Chapter 20
It hadn’t been long since Pheon had practically been chased off to Lüsenford when Beatrice Lavalle began visiting Lüsenford frequently as well. Her family’s declining fortunes had left her with nowhere else to turn.
In Lüsenford, she was always a welcome guest. More welcome than the Duchess, who was the daughter of an illegitimate child despite being the Emperor’s niece.
The Lüsenford nobles harbored both longing and hatred for the capital. They quietly admired the glamorous, vibrant Beatrice. After all, she was the flower of high society, the one who ruled the social scene.
She loved establishing hierarchies. From the relationships formed in their earliest childhood, she always wanted to prove she held the upper hand over Kaella, the Duchess.
The Lüsenford nobles sided with her, and if Kaella pushed back by invoking her authority as Duchess, they ran straight to Pheon. She had a powerful spell called the gold restraint binding her.
“Pheon and I are so close, after all.”
Beatrice fired back at Kaella’s words without so much as blinking. For Kaella, who had loved Pheon since childhood, just bringing up the special bond between Beatrice and Pheon was enough to shut it down. It was always Beatrice’s victory.
Kaella remembered the rumors that had spread far and wide: that Beatrice had cried in front of Pheon because of her.
More precisely, it had circulated as “The Duchess made Lady Lavalle cry.” She recalled the biting cold of Lüsenford, where every action felt constrained and breathing came in choked gasps.
“Suddenly announcing a marriage like this—I was worried that blunt boy who never understands people’s hearts would be all right. As you know, he never realized your feelings.”
Each time, Pheon never summoned Kaella on her own or took any action. He simply, consistently, left her be. He did nothing, and the nobles and castle staff of Lüsenford took care of it themselves.
“Well, it must feel good. After clinging so persistently, you finally get your reward?”
Even though she wasn’t treated like a proper Duchess, Pheon addressed her as Duchess without fail.
Kaella was certain that this stoic man with no emotional tells made that his one form of attack. Calling someone who wasn’t a Duchess “Duchess”—wasn’t that the ultimate insult?
“As his closest friend, I’m just worried for him, so don’t take it the wrong way.”
It was the kind of thing that clawed at people’s insides while implying, “You’re not so petty as to hold a grudge, are you?”
Beatrice smiled with her eyes. The air around her seemed to brighten. Right in the middle of the bustling Imperial Palace corridor, it felt like a sparkling light had bloomed. The furtive gazes of onlookers all clung to Beatrice.
Kaella knew all too well the immense power of Beatrice’s beauty and presence.
Without it, Beatrice would have been nothing more than the daughter of a faded noble house teetering on oblivion. Holding on this far was impressive in itself. Kaella genuinely thought Beatrice was remarkable.
“I understand completely. No offense taken.”
Which meant she had to accept Beatrice’s barbs as simple truth. Because they were. What right did Kaella have to wedge herself between Pheon and Beatrice?
They must care for each other deeply and be happy together. What could she do about it? Compared to Beatrice, she was plain and charmless, a rigid block of wood her husband had never once glanced back at.
“I know how specially you think of Brother Pheon, too.”
Picking a fight with Beatrice here would be the height of foolishness. Anyone could see that the Lüsenford Duke choosing Beatrice was only natural. At least in Lüsenford, it was.
“Well, you’d know best, wouldn’t you? You’ve been watching us for so long. Right?”
Beatrice smiled softly with her eyes. Kaella nodded evenly. Her face stayed impassive, but inside, flames roared hot and fierce.
“That’s right. I know you’re far closer to him than I am. Everyone in Crania knows how the Duchess of Monde has doted on him so carefully, and how you’ve grown up together since childhood. Just as you said—a very special bond.”
She understood that much, sure. But with her already swamped as a new bride, did Beatrice really need to summon her so blatantly in the Imperial Palace, of all places—a crowded spot no less—to start a staring contest?
Before her death, Kaella would have just smiled through it all, nodded politely, observed every etiquette to the letter, then gone back and quietly stewed in her hurt.
Back then, not knowing better was one thing, but she had wanted to believe in good intentions. That was how naive Kaella had been.
“Too bad you and the Duchess of Monde won’t be able to attend my wedding this time. Such a special relationship and all. I was hoping you’d come celebrate. What a shame.”
Good intentions wouldn’t save her life, though. So what about malice?
The Kaella who had died and returned started crossing lines she had always held sacred. What was the worst that could happen? Death again. Death would be a relief. Survival meant trying something new.
“Sister, take good care of Brother for me, too. Like you said, you know him better than I do.”
Since when had Beatrice been deceiving the Duke and conspiring with the Emperor?
Kaella could no longer tell if the surge inside her was jealousy and inferiority or sheer injustice.
It infuriated her—no, it devastated her—that the Emperor’s spy, whom they had hunted so viciously in Lüsenford with pointed fingers, had been Beatrice all along, not her.
