As the two beautiful daughters of Cardinal Del Mare stood facing each other with sharp glares, the onlookers found it impossible to look away. Naturally, evaluations of their appearances soon followed.
– ‘Isabella De Mare… she must have been too greedy. She really tripped up today. They say even a monkey falls from a tree, but my, oh my.’
– ‘Why is she so excessive, unlike her usual self? And why is she wearing white again?’
– ‘The younger one looks better, as if she didn’t try too hard, don’t you think?’
These were the impressions of the ladies who saw Isabella, whose outfit, makeup, and hair were all overdone.
– ‘She covered everything up, yet her figure is practically bursting through the dress!’
– ‘Why did I miss that scene earlier?!’
– ‘The second one is better than the first.’
These were the exclamations of the gentlemen who saw Ariadne.
A subtle tension crackled in the air as Ariadne and Isabella locked eyes. It bore no resemblance to the “sisterly bond” Isabella had so often boasted about. Watching the standoff, the gossip among the crowd reached a fever pitch.
– “But why is Isabella wearing white?”
– “They say they’re close, so the younger sister supposedly asked her to wear it.”
– “Are they really on good terms? The atmosphere is no joke.”
With the murmuring of the crowd as her background noise, Ariadne asked Isabella, who was beginning to sniffle, in a low voice.
“Sister, why are you crying?”
Isabella instinctively leaned into Ariadne.
Ariadne’s expression was far from affectionate, yet Isabella felt a surge of conviction deep in her gut. She believed that Ariadne was weak-willed and would inevitably yield if pushed hard enough. Moreover, to Isabella, the eyes of the San Carlo socialites watching from behind were far more important than Ariadne’s actual feelings.
“Aria—! You see, the Prince and Countess Marquez misunderstood our relationship. They seem to think I spoke ill of you.”
To mollify the expectant gazes of the people behind her, Isabella reached out and grasped her younger sister’s hand, acting as if she were overjoyed to see her—perhaps a little too deliberately.
“I was only saying that despite the wardrobe accident—no, since the accident turned into a blessing in disguise, you looked even prettier! Your figure is truly wonderful!”
Prince Alfonso turned red, looking flabbergasted.
“No, that wasn’t what—.”
Just then, Ariadne calmly caught the Prince’s hand to restrain him. Her expression remained composed, but inwardly, a triumphant smile bloomed. The moment Isabella called her “Aria”—a nickname she had never heard in her life—she immediately grasped the nature of Isabella’s tactic.
In her past life, throughout her childhood and even into adulthood, Isabella had frequently pulled this same stunt. Whenever she was caught red-handed badmouthing someone, her signature repertoire was to play the role of a doting friend in front of an audience to bury the rumors. Seeing the pair together, people would usually overlook the transgression, assuming the victim had consented to the intimacy. It carried the added benefit of building Isabella’s reputation as “a straightforward, easygoing girl who is close to everyone.”
When she was very young, Ariadne had been so intimidated by Isabella that she couldn’t refute her when she played these games in public, often just letting herself be dragged along. Once the matter was settled thanks to Ariadne’s compliance, Isabella—the saint in public—would flip her expression, ignoring Ariadne or framing her, rationalizing that since it was Ariadne’s fault for existing, it was only natural for the younger girl to clean up the mess.
After being victimized day after day, she had once gathered the courage—after she had grown up and become the Regent’s fiancée—and decided she wouldn’t take it anymore. She had caught Isabella in the act and finally lashed out in a rage.
She had shouted, “You red-handed liar!” and, intending to shame her, poured out her fury by laying bare the cold, hard facts of Isabella’s wrongdoing. Yet, the next morning, she woke to find herself branded as a wicked half-sister who had used her status to bully poor, pathetic Isabella. She had simply failed to gauge the intensity of her own anger.
Humans rarely exerted their intellect unless money or self-interest were at stake. Grasping facts and making rational judgments required labor, and since laziness is a human instinct, even the intelligent often judged right from wrong based solely on emotion when it came to mere entertainment. Ariadne now understood, however vaguely, how the world worked.
It was time to apply the answer time had finally granted her—the conclusion she had reached through countless simulations while lying in bed as a child, tossing and turning in frustration, wondering, *Would the result have been different if I had answered differently?*
As soon as Isabella clasped her hand, Ariadne trembled as if startled and stepped back. Her gesture made it appear as though she were genuinely terrified.
Ariadne summoned every scrap of emotion she possessed to force a frightened, distressed expression. Her acting skills were modest, and she couldn’t summon tears on command, but she managed a look suggesting they were on the verge of spilling over.
“Sister! How can you go around saying such things about my figure…?”
This was a battle of momentum. Victory depended on who could claim the position of the victim first.
“I truly hate such talk… You know how much I fear things like that. I don’t even want to hear it when it’s framed as a compliment. I wish it wouldn’t be mentioned at all…”
Isabella had absolutely no idea that Ariadne hated such talk. It was natural that she didn’t; the incident of Isabella teasing Ariadne about the size of her chest had happened in a life that was now both past and future. By Isabella’s current timeline, she had never actually bullied Ariadne properly.
