Chapter 4: Perhaps What I Never Knew
The scratch of pen on paper filled the room. As if the morning’s clamor had been an outright lie, Celine and I painted the afternoon in quiet absorption, throwing ourselves into our work. After jotting down the final corrections on a document, I set my pen aside, feeling as stiff as a board. I even worried I might come down with spinal arthritis at my young age. Good posture was practically my only redeeming quality. Chuckling faintly at the useless thought, I gently massaged my shoulder.
Looking up at the clock, I saw it was about time to leave for the day. I spoke toward Celine, who was organizing papers across the room. Her nose was buried in the files.
“Celine, you can head out now.”
“Oh, it’s not time yet, though.”
“Just go. You can finish the rest tomorrow.”
In truth, if we tried to plow through the rest of the paperwork today, there was so much of it that we wouldn't even make it home tonight. Since it wasn't strictly urgent, I stood up from my seat. Looking quite thrilled, Celine broke into a bright smile. I took my coat from the hanger, draped it over my shoulders, and checked the clock again. Wonder if Khalid is finished.
Unlike me, whose workday ran on a fixed schedule, the knights' morning and evening hours were largely dictated by their commander's whim. Perhaps because of that, it was difficult for either Khalid or me to sync our schedules precisely.
After a brief moment of hesitation, I decided that dropping by unannounced without an appointment would be terribly rude, so I resolved to head straight home. Besides, I was exhausted.
The mountain of work dumped on the Ministry of Foreign Affairs after our return from the negotiations was simply overwhelming. In a way, since I had set it all in motion, it was only right that I handled it, but at moments like this, I honestly resented my own industriousness. Naturally, I threw myself into my work with great diligence. But diligence was diligence, and exhausting was exhausting.
Celine pulled on her coat and walked toward the door. Standing by my desk, I neatly tidied the papers I had strewn about, finishing my preparations to leave. Setting my pen straight on the desk, I spoke toward Celine, who had not yet stepped out of the room.
“Don't forget to turn off the lights on your way out.”
“Celine?”
Contrary to my expectations, no answer came. Since she always waited for me before exiting the room, I called her name once more. Yet silence lingered. Wondering if something was amiss at this uncharacteristic, unbroken quiet, I finally turned my head. And then, a voice rang out.
A tear-drenched voice pierced my ears. The person standing there with a pale, stricken face was someone I knew all too well.
Brown hair draping softly over one shoulder, sapphire eyes glistening with tears. She possessed a delicate, fragile beauty, as pure and poised to crumble as a solitary white lily.
Even so, the sight stirred nothing within me. First, because I had expected her to come find me sooner or later; second, because I had no idea what thoughts lurked beneath that lovely exterior.
Her hands neatly clasped in front of her, Isabel stared at me with her mouth tightly closed. In stark contrast to her drained face, her reddened, swollen eyes looked poignantly pitiful and heartbreaking. The tears gathering like dewdrops the moment she saw me were enough to make anyone's chest ache. Indeed, whenever she cried in the past, I used to feel utterly flustered—and I would invariably grant whatever favor she pleaded for through her tears.
Celine stood blankly by the door, glaring daggers at Isabel, but I, the person concerned, wore a perfectly composed expression. Soon, after staring blankly at Isabel, Celine’s eyes flickered, and she let out an exasperated sigh. Watching her bite her lip, clearly longing to say something, I spoke up.
“Celine, wait outside.”
Celine was quick on the uptake. Though dissatisfaction was written all over her face, I gently nudged her out the door. Isabel held back her tears in front of me, though clear drops were already tracing lines down her cheeks.
I was well aware of how this confrontation between us would appear to an outside observer. To someone ignorant of the circumstances—or perhaps even to someone who knew every detail—the sight of two women, once the closest of friends under the name of sisterly affection, standing like this was bound to seem utterly absurd, and immensely cruel. And the villain in this dynamic was me. None other than me.
