TRCR 34

Rebecca watched every step of the salon’s inception and rise.
She was more passionate than anyone—a genius patissier and, at the same time, a wonderful mother.
Even without personal favors, Margaret was essential to the business.
Lost in old memories, Rebecca gazed at her with misty eyes.
Margaret misinterpreted it, her lips trembling with shame.
“You… pity me.”
“That’s a misunderstanding…”
“No need to lie. I’ve heard enough about what a saintly figure you are. But I don’t need your empty compassion. I’ll handle my own path. I’m not so pathetic that I require your charity.”
Margaret shot up as if the seat burned her, pointing to the door.
“If there’s nothing else, please leave.”
Rebecca, stunned by her ironclad resolve, lowered her head briefly before lifting it.
“I’m ashamed I assumed that.”
“Pardon?”
Rebecca raised her face, sorrow pooling in her eyes.
“Margaret, I don’t have the strength to pity others. My life is so overwhelming, so lonely, so unbearable—I can’t spare a thought for anyone else.”
“…”
“I’m thoroughly selfish. I came to you because I judged you’d benefit me. No other motive. And what help did I give the sanctuary folk? No different.”
The first time Rebecca extended a hand to someone else had been impulsive.
As Countess Devonshire, all she could do was sit idle in the estate.
No one needed her; no one gave her tasks.
She sat in her ornate room, silently watching her childhood dreams crumble one by one.
Then, one day, on her way to a fitting, she gave alms to a beggar child.
She had coins in her pocket, and he was begging near the dressmaker’s—a mere coincidence.
“Thank you! You’re my lifesaver!”
That single phrase eased her suffocation, opening a void in her chest.
A strange thrill followed, filling her.
Someone needed her. Someone rejoiced in her help. She had a purpose.
That was the start.
Whenever melancholy struck, Rebecca began reaching out like an addict.
The joy of a grateful word was indescribable.
She knew her hypocrisy. She’d never once thought herself good.
Her favors were self-serving, one-sided acts to satisfy her cravings.
So “pity” didn’t fit her selfishness.
She was neither a saint nor a villain.
Just a greedy human.
“So please, take my hand, Margaret. I need you more than anyone. Let’s do this together.”
Margaret stared at Rebecca’s offered hand, visibly flustered.
Lady Rebecca’s an angel! She’s no ordinary person!
The sanctuary folk’s blind adoration of Rebecca had always grated on her.
She’d heard it until her ears bled.
And each time, it fueled her resentment toward Rebecca.
She’d once been wealthy nobility, too.
She remembered thinking when she gave alms to the poor: nobles tossing scraps to caged beasts, nothing more.
Rebecca was no different, she was sure.
Yet being hailed as a saint? Absurd.
Margaret was convinced Rebecca reveled in the image.
But now, Rebecca bared her soul, unmasked and pleading.
It was disorienting. Her world was crumbling.
Silently, Margaret pushed Rebecca’s hand toward the table.
“Give me… time to think.”
Rebecca’s eyes widened, then curved into crescents.
Even a slight waver in Margaret’s steel resolve gladdened her.
In her past life, Margaret had been Rebecca’s idol.
Despite her family’s fall, she’d raised her child alone, built a business, and reclaimed her title.
Working under her, Rebecca had yearned to be like her.
How could she radiate such vitality?
She’d pondered endlessly.
Before Margaret, a mighty oak unbowed by typhoons, Rebecca felt like a weed.
If Margaret joined her, she’d have the sturdiest ally imaginable.
Rebecca stared at her hand where Margaret’s had brushed, then nodded.
“Send your answer via Kanna. I promise you won’t regret taking my hand.”
* * *
“No need, I said…”
Rebecca frowned, holding the paper bag stuffed with bread.
Bern had forced it on her, insisting she couldn’t leave empty-handed.
Bringing it back to the estate would spell trouble.
The household was strict about outside food. She couldn’t just toss it either.
Rebecca gazed blankly at the bag’s contents.
Old memories surfaced, stirring regret.
Bern was still the warm baker.
In her past life, he’d always slipped extra loaves to her when she visited.
That sandwich was delicious.
Hunger struck suddenly.
She’d barely touched lunch, too tense for more than a taste.
Rebecca pulled out a cream bun.
Eating in the street felt improper, but she wasn’t Countess Rebecca now.
The liberation of her disguise was sweeter than expected.
Biting guiltlessly, sweet, soft cream melted on her tongue.
It made her smile.
Street food was shameful, but she didn’t care.
In her past life, meals like this were common.
“Susan!”
After two bites, someone seized her wrist.
The bun fell.
Rebecca watched it trampled underfoot, cream oozing out.
Fury rising, she glared at her captor.
A scrawny man panted, eyes locked on her.
Her cold stare made him flinch, but he tightened his grip.
Her wrist throbbed, and she winced.
He grabbed her shoulder, eyes bulging.
“Why won’t you accept my confession? You like me too. You never said it, but you always smiled at me.”
That explained it. Susan had mentioned a man harassing her at the market.
A shallow infatuation, apparently. He hadn’t recognized her disguised.
Rebecca slapped his hand away.
“Keep following me, and I’ll call the watch.”
“Ha. Think I’m scared? My brother’s the watch captain. Stop playing hard to get and come to me, Susan.”
“Get lost. I don’t want to talk to scum like you.”
“What?!”
He shoved her into the alley. The bag tore, bread scattering.
My bread…
Rage boiling, she yanked the long pin from her hair, gripping it toward his vital spots.
In her past life, raising a child alone, incidents like this happened monthly.
Outmatched in strength, she’d learned quick, low-effort takedowns.
Margaret taught me this, too…
He lunged.
As Rebecca drew the sharp pin, he screamed, collapsing.
Someone had struck his face.
“You okay?”
It was Yulian. One blow, and the man was out.
Blood from his nose dripped from Yulian’s left fist.
Hiding his bloody hand to avoid staining her, he approached her stunned form.
Seeing her state, he scowled.
“Another insane stunt…”
Rebecca scanned him, disbelieving his pristine attire amid the alley.
“Yulian? How…?”
“Passing by, saw you.”
“You recognized me?”
Commotion stirred outside. Someone had reported it.
Yulian offered his arm without answering.
“Too many eyes. My carriage.”
“I’m fine. I need to get back.”
“In that state?”
He pulled a mirror from his pocket, reflecting her face. It seemed he carried it always.
Rebecca stared, dismayed.
“Ah…”
She couldn’t return like this.
Her bonnet was gone, hair disheveled; freckle makeup smudged.
Without protest, she took his arm.
Feeling her weight, a faint smile touched Yulian’s lips.
He turned to Croa, nudging the fallen man with his foot.
“Handle this.”
“Y-Yes… as you command…”
Croa sighed deeply.