But there was no need to pity Isabella’s confused sense of injustice. Ariadne covered her chest with both arms, putting on a dramatic display, and added in a voice thick with tears.
“…I really hate it when people look at me with those strange eyes…!”
Ariadne backed away, step by step, distancing herself from Isabella with a wounded expression. The people of San Carlo were thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.
— “Oh my, it seems there are many people who look at her like a beast, the poor thing…”
— “Where in San Carlo are there such boorish people! The gentlemen of San Carlo would never do such a thing!”
— “Didn’t they say that child grew up on a farm before coming here? Those uneducated farm folk might be like that.”
— “Hmm, hmm. Well, if that’s the case, I suppose that could be true.”
— “But is her own sister really like that? Even if they are half-sisters, that’s too cruel.”
At this rate, Isabella was about to become the villain who body-shamed her half-sister—a girl who suffered trauma from being treated as a sexual object. Panicking, Isabella reached out one hand.
“A-Aria. That’s not what I meant…”
Ariadne delivered the decisive blow to the faltering Isabella.
“Do you even have any interest in me, Sister? I’m not ‘Aria,’ I’m ‘Ari’!”
Isabella fell silent, her mouth hanging open. She seemed to be scrambling for an excuse. Ariadne did not give her time to escape, pushing forward immediately.
“Even if I am just your newly arrived half-sister, this is really too much. I did my best because I wanted to be a good sister to you.”
After dealing the fatal blow, Ariadne bolted, weaving through the crowd with a wounded, fragile expression. In one stroke, Isabella had been branded a cold-blooded social pariah: a woman who weaponized her sister’s trauma to shame her, a heartless sister who didn’t even know her sibling’s nickname, and an ignorant bigot who ostracized her own flesh and blood. Desperate to escape the role of the villain, Isabella rushed after her, painting her face with a mask of frantic concern.
“Aria! Aria! It’s all a misunderstanding! Wait!”
She didn’t forget to insist on her sister’s nickname, her voice pitched for the onlookers. She had to ensure she appeared blameless. Perfection was a requirement; flaws were not to be tolerated.
The guests left in the wake of their exit erupted into a clamor. Even at a whisper, the sheer volume of a hundred voices made the air vibrate.
“So the matching white dresses were just a lie? They weren’t close at all?”
“Did you hear what Isabella said earlier? She claimed her sister ripped her own dress to court attention! Good heavens, I was suspicious then, but now…”
“She is truly degenerate.”
It seemed the social circles of San Carlo would not be lacking for entertainment for some time.
* * *
Isabella caught up to Ariadne on the stairs leading to the central foyer.
“Hey! You, stop right there!”
Ariadne was no fool, but Isabella lunged with a sudden, desperate strength, snagging the hem of Ariadne’s sleeve and forcing her to halt at the base of the stairs.
“What was that? You know I hate it when people talk about my chest! You vicious bitch! When did I ever say such a thing?!”
The staircase where Isabella had cornered her was the very landing where Arabella had once pushed Isabella down, leading to her confinement on the day Ariadne first arrived. The landing was narrow, the stairs cruelly steep.
Standing in that cramped space, Isabella loomed over her.
“You’re quite the actress, aren’t you? How long have you been planning this frame-up?”
Ariadne stood silent, enduring the physical encroachment. Seeing that her sister offered no resistance, Isabella grew bolder, her fingers curling like claws as she lunged to rip out a fistful of Ariadne’s hair.
“You pathetic wretch! I pampered you, and now you dare to crawl up where you don’t belong!”
Unable to contain her rage, Isabella went into a frenzy, raising her hand high to deliver a stinging slap.
“Do you think I can’t bury you in the San Carlo social scene?!”
The blow never landed. Suddenly, Isabella’s wrist locked mid-air, her entire body twisted by a jolting force. Ariadne, who stood half a head taller, had gripped Isabella’s wrist with a grip of iron.
“Let go! You f***ing bitch!”
Ariadne’s hand was immovable, her resolve as cold as her grip. She held Isabella’s wrist high above her head, then leaned in, her lips brushing Isabella’s ear.
“You f***ing piece of s***. I’m going to bury you.”
Isabella froze. The filth spewing from Ariadne’s mouth was so discordant, so utterly at odds with the girl she had dominated for years, that it left her paralyzed.
Ariadne’s voice was a low, rapid-fire hiss.
“Did you really think you were the only one who knew how to curse?”
With a sharp movement, Ariadne threw Isabella’s wrist aside as if discarding trash. Staggering back from the sudden release, Isabella winced in pain, her momentum shattered. She retreated into the corner of the narrow landing, teetering precariously on the edge of the high, steep stairs.
Ariadne thrust her face inches from Isabella’s, glaring like a predator cornering its prey.
“Sleep lightly, Isabella. Don’t forget that we live under the same roof. It takes only a few footsteps across the hallway for me to reach your room.”
1.
Having spat out the words, Ariadne turned her back and walked away, leaving Isabella rooted to the spot in shock. Every moment spent on someone like Isabella was a waste of precious time. She needed to return to the ballroom—now devoid of its two protagonists—and show the rest of the guests who the true mistress was.