Chapter 1 — Confession, Carefully
Life, to begin with, is unfair.
Some people are born with everything, while others come into the world with almost nothing. That difference at birth is simply unavoidable.
That’s why people often say life is unfair as hell.
It took me quite a long time to truly understand that unchanging truth.
Four years have passed, yet the memory of that day remains as vivid as ever in my mind.
The day I stepped out into the frigid winter streets, clutching a bag stuffed only with the bare necessities, ignoring the stinging pain still burning on my cheek.
“…The Cherner Marquis’s residence on Ruden Street. The Cherner Marquis’s residence… Ruden Street… Harold Winston.”
It was a name I had seen long ago—my maternal uncle’s—and the address I had read on that letter.
Muttering it over and over, I dragged my heavy steps forward for what felt like ages before the outlines of large buildings and neatly paved roads finally came into view.
Ruden Street—where the wealthy supposedly lived—was wide and refined, so impeccably clean it almost seemed to shine. I found myself wondering just how such a place was maintained.
“…Hah.”
After hurrying such a long distance, bundled tightly against the cold, my breath had grown labored. Only then did I pull down the scarf wrapped around my face, and a cloud of white breath scattered into the freezing dawn air.
It was so cold that frostbite would not have been surprising. The wind was fierce enough to sting any exposed skin, and after walking nonstop since last night, my legs were nearly giving out.
But I couldn’t stop here.
Rubbing my frozen cheeks and nose with my palms, I forced myself to keep moving.
Thankfully, the brutal cold had emptied the streets. If anyone had seen a scrawny girl in worn-out, shabby clothes wandering through this affluent district, they would have called the guards and driven me out like a rat from a kitchen.
As I walked cautiously, wary of anyone approaching, I suddenly found myself standing before the most magnificent mansion in the entire street.
A place someone like me would never set foot in, even in a lifetime.
At the entrance stood a gatekeeper in full armor, idly picking at his ear.
“……”
Clutching my frayed bag tightly, I took a deep breath and stepped toward him.
“Good day, sir. I’ve come to see someone named Harold Winston.”
Approaching him with the utmost politeness, I handed over the money I had brought when I left home. It was my entire savings—scraped together from small allowances—but in the gatekeeper’s thick hand, it looked pathetically insignificant.
“Harold, the Marquis’s aide, you mean? He should be up by now…”
Whether my respectful manner pleased him or it was simply the bribe, the gatekeeper, at least, did not shout at me or shove me away.
As my tension eased, the words began to come more easily. I clasped my hands tightly and looked up at him with desperate eyes.
“Please. You may not believe me, but he’s my family. Just let me meet him.”
“If you show up without notice like this…”
The gatekeeper glanced between my face and the money before letting out a grunt and gesturing to me.
“Follow me.”
“…Yes!”
Suppressing the urge to cheer, I quickly followed him.
The yard was so vast that it took quite some time to pass through the enormous iron gates and reach the mansion doors. Just as I was about to step inside, the gatekeeper stopped and gave me a once-over, then spoke indifferently.
“You’ll dirty the place. Wait outside.”
It’s my clothes that are worn, not me.
“…Yes.”
I barely swallowed the words that almost slipped out in irritation. I couldn’t possibly speak that way to a noble household’s gatekeeper—and, in truth, I did look pitiful.
As I fidgeted with my torn stockings and patched coat, the gatekeeper called over a maid who had been carrying luggage across the yard.
He pointed at me and said something, and after a nod, she disappeared inside.
“Wait there. Don’t be seen.”
With that, he turned and walked off without a backward glance.
I stood with my feet neatly together, gripping my bag tightly.
“……”
Had it been ten minutes since the maid went inside? My patience was beginning to wear thin. The freezing air seeped through my clothes, making my body tremble, and the sharp wind brought involuntary sniffles. Forcing strength into my weakening legs, I pulled my coat tighter around me and wondered—
How long do I have to wait?
Just as the cold began to feel unbearable and I considered ignoring the gatekeeper and going in myself, the heavy sound of a large door opening rang out. Startled, I straightened immediately.
Standing beside the maid was my uncle, his hair tousled as if he had just woken, his attire slightly disheveled. After glancing around, he spotted me and hurried over, his face filled with shock.
“Raven? Is that you, Raven?”
Even though my face must have been a mess—bruised and streaked with dried tears—he recognized me, despite it having been years since we last met.
He quickly took off his coat and draped it over my shivering shoulders.
“What happened to your face…? What on earth has happened to you?”
“……”
His eyes, filled with concern, nearly brought tears to mine.
Steadying my trembling breath, I stepped into his arms.
