisfaction.
She felt affirmed—so many people had come, proof that her status stood high above the rest.
In the past, as the fourth daughter of a mere count’s vassal, such a sight had been unimaginable.
Back then, she had always been overshadowed by her sisters—forgotten, invisible.
The bitterness she had once swallowed now bloomed into vanity, driving her to shine more brilliantly than anyone else as the Duchess.
“It seems Aracila and Damian are still estranged enough to come separately.”
Spotting Damian sitting alone in one corner of the hall without his wife, the Duchess’s smile deepened.
Taking her husband’s hand, she descended the staircase and entered the crowd.
The countless jewels sewn into her specially prepared gown dazzled under the chandelier’s light.
All eyes turned to her. Applause erupted. The giddy thrill of being the star of the show surged through her veins.
“Happy birthday, Duchess!”
“You look absolutely stunning today!”
“I truly admire and adore you!”
Nobles pushed forward, showering her with flattery and praise.
The Duchess raised her chin high and responded with a haughty smile.
It seemed nothing would wipe that smile from her face today—
—at least, not until the butler’s voice rang out:
“Madam Vandemir is entering!”
Until that moment, the Duchess had believed the day to be hers alone.
Everyone turned their gaze to the entrance, their attention stolen by the noticeably late arrival.
The Duke’s family did the same.
Somehow, without anyone noticing, Damian had made his way to the door.
And now, entering the hall with her hand resting on his arm, was Aracila.
The Duchess’s expression froze.
Aracila wore a halter-neck gown of midnight blue that shimmered with subtle violet hues as it descended—like a night sky adorned with stars.
Her side-swept hair had been braided and pinned with a single white flower.
Her height, her features—everything about her was different.
But in that moment, one image came unbidden to the Duchess’s mind.
“…Monica?”
She involuntarily recalled her deceased friend and flinched.
But it wasn’t just the Duchess who saw Monica in Aracila.
A faint ripple passed through the ballroom.
Those unfamiliar with the late Duchess were simply captivated by Aracila’s beauty.
But those who remembered how dearly the former Duchess had loved and frequently worn that very dress…
…were stunned—nearly scandalized.
And to enter with her arm linked to Damian’s, who was the spitting image of the Duke in his youth—
It felt like a haunting revival of the Duke and former Duchess’s married days.
Seeing the entire ducal family frozen in place, Aracila offered a subtle smile.
“They look as if they’ve seen a ghost. Priceless.”
Having obtained Damian’s permission and dressed in Monica’s gown, Aracila felt a deep sense of satisfaction in having styled herself to resemble the woman in the portrait as closely as possible.
Meanwhile, the fact that Oscar remained utterly clueless and stood there blinking in confusion was almost comical.
With steady steps, Aracila approached the Duchess, who was glaring daggers at her with wide, burning eyes.
“A person with so many sins to her name has no right to enjoy a happy birthday party.”
Since she had received so much from the Duchess after entering the duchy, it was only fair to return the favor in kind.
Determined to make this day the most unforgettable birthday the Duchess would ever experience—in more ways than one—Aracila flashed a brilliant smile.
“Happy birthday, Duchess.”
“You… How did you… that dress—!”
“Oh, this?” Aracila replied brightly. “Lady Fanning gave it to me as a gift. She said you personally recommended it?”
Lady Fanning, who had been lingering among the guests, startled at the mention of her name.
She hurriedly tried to distance herself from the claim, but Aracila had spoken first—making any denial too late.
“I was so grateful, I decided to wear it today. What do you think—does it suit me?”
“……”
The Duchess said nothing, her lips quivering.
Her eyes raked over Aracila’s figure with a murderous glare, as if she could tear her apart then and there—but Aracila remained perfectly composed.
Then she clapped her hands once, sharply, drawing the attention of those nearby.
“Oh, and I’ve brought a present for you myself. Please, take a look.”
With a subtle glance toward Damian, she gave her signal.
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small box, presenting it to the Duchess.
He did so openly, in front of everyone, so the Duchess had no choice but to accept it under the weight of countless eyes.
With a strained expression, she opened the lid. Inside was a pendant of pure gold, inlaid with three different gemstones.
At first glance, the gift seemed legitimate—nothing out of place.
Just as the Duchess began to lower her guard, she turned the pendant over absentmindedly… and her complexion turned deathly pale.
Sophie Meyer.
The name from her unmarried youth, the one she had discarded long ago, was engraved there—etched as if to remind her never to forget her past.
“You little—!”
The Duchess lost her composure and raised her voice in fury, but the Duke swiftly tugged at her arm, stopping her just in time.
Throwing a fit here would only come back to bite her.
If she made a scene now, people might start whispering again about the very past she’d worked so hard to bury.
Grinding her teeth, she closed the box and forced a tight smile.
“Well… thank you. I didn’t expect the two of you to prepare something for me.”
“I’m so glad the gift seems to please you,” Aracila replied sweetly. “Damian put a lot of thought into it. He chose the design and had it custom-made just for you.”
At those loathsomely insincere words, the Duchess clenched her fists. Her jaw twitched as she struggled to contain the rage boiling up inside her.
Aracila watched her calmly, then suddenly took a step closer without warning.
Though Monica—with her raven-black hair and golden eyes—and Aracila, with her pale lavender hair and blue eyes, looked nothing alike,
wearing the same gown, styled similarly… still, they could never truly become the same person.
And yet—
For some reason, the Duchess kept seeing Monica in Aracila. That lingering image made her involuntarily flinch.
“I hope today becomes the happiest day of your life.”
Aracila spoke softly and gently, wrapping one arm around the Duchess’s shoulder.
The Duchess neither pushed her away nor returned the embrace. She simply stood still, frozen in place.
Then, Aracila leaned in and whispered quietly into her ear.