Who had been hurt more didn't actually matter. In the eyes of a third party, the person who was cruel at the very end was the most heartless of all. Wounds already suffered held no weight to them. Thus, they would invariably judge me solely by the scene before their eyes. Still, that’s so harsh. Even so, did she really have to go this far?
Isabel had a knack for casting others in the role of the tormentor. It wasn't just something born of her appearance, but of her distinct, delicate aura.
Because of that, I was grateful that no one else was in this room besides the two of us. Had it been otherwise, I would have had to keep playing that sickening charade. Pretending to be close, pretending to be gracious. Feigning that nothing was wrong while hypocritically consoling Isabel, wagging my tail like a sly fox.
Yet I had no desire to do that. I had far too many things weighing on my mind to indulge her, and I didn't hate Isabel enough to want to murder her—at least, not yet. Of course, that was only true when compared to the countless political enemies trying to kill me and threaten my family’s very survival, but it didn't mean I wasn't thoroughly disillusioned with her.
I was someone deeply conscious of others' gazes. No matter how much I wrapped myself in an aloof, unbothered guise, I was only human in the end. A person who couldn't help reacting to every single stray glance.
And that was why I found this situation so immensely satisfying. The sight of her weeping while I simply looked down upon her. And above all, the fact that no one was here to reprimand me for it.
Wasn't it laughable? How easily a friendship could shatter. Or rather, was it truly easy at all? It felt as if one of us had finally let go of a rope we had been pulling taut between us. She had dragged relentlessly to snap that cord, while I had desperately pulled toward her side out of fear it might break.
Why?
Why had I done that?
Taking slow steps forward, I gestured toward the sofa with my chin. Staring at me blankly, Isabel bit her lip and took a seat across from me.
Passion turned to cold detachment; emotion gave way to reason.
A look as chilling as a midwinter frost must have been fixed upon my face. Otherwise, she wouldn't be flinching and trembling like this as she looked at me.
People don't change in a single instant. Rather, the lingering grievances buried deep within my heart began rearing their heads one by one. Looking at her face brought back the very day we first met, that summer afternoon when we were five years old. Then the cozy winter fireside where I had confided my first love to her. And finally, her appearance at the debutante ball, sweeping into the banquet hall in a dazzling gown.
Where had it gone wrong? Whose fault was it? Perhaps, somewhere in the middle, some of the blame was mine. A relationship between people doesn't fracture through one person alone. Maybe I… made a mistake.
If not for that, our bond could never have turned inside out overnight. Perhaps I ought to have cut ties far sooner. Maybe I should have stripped away her lingering hopes from the start.
As those thoughts crossed my mind, a bitter bile seemed to rise in my throat. By my own hand, I had brought my former friend to tears. By my own hand, I had made her a laughingstock. Yet that didn't erase the years we had shared as friends. Nor did it erase the years she had spent wounding me. We had drifted far too far apart to ever smile and reconcile again.
And yet, how long had I waited for this very moment?
Stifling the stinging ache behind my eyes with everything I had, I parted my lips.
“Scarlett, I'm sorry.”
Isabel’s apology came so effortlessly. She was someone who apologized remarkably well to others. It was comical how I had once thought this a sign of fine character, believing she truly knew how to reflect on her faults—all while failing to realize that, to her, apologies were extraordinarily cheap.
“For what?”
The words that escaped my lips were so frigid that they startled even me.
“I know I’ve wronged you in the past. Scarlett, it makes sense that you'd be furious with me. Yes, from your perspective, it must have looked that way.”
“Isn't that just an objective fact, not merely my perspective?”
An incredulous, dry laugh burst from me.
‘From my perspective? No, I don't think you're the only one who sees it that way.’
“But Scarlett, I truly, truly never intended to hurt you—”
“Are you going to tell me it was for my sake?”
“Isabel.”
Looking her dead in the eye, I ground out each syllable. Her gaze locked with mine. That innocent stare that seemed incapable of causing any harm. The way I had foolishly trusted her time and again under that gaze was all in the past now.
“I'm not an idiot.”
“I’m sorry for failing to see through your malice. But don't make the mistake of assuming I'll play the fool forever.”
