Chapter: 7
It wasn’t dramatic enough to make her rejoice, shouting, “My body’s been cut in half!”
Still, the weight loss was clearly visible. The once puffy, shapeless body had developed real contours.
“Silvia had a jawline after all!”
It had simply been buried under fat. She had a nose bridge, a jawline—and you could even see her collarbones. The surge of emotion felt like unearthing an ancient ruin that had been buried for ages.
Rubbing her straight collarbone, she tried to estimate how long it would have taken to see this through a proper, orthodox diet.
“To lose this much, I would’ve had to suffer for at least over a month.”
And yet it had happened in just a few hours—while sitting still and doing mana breathing!
She felt so happy she wanted to dance.
“If Bell weren’t here, I’d have danced ten times already.”
But Bell was already looking at her strangely, and drawing even more attention wasn’t an option.
Calming her excitement, she asked Bell,
“Are you working here too?”
“Yes, Miss. I am your personal maid.”
“Oh… really?”
Well. Was that a good thing or not?
Was it unfortunate for Bell? The West Wing was short on staff, so everyone working there was always busy—and now she had followed a bad-tempered mistress here.
“I’m sorry.”
“…Pardon?”
Bell asked back, looking confused.
Seeing that innocent face that knew nothing, Silvia wanted to sincerely apologize to her.
But would Bell even take her apology seriously right now?
Of course not.
In this rigid class-based society, it was unthinkable for a noble to apologize to a servant.
Even when they committed terrible wrongs, nobles didn’t apologize. They compensated instead.
Truly remarkable people. Was admitting fault really such a blow to their pride?
In any case, in this world, a noble apologizing to a servant was the very thing the duke had sternly warned her against—“a disgrace that drags the family name into the dirt.”
Personally, she didn’t care. She was only a noble on the outside.
But Bell was different.
If a bad-tempered mistress suddenly apologized, Bell would tremble in confusion.
She might even cry, thinking this was a prelude to being tormented to the brink of death.
It was too soon to apologize. She needed to wait until Bell realized she had truly changed.
“Only then will she understand that I’m sincere.”
So, suppressing her guilt, she said,
“Could you bring me some water?”
“Yes. Shall I prepare a meal as well?”
“Now that I think about it, I haven’t eaten a single meal today.”
She had been fine before realizing it, but once the thought crossed her mind, hunger struck.
“Starving yourself is bad! Dieting has to be healthy.”
Making excuses to herself, she said,
“Yes. Please prepare a meal too. But not greasy food like before—something light that won’t burden the stomach.”
“Light food…?”
“Just three or four simple dishes, mostly vegetables.”
“Vegetables?”
Bell asked with wide eyes. Normally, afraid of Silvia’s temper, she would have obediently answered “Yes, yes.”
But Silvia, who used to loathe vegetables, was suddenly asking for a vegetable-based meal.
That reaction was only natural.
But the current Silvia quite liked vegetables.
Of course, dietary control was the foundation of dieting, so even if she didn’t like them, she’d have to eat them. Sweet and greasy foods were poison to a diet.
She nodded firmly.
“Yes. Vegetables and grains, please. Something you’d serve to a patient. Absolutely—absolutely no greasy food. Bring meals like that for the time being.”
Bell’s eyes shook violently, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.
But when Silvia didn’t change her words, Bell finally realized she was serious, bowed her head, and left the room.
Click.
Silvia watched until Bell was gone, then got up from the bed.
“So… what should I do?”
There was still time before Bell returned with the meal.
“It’d be a waste to just sit around doing nothing.”
After thinking it over, she decided to use the short time to exercise.
Even though she had lost some weight, she was still far from a standard body weight. The need to diet hadn’t changed.
The basics of dieting were dietary control and exercise.
She’d handled the diet—now it was time for exercise.
Exercise equipment would have helped, but bodyweight exercise would do.
“But what kind of exercise should I do?”
She couldn’t overdo it from the start.
A body that had only ever exercised by breathing would get injured if she moved too violently.
Simple but effective exercises. Ones that wouldn’t strain her body…
“This really is the best at times like this!”
With a confident smile, she spread her feet shoulder-width apart.
And then—
“Da-da-da-da, tan-tan! Da-da-da-da, tan-tan!”
Humming the national exercise song she had diligently followed along to in elementary school, she began her routine.
***
Bell walked down the corridor, glancing at Silvia’s tightly closed door.
Her lady had been strange today.