Blinded by first love and old memories, Pheon had desperately clung to his beliefs and handed Lüsenford’s secrets straight to Beatrice on a platter.
And Beatrice had mocked Kaella’s pitiful state while slipping her the poison.
Of course, the Beatrice from Kaella’s memories had nothing to do with this one. Strictly speaking, they were different people. But people didn’t change easily. You needed something like death to become someone new.
“I figured things would be a lot easier for me, thanks to you, sister.”
She had hated using the word “sister,” but it slipped out smoothly all the same. Mirroring Beatrice’s tactics exactly turned out to be effortless. Seeing her face change now, Kaella realized she could toss it around without a second thought.
Yes. What she had just told her husband amounted to: I’m too busy to look after him, so you, the mistress, handle it. This was a political marriage, after all—staying true to the “politics” was all that mattered.
Kaella had never thrown barbs like this so openly before. Clutching her thundering heart, she pressed on.
“Come to Lüsenford often. Brother and I will always welcome you together.”
As the wealthy daughter of the Ostein Duke and future Duchess, she had no need to obsess over her husband’s mistress. Just produce an heir, and that was that.
She despised wife-mistress squabbles with every fiber of her being, but the way Beatrice’s eyes hardened in an instant confirmed Kaella had landed a solid hit.
Self-disgust hit her at the same moment for stooping to something so loathsome, but Kaella chose shamelessness. She had already scraped bottom once.
Yes. She should have done this ages ago. At least spat it out loud, fanned the flames so the two who ruined her would crash and burn sooner.
She never should have played the fool, bending over backward not to treat Beatrice like a mistress when she herself was branded the illegitimate’s daughter—and Pheon caught the same flak.
“Please give my regards to the Duchess, too.”
“Of course.”
Beatrice never lost her smile to the end. She had seen Kaella as laughably beneath her, tossed casual words to sting, but got burned instead without fully crumbling. Next time, she’d come more prepared to strike. Predictable.
“And unlike the Imperial Palace, the Ostein Duke’s house always keeps its doors open to the Duchess. Definitely.”
When you screw up, you come apologize. Kaella emphasized “definitely” before pausing.
“I’m letting you know.”
But you and your mother need it spelled out that you owe me an apology?
The nobles around them widened their eyes at Kaella’s sharp clapback.
“You two are always welcome at the Duke’s house.”
Kaella couldn’t replicate Beatrice’s eye smile for the same dazzling effect, so she simply offered a soft one of her own. She could smile, too.
“I have a tight schedule, so I’ll excuse myself first. See you next time, sister.”
Attacking and cutting someone down brought no relief, no triumph.
The Lüsenford nobles and castle folk who thrived on this, the Emperor, Beatrice, the Duchess of Monde, and the rest—they all had such vitality. So healthy, unlike her.
Turning her back on Beatrice, Kaella gave a wry smile at the nobles who had been lurking to eavesdrop and now bolted like startled rabbits.
The illegitimate’s daughter weds the illegitimate, and word gets around that she called high society’s flower her husband’s mistress.
Whatever. Had anything good ever happened to her anyway? Her life had always been more of the same.
*
Pheon was the first to learn that Beatrice and Kaella had crossed paths in the Imperial Palace—and even exchanged words. He squeezed his eyes shut tight at the conversation transcript rushed to him by the watcher he’d assigned to Beatrice.
‘Where the hell do I even start fixing this……’
He wanted to rush to Kaella right now and apologize again, but that was absolutely out of the question.
From the exchange, he was already branded in her mind as a man with a mistress. Showing up now would just paint him as the fool apologizing for his mistress’s sins to his wounded fiancée.
Truth be told, the apology was just cover—he missed her. The feelings he’d desperately buried in Lüsenford, only now admitting to himself, churned through him with terrifying force.
He crushed the shameless urge to run to her. This was exactly why he’d kept turning away, turning away. Idiot.
“Kaella said ‘thanks to sister, it’ll be much easier’……”
He was so stunned he could barely get the words out.
“And told her to take good care of me?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
She had fired back brilliantly. Honestly, perfectly.
Beatrice was the kind of woman gentlemen idolized, dying for a single word. She’d never been dismissed as some mere mistress. Only an Ostein Duke’s daughter could pull that off.
But Kaella—the same Kaella who had braved the cold to confront him point-blank about “how Lady Lavalle was overstepping the Duchess’s authority and what to do about it”—had said that?
‘No way……’
Pheon’s brows knitted deeper. The Duke lounged on the plush low sofa, long legs crossed, elbow propped on the armrest, chin in hand as he sank into heavy thought.
Truth was, Beatrice’s visits to Lüsenford always stirred trouble. Pheon’s routine was always the same: Beatrice showed up in tears, or he got reports from the butler or maids.
Kaella had done this, Your Highness the Duchess had done that. Kaella was always the culprit. So he’d soothe Beatrice just enough.