“You even got to see an old friend again, through me.”
“……!”
The Duchess jerked her head to the side, glaring at Aracila with blazing fury.
She wanted nothing more than to slap this girl across the face—to ruin her for daring to taint her birthday like this.
But the Duke, ever conscious of appearances, was shooting her a stern look, warning her not to disgrace herself.
She couldn’t do it. Not here.
Aracila, smiling with a gentle serenity as if she had painted the moment herself, slowly stepped back from the Duchess.
“I sincerely hope you enjoy the rest of your day. If the chance comes later, let’s have a warm chat again.”
She gave a graceful nod and moved away with Damian—her hand clasped tightly in his, as if they’d never been distant at all.
Gradually, the atmosphere in the once-tense ballroom returned to normal, anchored by those who resumed laughing and chatting as if nothing had happened.
No one dared bring up Monica—not with the Duke’s family still visibly tense and watchful.
With a glass of champagne in hand, Aracila weaved her way through small groups of chatting guests.
Her steps finally came to a stop in front of a noblewoman who stood alone by the wall.
“You said you wanted to get closer with me. So what are you doing sulking over here, Baroness?”
Yona flinched at the voice and lifted her head. Upon meeting Aracila’s gaze, her expression turned bitter with frustration.
Ever since Aracila had implied that it was Yona who gifted her the dress, the Duchess hadn’t so much as looked in her direction.
Naturally, the other noblewomen had followed suit. No one acknowledged Yona anymore as they once had.
All the effort she had poured into rebuilding those connections—now completely undone.
“Are you really asking because you don’t know? You told everyone I gave you that dress, and because of that—!”
“Why so upset? You did give me the former Duchess’s dress, didn’t you?”
Yona opened her mouth as if to object, but no words came out.
Clear guilt and shame crept across her face.
Aracila looked at her without a trace of emotion and gently placed a hand on Yona’s shoulder.
Unable to bear the clarity in those eyes, Yona turned her gaze away.
“I understand, Baroness. I’m sure you had your reasons for doing what you did.”
“……”
“But you do understand there’s a difference between understanding and forgiveness, don’t you? Just because someone understands… doesn’t mean they have to forgive.”
Yona’s lips trembled. She couldn’t say a word—she could only stare down at the floor.
Aracila, watching her silently, reached out and lightly pulled Yona’s arm toward her.
Then, with calculated grace, she deliberately knocked her own champagne glass into Yona’s dress.
“Oh dear, Baroness! Are you alright?”
“W–What are you doing?!”
“I’m so sorry. I must’ve bumped into your arm by accident.”
Yona looked utterly shaken, her expression flustered and confused.
Aracila added softly, her voice feather-light,
“Well, it’s lucky, isn’t it? That it was clear champagne and not something dark like wine.”
“……!”
The realization hit Yona immediately—this was payback.
Payback for the wine she had spilled on Monica’s dress.
She couldn’t argue.
Aracila gave her shoulder a few gentle pats, still smiling.
“Since your dress is ruined, I suppose you’ll have to leave the party early today. Have a safe trip home, Baroness.”
As if it weren’t enough to be blacklisted by the Duchess, now she was being quietly expelled from the party as well.
Yona looked devastated.
But with Aracila’s polite, smiling pressure bearing down on her, she had no choice but to retreat.
She hesitated, then finally turned and left the hall.
Aracila, who had watched the entire scene unfold with a blank expression, also stepped out of the room.
Some champagne had splashed on her hand—it was slightly sticky.
She made her way to wash it off.
And just as she was about to return alone, someone blocked her path.
It was the Duchess.
“You wicked little bitch.”
The curse came without preamble, but Aracila showed no sign of surprise.
After all, she had resurrected the one person the Duchess most wanted to erase from memory—on her birthday, no less.
It was only natural that the Duchess had lost her composure, shedding all pretense of dignity.
The corridor had been deliberately cleared.
Not even a mouse dared peek through—whether the Duchess had arranged it, or Aracila, was unclear.
But this setting allowed both women to speak freely.
Aracila raised her lips in a slow smile.
“Me?”
“Yes, you! How dare you show up in Monica’s dress and ruin my birthday? You manipulative little witch!”
Now, finally, the Duchess had lost the composure she had clung to earlier.
The perfect day she had envisioned had collapsed the moment Aracila walked in.
Though she’d tried to silence the whispers with warnings and glares, there were limits to what fear alone could do.
No one was speaking Monica’s name out loud—but they were whispering it behind fans, sharing glances in twos and threes.
Even now, over a decade into her reign as Duchess, Monica’s ghost still rose from the ashes, tormenting her.
No matter how you tried to erase a sin, it always left a stain—it never disappeared completely.
The Duchess was seething.
This was all because she hadn’t eliminated Damian when she had the chance.
Because he had married a cunning woman like Aracila.
“How did you even get that dress?! Don’t tell me you snuck into the room on the third floor like some filthy rat!”
It was true that Aracila had snuck in like a rat, so she didn’t bother denying it.
Fuming, the Duchess grabbed her by the shoulder.
“Answer me! Did you go into that room?!”
“I’m sorry. Must be the side effects of the Marcas herb—I can’t seem to remember.”
“……!”
The Duchess froze.
For a moment, she bit down hard on her lower lip.
And in that instant, she realized.
She finally understood why Aracila and Damian, who had been so distant just days ago, suddenly appeared as a unified front today.
Aracila must have uncovered her filthy little secret.
Still trembling with fury, the Duchess glared at her.
But Aracila only smiled sweetly.
“Why are you so angry, really? If anything, you should be thanking me. You looked so happy—like an old friend had come to wish you a happy birthday.”
Her tone was soft and courteous, but the mockery behind it was razor-sharp.
The Duchess flared with renewed rage.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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