“Did the sun rise in the west today? She looked in a mirror she never touched, didn’t throw a tantrum even after being scolded by the duke… and now she’s asking for a vegetable-based meal!”
Ever since becoming Silvia’s personal maid, Bell had endured Silvia’s tantrums every single day.
And she knew all too well that whenever Silvia met Duke Atlante, those tantrums multiplied severalfold.
Silvia only ever met the duke for one reason—to receive punishment for her misdeeds.
After being reprimanded, Silvia would become even more sensitive and ill-tempered.
Middle-of-the-night hunger tantrums were routine, forcing Bell to prepare late-night meals.
She’d wake the sleeping cook and get cursed at, then get cursed again for taking too long—even after enduring all that to deliver the food.
And if the dish didn’t suit Silvia’s taste?
“Are you seriously bringing this for me to eat?! Huh?!”
With a scream that could tear the air apart, the dish would come flying straight at Bell.
“But today, she didn’t seem that irritated.”
When Bell heard Silvia had been ordered to reflect in the West Wing, she had wanted to cry.
“Just how bad is she going to be today?”
She had come to the West Wing worried she might leave with broken bones—but strangely, Silvia was calm.
Cleaning the bed after some foul-smelling liquid had spilled on it was unpleasant, but compared to being beaten or verbally abused, it was nothing.
“Did she take too much of a shock?”
She’d heard that when people experienced shock beyond their limits, they sometimes snapped in the opposite direction.
“Well… that must be why she said something unbelievable like asking for vegetables and grains.”
Silvia Atlante eating vegetables? That was as impossible as saying, “Silvia Atlante was actually a good person.”
“For now, I’ll prepare the vegetable-based meal she asked for—and also get greasy late-night food ready, just in case she gets hungry and throws a fit.”
Bell assumed it was just a temporary whim.
She believed that once Silvia regained her senses, she’d return to her usual oil-soaked meals.
Thinking of Silvia’s favorite late-night foods, Bell hurried toward the kitchen.
Then she suddenly stopped.
“But… doesn’t Miss Silvia seem a little… different?”
She had kept her head lowered the whole time, afraid Silvia might get angry for being stared at, so she hadn’t looked closely.
But the arms and legs she glimpsed seemed different than usual.
“Did she get thinner? And the red rashes on her skin seemed to be gone too…”
Bell tried to clearly recall what Silvia had looked like just moments ago, but her memory was hazy, like it was covered in fog.
“No. I must be imagining it. She was the same as always this morning. A person can’t change in half a day.”
Convinced her fear had made her see things, Bell shook her head and dismissed the thought.
Then she went back to thinking about Silvia’s late-night meal.
“Spicy stir-fried pork? No… she likes noodles. Maybe greasy fried noodles instead…”
But the late-night food Bell prepared never once made it into Silvia’s mouth.
Not that day. Not the next. Not even a week later…
And so it went on—for over a month.
The changes in Silvia Atlante spread slowly, quietly, and subtly.
It began with the servants working in the West Wing.
After being confined there, Silvia Atlante no longer laid hands on the maids.
She no longer tormented the cook with repeated binge-eating, nor did she throw objects in fits of anger.
Instead, whenever she encountered the servants, she greeted them with a gentle smile.
“Good morning.”
After meals, she praised the cook.
“Thanks to you, my meal was enjoyable again today. I feel energized enough to exercise.”
The cook, who had worked in noble households for years without ever being personally encouraged by a noble, was deeply moved.
“I thought Miss Silvia just ordered late-night meals to vent her anger… but maybe she loved my cooking so much she couldn’t help herself! She loved it so much she couldn’t resist at night!”
They said knights would risk their lives for those who acknowledged them.
“I’m a cook—so I’ll repay her with my cooking!”
Misunderstanding in a very odd direction, the cook devoted himself to developing new dishes, hoping to hear more praise from Silvia.
Silvia also gifted hand cream to a maid whose hands were cracked from work.
It was one of the countless high-end cosmetics she owned—nothing important to her.
“I won’t use them all anyway. It’s better if someone who needs them uses them.”
She simply felt sorry seeing a maid younger than herself working so hard.
But to the maid, that small kindness felt enormous.
“This is that cosmetic noblewomen line up to buy! And she gave something so precious to me…”
The maid couldn’t bring herself to use it. Instead, she placed it carefully in her drawer, occasionally opening it just to look at it, washing away the fatigue of a hard day.
It wasn’t what Silvia had intended—but in its own way, it still helped.
And so, these small changes continued for an entire month.