That was my last memory of that day.
Relaxing in the warmth, I fell asleep. I didn’t realize it then, but when my uncle touched my forehead, he later said I was burning with fever.
It wasn’t surprising. Even with layers of clothing, in that freezing weather—after walking half a day from the outskirts of the capital on an empty stomach—catching a cold was inevitable.
Back when my surname wasn’t Winston, like my uncle’s, but Chase—when I was still living through my childhood—I don’t think I need to explain just how miserably unhappy it was.
If I had to summarize it in one line, it was a life only slightly better than a gutter. I could talk for days and still not finish describing it.
My father was a gamekeeper for a nearby noble’s hunting grounds, and my mother worked as a restaurant server.
Being a family of four children in such poor circumstances was already unfortunate—but to make matters worse, all of them were younger brothers except for me.
My three younger brothers were lazy, stupid, and treated me like their personal maid, constantly pestering me whenever they had the chance. As for my parents, they were firmly rooted in outdated beliefs—that a woman should be modest, dedicate herself to the household, and become a virtuous wife early in life. This, despite the fact that times had changed, and women could now become successful merchants or even hold important positions.
If anyone thinks I’m being too harsh just because they’re my family, I’d gladly tell them to shut up.
Around the age of six, when I had grown enough to think rationally, I realized something.
In this household, there was a child they could afford to neglect.
While my brothers ran around playing all day, I was the one doing housework. When my parents fought, I was the one who had to listen to my mother’s complaints all night. And yet, my allowance was always half of what my brothers received, and naturally, my room was much smaller than theirs.
It was blatant discrimination.
But did I obediently accept it and prepare for marriage? Of course not.
Fortunately, I was quite good at studying—exceptionally so for a commoner. I consistently ranked first in my school, and my learning speed far surpassed my peers.
Opening a book and immersing myself in the knowledge within became, inevitably, my favorite thing in the world. Mathematics, history, literature, economics, science—expanding my learning felt like being an explorer uncovering hidden treasures. I would read anything I could get my hands on.
Though I was a commoner and a girl—making the odds incredibly slim—I dreamed of escaping that cramped, filthy place and rising through my own abilities.
But that dream didn’t last long.
The year I turned twelve, I was forced to stop attending school. Instead, Jonas—who had never once cared for books—began going in my place.
“Do you even know how expensive higher education is? What would a girl gain from studying? A woman belongs at home, managing the household. Big matters are for men.”
That was my father’s lifelong belief.
I wanted to ask what nonsense that was, but back then, I didn’t even dare to speak up. I clung to his irresponsible promise that I could return to school once our situation improved.
Even so, I didn’t give up studying.
I collected discarded books from nearby bookstores and libraries, reading late into the night by candlelight. Many of them were far beyond my level, but that didn’t matter. As I read, I gradually came to understand.
But even after two years, I still couldn’t return to school.
Finally, the evening I gathered the courage to ask again—telling myself that even a basic school would be fine—my parents delivered the most horrifying news of my life.
“The baker’s son across the street has taken a liking to you.”
It was news of my own marriage—something I alone had not known.
So shocked was I that I spat out the water I had been drinking.
They said he had been watching me for a long time. That he owned a shop. That marrying into such a household would be a good thing. That I knew our family was struggling. That daughters were, after all, assets to support the household.
I was fourteen at the time.
Among poor commoners, it wasn’t unheard of to marry off young daughters as if selling them—but I had never imagined it would happen to me.
That boy—the baker’s son—looked like a lump of kneaded dough. He was stupid, ill-tempered, and utterly lacking in ability or awareness. In short, he was exactly the kind of person I despised most.
I would rather hold my breath and die than marry someone like that.
“…Why me? I refuse!”
Stunned for a few seconds, I finally snapped back to my senses and shouted loud enough to shake the roof.
It was the first time their usually obedient daughter had ever rebelled, and my parents were clearly flustered. Looking back, it seems all the resentment I had suppressed until then burst out at once.
No. I won’t get married. I’ve done everything you told me to. My brothers, who you’ve poured money into, do nothing but eat and laze around—so why do I have to live like this?
I shouted so fiercely that I barely remember what I said, or what my parents said in return.
Something about my brothers. Something about the dowry.
But one thing remains clear: the moment I glared at my father in defiance, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
In the end, it was only after he struck me across the face several times that I realized—
Ah. There was never any reason for me to stay here in the first place.
After being neglected a hundred times, there was no need to cling to the name of “family” just because of a single act of kindness.
So I left.
I walked out on that shameless family, taking with me only my meager savings and a few simple clothes.
