Roselia’s green eyes, cold and sunken, drifted toward the incoming projectile. The liquor bottle slammed against the wall behind her, shattering into jagged shards with a jarring crash. She watched the debris settle with clinical apathy, turning her head just enough to track the man who had thrown it. She let out a long, slow sigh before fixing her gaze on him.
“Damn it! Where’s the hidden money? Surely the Baron must have left at least a penny for you!”
Every word the man she called her step-brother spat out reeked of stale alcohol. Roselia’s face tightened in disgust.
“Where would there be money in this dump? You’ve already squandered every last coin the Baron left behind, haven’t you?”
There wasn’t a word in her statement that wasn’t true. As the Baron of Hessink’s health had withered, so too had the family’s coffers. Given that his son and heir knew only how to drink and gamble with bottom-feeders, it would have been a miracle if the fortune had remained intact.
Roselia was merely an addition—brought into the mansion alongside her mother when the Baron remarried. They shared no blood. That was why the late Baron had treated her as little more than a servant until his dying day.
“What about the money you’ve been earning while running around outside? Is that gone too?”
Had the rot reached his brain? Antonio had always been a man devoid of common sense, but he was reaching new depths.
“Who do you think has been maintaining this crumbling mansion without a single servant?”
Antonio faltered under her unwavering gaze. He shifted his eyes away, huffed, and shoved past her.
“Move!”
Every valuable item had been stripped clean. She had long ago sold the framed paintings and the few crystal chandeliers just to keep the roof from caving in. The mansion was now a hollowed-out shell, barely fit to be called a residence. Antonio began ripping the few remaining iron candlesticks from the walls, his movements frantic.
As if that weren’t enough, he scanned the room like a starving hyena, his voice laced with agitation.
“Isn’t there anything else worth coin?!”
*Stay calm. One doesn’t get angry at a beast.* The man was a creature that had long since abandoned his humanity. Besides, the event she had been anticipating was due any moment; it was high time she purged this parasite from her life.
Roselia quietly unsheathed the dagger hidden within the folds of her dress.
As she stepped forward, her expression grim and focused, Antonio flinched and scrambled back.
“Wh-what are you doing?!”
He had no talent for study or the blade; he wouldn’t be able to defend himself even if she were to swing in earnest. Especially not while his blood was saturated with cheap booze.
He tripped over his own feet and landed hard on his backside, his face flushing a mottled red. Roselia stood over him, emotionless, as she raised the dagger to her temple.
“Eek…!”
He cowered, raising his arms to shield his face.
*Slice.*
The sharp tip sheared through the air. The sound was not that of tearing flesh, but the soft, decisive parting of hair. Feeling no pain, Antonio lowered his arms, his eyes widening in shock.
Roselia stood before him, the heavy, ebony locks that once reached her waist now cropped jaggedly just below her ears.
As he stared up in a daze, she held out the severed bundle toward him with icy contempt.
“You said you wanted something of value.”
“W-what…?”
“This is the last thing of worth left in this house. Take it and disappear.”
Her hair, which retained a glossy sheen despite her starvation, lay neatly in her hand. It would fetch a fair price at any wig-maker’s shop.
Antonio snatched the hair from her, his face twisted in pure loathing.
“You vicious bitch.”
With that final curse, he scrambled out of the mansion as if the devil himself were at his heels. Roselia scoffed.
*Vicious?* What wouldn’t one do to stay alive? If her survival were on the line, she would go even further than this. This was merely the start.
Tonight, Antonio would be caught by the gang he owed debts to in the back alleys. He would never return. Whether he ended up in the grave or sold into slavery, she didn’t know; the novel hadn’t bothered with such trivialities.
And soon, someone else would come looking for her. The man who would hold the lifeline of this miserable body.
It was a gamble. Had she fled the mansion, she would have starved or ended up in a brothel. She chose to court danger rather than walk the guaranteed path of thorns.
She had chosen Duke Klaus De Baltezar—the mastermind and villain of the very story she lived in.
She knew him intimately, though he knew nothing of her. She caught her reflection in the window, her short, jagged hair framing a face that held a cold, meaningful smile.
* * *
A black carriage rattled to a stop before the mansion, which looked so derelict that one had to wonder if it was even habitable. The door opened, and a tall, lanky man in a navy blue suit stepped out.
His cool, dark-navy eyes swept over the ghostly, vine-choked structure with profound dissatisfaction.
“Does anyone actually live here?”
To his question, a man with reddish-brown hair who had exited after him checked a stack of documents. “The records state that since the Baron’s death, his kin, Antonio and Roselia De Hessink, reside here.”
The man in the navy suit sniffed in disgust. “Even if I sold this ruin, I wouldn’t recover half of the debt incurred.”
Duke Klaus De Baltezar.
Though he was a man for whom wealth and status were innate, his moniker was ‘The Safe of Rugvelzet.’ It was said that all the gold in the empire passed through his fingers.
While he publicly invested in schools and parks, he was, in truth, the most formidable moneylender in the high-profile elite. He was a tycoon the Imperial Family could not treat lightly.
Because he controlled the empire’s infrastructure, few dared to slander him. Heads of major trading companies bowed at the mere mention of his name. It was whispered that even the Imperial Family held debts with the Baltezar Duchy.
As the Duke scanned the building for any potential asset, Alejandro, his aide, looked as though he were already at his limit.
“Well, let’s go in. Perhaps there is something left inside.”
At a signal, men in dark, uniform attire descended from the carriages and occupied the perimeter. The Duke and Alejandro followed at a leisurely, arrogant pace.
The interior was choked with dust. Not a single servant remained to maintain the place; cobwebs hung like shrouds in the corners. The Duke’s brow furrowed.
Alejandro, checking his notes, muttered, “It seems the staff was dismissed long ago after the debt crisis. Oh—and…”
“And?” Klaus glared at him.
Alejandro cleared his throat and glanced around. “After the Baron died, his adopted daughter, Roselia De Hessink, reportedly passed away as well.”
Klaus’s expression hardened. “Is that true?”
“Yes. The death report was filed recently. I’d missed it on the final page of the ledger.”
It was poor news. If there were no valuables to seize, they needed extra hands to generate labor. With one of them dead…
“So only Antonio De Hessink remains?”
“According to the records, yes.”
Klaus had expected little from a known gambler and drunkard, but he was the only remaining source of repayment.
The servants began to search the rooms, looking for anything that could be stripped. Then, one of them shouted toward the center of the hall.
“Sir, Mr. Seviane! Over here!”
Alejandro looked up, hoping for a hidden cache of art. “What is it? Did you find something?”
The servant hesitated, looking sheepish. “There is… a person here.”
Klaus’s eyebrows arched in surprise. The only person meant to be here was Antonio.
They had brought a small army into the house, yet it had remained silent. Had he been hiding in a drunken stupor? With a mix of annoyance and curiosity, Klaus strode toward the room the servant indicated.
The room was flooded with light. One entire wall was made of glass, and with the curtains long since sold, the sunlight poured in without filter, turning the space blindingly bright.
Standing before the window was a silhouette.
Klaus squinted, his eyes adjusting to the glare.
A young man stood by the window, dressed in a simple, crisp white poet’s shirt and neat trousers. He looked nothing like the broken heir he had been expecting.
With short, cropped black hair and brilliant green eyes that shimmered like emeralds, the man looked at Klaus and offered a steady smile.
“You must be Duke Klaus De Baltezar.”
Klaus stared back, silent.
The young man tilted his head, his smile elegant and disarming, and extended his hand with grace.
“Pleased to meet you. I am Antonio De Hessink, the eldest son of the Barony of Hessink.”