Not long after Peon had essentially chased her out of Lyussenford, Beatrice Lavalle began visiting frequently as well. With her own family’s fortunes in decline, she had nowhere else to turn.
In Lyussenford, Beatrice was a welcome guest—far more so than the Grand Duchess, a woman who was the daughter of a commoner and the Emperor’s niece. The nobles of Lyussenford harbored a complex mix of longing and resentment toward the capital, and they grew fond of the vibrant, gorgeous Beatrice, the flower of high society who reigned over the city’s salons.
Beatrice loved to establish rank. She used the relationships formed in her youth to ensure she always stood above Kaella. The nobles happily joined in, and whenever Kaella attempted to assert her authority as Grand Duchess, they would immediately run to Peon, wielding the powerful curse of the prohibition like a shield.
“Peon and I are just so close.”
Beatrice would retort without blinking. For Kaella, who had loved Peon since childhood, merely hearing Beatrice speak of their special relationship was enough to silence her. It was always Beatrice’s victory.
Kaella recalled the rampant rumors about Beatrice crying before Peon. To be exact, the narrative was always: “The Grand Duchess made Lady Lavalle cry.” She remembered the bitter cold of Lyussenford, where every action she took was restricted and she could barely draw a full breath.
“I was just worried. You’re getting married so suddenly, and that blunt boy has never understood a soul’s heart. As you know, he never understood yours.”
Whenever this happened, Peon never pulled Kaella aside or intervened. He did nothing, leaving her isolated while the nobles and castle staff handled the situation themselves.
“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing. You’re finally being rewarded for your persistence, aren’t you?”
Peon always addressed her as “Grand Duchess,” even though she was denied the proper treatment of the title. Kaella was certain this was the only weapon the man possessed—a cold, emotionless barb. Was it not the ultimate insult to call someone by a title she was never permitted to embody?
“I’m just worried as Peon’s closest friend, so don’t take it the wrong way.”
The subtext was clear: *I have scraped your insides raw, but you aren’t so narrow-minded as to take offense, are you?*
Beatrice’s eyes crinkled into a smile. When she did, it felt as though the entire corridor brightened, casting a spotlight in the middle of the bustling Imperial Palace. The onlookers were instantly captivated. Kaella understood well the power of Beatrice’s aura; without it, she would have been nothing more than a minor noble from a fading house. Kaella found it genuinely remarkable that Beatrice had managed to cling to her status for this long.
“I understand completely. I won’t take it the wrong way.”
She had to accept Beatrice’s barbs as if they were objective truths. How could she wedge herself between Peon and Beatrice? She had to play the part of a woman in a happy union. What else could she do? Beside Beatrice, Kaella was merely an ugly, stiff, charmless stone statue that her husband never spared a glance.
“And I know how special you think of Peon oppa.”
There was nothing more foolish than sharpening her blade against Beatrice here. To anyone in Lyussenford, it was only natural for the Grand Duke to choose Beatrice.
“It’s only natural you’d know best. You’ve watched us for a very long time, haven’t you?”
Beatrice smiled again. Kaella nodded, her expression nonchalant, though a fire was raging beneath the surface.
“That’s true. I know you are much closer than I am. Anyone from Krania knows that you take such careful care of him and that you grew up together. Like you said, it’s a very special relationship.”
She understood that, but was it truly necessary to summon a newlywed to the Imperial Palace just to pick a fight?
Before her death, Kaella would have endured this with a practiced smile, nodded obediently, and returned home to nurse her wounds in secret. She had been naive, clinging to a goodwill that never protected her. But goodwill does not save a life—and neither does malice. Having died and returned, Kaella began to test the lines she had once feared to cross. If crossing them led to her death, that would be a relief. If she survived, she might finally find a way forward.
“Unni, please take good care of oppa for me too. Like you said, you know him much better than I do.”
Since when had Beatrice been colluding with the Emperor behind the Grand Duke’s back?
Kaella could no longer distinguish if the heat rising within her was jealousy, inferiority, or pure resentment. It was infuriating to realize that the person acting as the Emperor’s spy was not an enemy, but the very woman they had tried to protect. Peon, blinded by his first love and old memories, had essentially handed the secrets of Lyussenford to Beatrice on a silver platter.
Afterward, Beatrice had mocked her for being pathetic before feeding her poison. Strictly speaking, the Beatrice she remembered and the woman before her were different, but people rarely changed—not without the kind of trauma that death provided.
“I was actually thinking that thanks to you, Unni, I would be much more comfortable.”
She hated the title ‘Unni,’ but it slipped out easily. Returning Beatrice’s own tactics was surprisingly simple.
She had essentially declared that she would be too busy to care for her husband, effectively handing over the role of the mistress to the woman who claimed to own him. It was a political marriage; she had only to be faithful to the politics of it.
Kaella’s heart pounded, but she forged ahead.
“Visit Lyussenford often. Oppa and I will always welcome you.”
As the next Duchess, her only duties were to ignore the mistress and produce an heir. Though she loathed the pettiness of such squabbles, seeing Beatrice’s expression stiffen gave her a cruel, necessary jolt of satisfaction. She decided to be shameless. She had hit rock bottom once; she had nothing left to lose.
*Yes. I should have done this a long time ago.*
She should have fanned the flames and watched the people who ruined her life burn. Why had she been such a fool as to treat a mistress with dignity when she and Peon were already being mocked for their lineage?
“Give my regards to the Duchess as well.”
“Of course. Certainly.”
Beatrice never lost her smile, though the mask was beginning to slip. She had intended to make Kaella feel miserable, but she had been struck back. It was obvious she would prepare a more vicious attack next time.
