Chapter 8
In the carriage home,
Charlotte stared blankly out the window. It was a dream, yet it felt painfully real.
She was grateful to see him—even in a dream—but strangely, she also wanted to wake up quickly.
She organized what she’d do after waking:
“Before I visit the Hueril Trading Company, I should go to Noctum’s grave.”
At his grave, she had never once complained. She felt she had no right.
For the three years of their marriage, Charlotte had never been warm to him—not even at the end. In fact, the day he died had originally been the day she was supposed to die; she had wanted, at least that day, to be kind to him once.
That too had come to nothing. So every time she stood before his grave, she felt like a sinner.
But after a dream like this… maybe she could complain just a little—not with resentment, but a small, honest pout:
Did you hate me that much? I’m sorry I never said I loved you. I love the way you originally were, most of all.
And: In my dream tonight, please come to me with a bright smile. She would say that to him.
She clenched her fists so hard her dress wrinkled. Her hands went cold, but there was no one in this world to hold them.
The carriage left the palace and sped toward the ducal residence. Seeing it for the first time in two years, Charlotte drew a small breath.
After Noctum’s death, her father—the Duke—changed how he treated her, because she had become head of the grand ducal house.
He married Dana to a carefully chosen noble and tried to register their child into the grand ducal line—because Charlotte had no heir.
In the past, she would have obeyed. But the story she knew had gone completely off track, and with the man she loved gone, she had nothing left to fear.
“I will no longer call you Father.”
“W-what?! Ungrateful wretch! How did I raise you?”
“Don’t dress up violence with pretty words, Duke. From now on, it will be a hard fight.”
“Charlotte Daphsine!”
“I abandoned that name long ago. Address me as Grand Duke Afros.”
Cutting ties with him was easier than she expected. Even “blood thicker than water” turns black when soaked in hatred.
They severed their bond—more precisely, they became leaders of opposing political houses, each trying to break the other.
And yet, in this dream, they were back to father and daughter again. Noctum must really be teasing her, she thought.
“I’ll bring one of the flowers he used to grow.”
It was even her birth flower; maybe seeing it would ease his heart.
The carriage rolled into the ducal estate and stopped.
She had thought everyone would be at the ball—but surprisingly, the Duke was home.
Charlotte stopped and looked at him. Like Adrian, he looked so young. His eyes were full of malice and ambition she hadn’t seen in years.
“Useless things.”
He staggered toward her, kicking aside the empty bottles littering the floor. Charlotte knew what was coming.
“So it had to be the Grand Duke, and look at you now. How hard is it to snag one man? With that witchy face you got from your mother, smile and drag him to bed!”
“Like your mother did,” he hissed—words dripping with poison.
Normally, Charlotte would have snapped back with a vicious glare. Now, she gave no reaction.
Normally, that eerie calm would have made him stop. But he was drunk—far gone.
“Why did I ever have you! ‘Family shame’ isn’t strong enough. Don’t you think you deserve to die?”
He poked her shoulder again and again. Too drunk to judge his strength, he pushed her back several steps.
“Since you can’t think that far, you crawl back here, huh? Ha! I wasted my life raising you—what a waste!”
His eyes went bloodshot. He swept all the bottles off the table.
Crash!
Shattering glass filled the hall. Shards flew everywhere—Charlotte stood at the center.
She endured the cuts on her face and body in silence.
“Hah… hah…”
Panting, he slumped into a chair and gulped more liquor.
Silence spread. The glass lodged in her skin awoke Charlotte’s long-buried temper.
How ridiculous.
Even knowing it was a dream, she hadn’t fought back.
Fight back? I’m just stupidly standing here, letting him pelt me with bottles.
She loathed herself for it. Wiping the blood from her cheek, she let out a dry, self-mocking laugh.
He flinched anyway and shouted, defensive:
“So I’m funny to you? Huh? This is why you’re a disgrace! ‘Lady’? Even lowborn brats have kinder hearts than you!”
“…”
“Get out! I can’t stand the sight of your face!”
He hurled another bottle. This time it struck her head directly.
Clang!
Drip… drip…
Dark red wine soaked her blonde hair and dripped to the floor.
Even the drunken Duke shuddered at the crash, but Charlotte only brushed back her wet hair, expressionless—as if it were happening to someone else.
And then—
What… is this?
Meeting her eyes, the Duke felt a chill run down his spine—for the first time.
The old Charlotte would have flown into a rage over a scratch. Now, with wounds all over, she looked at him like a doll that couldn’t feel pain.
Uneasy, he edged back.
He knew the “black magic” rumors were baseless—but for some reason, it felt like she could do anything.
Charlotte did nothing magical. She simply spoke, calm and quiet:
“You told me to get out. Shall I? For good?”
“W-what?”
Words he never expected from her.
He leaned forward without meaning to—his body revealing more truth than his mouth.
Charlotte gave him a small, clear sneer this time—aimed right at him—but he didn’t notice, fixated on her words.
You call this a father.
Even in dreams, you’re cruel to me.
It was all a dream, and yet a bitter taste filled her mouth.
Ignoring his shouted, “Do you mean it?” Charlotte turned toward her room.
A bead of red wine slid down her cheek and fell to the floor—
like a tear.
***
That night, she dreamed the same dream as the day before:
She was the foolish villain who did nothing but cause harm.
This time it started in childhood and showed the full twenty years.
By the end, the dream was so vivid and long she couldn’t tell dream from reality.
Still, she told herself, a dream is only a dream…
Knock, knock!
Next morning, Charlotte woke to someone knocking.
She opened her mouth, thinking it was her aide—then froze. The ceiling belonged to the Duke’s mansion.
This isn’t my house…
She blinked and tried to steady her tangled thoughts—whether from just waking or from the long dream.
A man’s voice came from outside:
“L-Lady! His Grace sent me. Please come to the office after your treatment.”
She knew the voice—the priest who always tended her injuries.
She ignored him and went straight to the full-length mirror.
A young face with baby fat stared back. Cuts from last night’s hurled bottle stood out clearly.
“Why am I still in this dream…”
She touched a glass cut—
a sharp sting spread. It felt even more real than yesterday.
“Milady! Please finish treatment and hurry to the office!”
The priest sounded anxious and flustered. Charlotte strode to the door and flung it open.
He flinched, bracing for a slap—as the first daughter usually struck first.
But nothing happened. Instead, Charlotte looked steadily at his overly defensive stance and spoke:
“Priest.”
“Y-yes, milady!”
He stayed on guard, voice trembling, bracing for mockery—
“What day is it?”
“…Pardon?”
“I’m asking for the date. What day of the imperial year is it?”
Her tone was calm but oddly forceful—more intimidating than her usual sharpness.
Still rattled, he answered carefully:
“T-Today is Imperial Year 844, June 19th, milady.”
“…I see.”
Her response came a beat late. Dazed, she nodded, then walked past him into the corridor.
The priest called after her, but Charlotte didn’t look back. She headed straight for the Duke’s office.
Throw a bottle back at that jerk