A few gruff words to her whining, and it was done. Then a few days later, he’d “coincidentally” cross paths with the Duchess he’d left untouched.
Damn it, Beatrice would come crying with complaints again.
“Wilberg.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Lady Lavalle will come crying today.”
Knight Wilberg eyed the Duke tensely as he issued his icy orders to thin air. Midway, irritation surged, and the Duke swallowed it hard.
“In five minutes—no, three. Have the carriage waiting as is.”
“Yes.”
His voice seethed with fury on the brink of eruption. The Emperor would have a field day with this. Mocking how the illegitimate bloodlines tied the knot and played mistress games.
Pheon was inured to it by now, but Kaella—forced into a marriage she never wanted—what a calamity. Utter humiliation for the future Ostein Duke.
Knight Wilberg withdrew from the Duke, who was clearly enraged yet holding it in. Exactly thirty minutes later, when Lady Lavalle came dashing in, he was impressed.
Pheon wore an expression like he didn’t want her in the office at all. Crying or not, he stood at his desk, eyes on the papers.
“Pheon, I……”
“Word of whatever you said outside—and to whom—has spread everywhere. I know all about it.”
Beatrice had rehearsed her perfect closer: upset that her marriage partner had been rude to her, but congrats anyway, don’t forget me. She couldn’t even launch into it. Glaring at his turned back.
“Kaella told her to take good care of you.”
“You told her to take good care of me, too.”
“As your friend……”
“Kaella said it as my fiancée. No difference by your logic—so why are you here?”
The lazy, half-hearted question stunned Beatrice.
“You—you’re doing this because you’re mad I turned down your proposal? What power do I even have? How dare you speak to me like that?”
That damn gold restraint again. Pheon stared at the ceiling, face blank with despair, and sighed. Conversations required mutual understanding.
“Coming here to whine about it after hearing that? That’s you branding yourself a mistress, Beatrice. If you’re that upset, don’t come—drag your mother to the Ostein Duke’s house and apologize first.”
Beatrice gaped, speechless. Pheon finally turned to face her.
“Didn’t the Duchess of Monde tell you? She stormed in raging; I sent her packing.”
“Sent packing” came out more like “kicked out.” Like Kaella, Pheon deliberately dragged up her sorest spot: her mother.
“You act like only you know about my proposal. That’s why your mother came storming at me.”
“How—how could you say that! What if someone overhears!”
“Then you shouldn’t have dared speak to the Duke’s Daughter. Mother snubs greetings, daughter chats away and plays the mistress.”
Who could’ve guessed that demure Duke’s Daughter would bandy about “mistress”? Beatrice had stepped up to humble the well-bred Kaella, only to take a hit herself. It felt all wrong.
Kaella wasn’t like that, was she? Wasn’t she Pheon’s type?
The lofty sort who equated losing dignity with death. No guts to confess a crush, just the delusion that quiet devotion would eventually earn a glance. Pathetic.
And Pheon was acting bizarre, too!
“Out, Beatrice. I’ve never kept a mistress like you.”
“What?”
“Out. Guess your mother never told you—I said point-blank that you and I are nothing.”
Nothing? Blow after blow landed as Pheon yanked the door open himself.
Had he not been marrying Kaella—had he stayed a total stranger—he might’ve used Beatrice just like she and the Emperor used each other. Toss beliefs, crash together.
But not with Kaella in the picture.
“Out. And stay out.”
Beatrice felt the leash she’d always gripped on Pheon slip smoothly from her fingers.
In society, she prided herself on juggling women casually and toying with men for fun. But these past few days’ upheavals had her head feverish, vision swimming.
Pheon had always listened to her tears. Now he cut her off cold, like he’d died and been reborn. Why? The gold restraint was still there.
She checked it habitually every meeting, layering spells atop it. Yet Pheon acted unbound. Bizarre. Terrifying.
Still, she wouldn’t crumble to her last shred of pride. Beatrice shot to her feet, chin high, strode out—and at the threshold, slapped Pheon’s cheek hard.
“You betrayed me and Her Majesty the Empress—who suffered so much for you—for a handful of coin.”
“I’ve always been a filthy mutt bastard.”
Hearing a noble knight call himself that and nod shook Beatrice to her core. How had the swear-free Pheon turned into this? Like a stranger.
“You…… what the…… why are you like this?”
Pheon didn’t answer. He snapped irritably for Knight Wilberg.
“Wilberg!”
“Yes, Your Highness. Lady Lavalle, this way.”
Having her ejected, Pheon could already sum up tomorrow’s gossip: the would-be Duchess treated society’s queen like a mistress; the queen chased after and slapped the Duke.
No matter the spin, he’d come off the villain—but it’d twist into Duke’s Daughter versus society queen battling over the Duke. Pheon reached for liquor in broad daylight. He kept dragging the noblest woman he knew into the muck.
His sins grew ever darker.