“And unlike the Imperial Palace, please know that the doors of the Ostain household are always open to the Duchess.”
*If you’ve done something wrong, you should come to apologize.* Kaella paused. *But do you and your mother really need to be taught that?*
The nearby nobles widened their eyes at Kaella’s bold strike.
“The house will always welcome you both.”
Kaella beamed, mimicking Beatrice’s own saccharine warmth.
“I have a busy schedule, so please excuse me. See you again, Unni.”
Attacking others wasn’t as exhilarating as she had imagined. The people in this palace seemed to possess an endless, exhausting amount of energy for cruelty. Unlike them, she felt tired.
As she walked away, Kaella smiled bitterly, hearing the scurrying whispers of the eavesdropping nobles. They would spin this: the daughter of a bastard treating the flower of high society like a common mistress.
*Well, when had anything good ever happened to her?* It was just the same old life.
･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ･
Peon was the first to receive the report of their encounter. He pressed his eyes shut as he read the summary provided by his agent.
*Where on earth am I supposed to start fixing this?*
He wanted to run to Kaella and apologize, but that was forbidden. Looking at the transcript, he was firmly painted as a man with a mistress in her eyes. If he went now, he would be nothing more than an idiot trying to apologize for his mistress’s mistake to a fiancée who was already heartbroken.
The apology was merely an excuse; he simply wanted to see her. The feelings he had desperately suppressed in Lyussenford were now swirling within him to the point of terror. He forced himself to remain still. He was a moron.
“Kaella said, ‘Thanks to you, Unni, I’ll be much more comfortable’…?”
He was so dumbfounded he could barely speak.
“She said to take good care of me?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
She had countered well. Honestly, she had done very well. Beatrice was the object gentlemen looked up to, not someone ever treated as a mere mistress—until today.
*That can’t be….*
Peon sat on the sofa, long legs crossed, chin resting on his hand, lost in thought. Every time Beatrice visited Lyussenford, the sequence was always the same: Beatrice would cry, he would hear reports of Kaella’s perceived failings, and he would placate the mistress. Then, he would avoid his wife.
*Damn it. She’s going to come crying again.*
“Wilberg.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Lady Lavalle will come crying sometime today.”
Sir Wilberg sensed the rage simmering beneath the Grand Duke’s cold exterior.
“I’ll be leaving in three minutes. Have the carriage waiting.”
“Yes.”
The Emperor would surely laugh at this—a farce where two bastards married each other and engaged in pathetic ‘mistress’ games. Peon was used to the mockery, but for Kaella—who hadn’t even wanted this marriage—it was a humiliating insult.
When Beatrice arrived thirty minutes later, she found Peon staring at his documents, his back turned, refusing to grant her his attention.
“Peon, I…”
“The rumors have already spread. I know what happened.”
Beatrice, who had prepared a perfect script of feigned injury, found her throat dry. She glared at his turned back.
“Kaella said to take good care of me.”
“You said to take good care of me, too.”
“I meant it as a friend…”
“Kaella said it as my fiancée. If it’s as you say, there’s no difference, so why are you here?”
Beatrice was shocked by the cold, insincere question.
“Are you doing this because you’re angry that I refused your proposal? What power do I have? How can you do this to me?”
*That damn prohibition.* Peon sighed, looking at the ceiling.
“The very act of coming here and complaining is you treating yourself like a mistress, Beatrice. If you’re offended, don’t come here. Take your mother to the Ostain household and apologize.”
Beatrice stood with her mouth agape. With no retort, Peon finally turned to face her.
“Didn’t Duchess Monde tell you? She came here to vent her anger, and I sent her back.”
Though he said ‘sent her back,’ the tone was closer to ‘chased her out.’
“It seems you’re the only one who knows I asked you to marry me. That’s why your mother came to vent.”
“How! How can you say that! What if someone hears!”
“Then you shouldn’t have dared to speak to the Lady. Your mother ignores her greeting, and the daughter claims the role of a mistress.”
Beatrice felt the ground shifting beneath her.
“Get out, Beatrice. I have never had a mistress like you.”
“What?”
“I said get out. I clearly stated there is nothing between you and me.”
If he weren’t married to Kaella, perhaps he would have drifted along, using his connection to Beatrice as the Emperor intended, casting aside his beliefs. But Kaella was involved now. That could never happen.
“Get out and never come back.”
Beatrice felt the leash she had held around Peon’s neck finally slip. She had always prided herself on managing the social order, but the heat in her head was overwhelming. Peon, who had always indulged her whimpering, was gone, replaced by a man she didn’t recognize.
*Why?*
The prohibition was still in effect, yet Peon didn’t look consumed by it. It was strange. Terrifying.
But she could not let her pride crumble. Beatrice stood up, walked to the doorway, and slapped Peon across the cheek.
“You betrayed me and the Empress Dowager for a few lousy coins.”
“I’ve always been a bit of a disgusting bastard.”
As the knight acknowledged his own shame, Beatrice was left in shock.
“You… you… why are you doing this?”
Instead of answering, Peon called for Sir Wilberg.
“Wilberg!”
“Yes, Your Highness. Lady Lavalle, this way.”
Peon, having chased her out, knew exactly how the gossip would circulate by tomorrow. The prospective Grand Duchess treating the queen of high society like a mistress, the queen chasing after the Duke, and the Duke acknowledging his own corruption.
He searched for liquor in the middle of the day. He kept dragging the most noble woman he knew into the mud.
His sins were growing deeper and deeper.