Chapter 90
Beatrice stared at Marsha without even blinking.
“What did you just say?”
“I said I won’t be leaving.”
Marsha, who until moments ago couldn’t even raise her head or meet Beatrice’s gaze, now looked her straight in the eyes with confidence.
Beatrice’s lips trembled with anger.
“So you’ve been completely fooled by the Duke’s sweet lies. Don’t delude yourself. The Duke doesn’t love you.”
“No.”
Marsha’s reply was firm. She hesitated for a moment, debating whether to go on, then gathered her courage and spoke.
“The Duke loves me.”
Ha!
Beatrice’s mouth twisted grotesquely as she let out a sharp, mocking laugh.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Her laughter cut off suddenly, and her eyes turned icy as she glared at Marsha.
“That’s impossible. The Duke loves me. I’m the only woman in his heart. How dare you make such a ridiculous assumption?”
Beatrice looked exasperated, as if speaking to Marsha was pointless.
But Marsha felt the same—Beatrice was a woman who already had her own version of the truth, someone incapable of accepting anything that didn’t fit her beliefs.
What would happen if someone like her became queen?
Would the Stravine Kingdom be all right?
Would she use her position as queen to cling even harder to Claudio? If so, what would become of Claudio and Marsha?
No. Even if she becomes queen, she won’t be able to control the Duke of Gloria so easily.
Right. There was no need to worry.
“Regardless of what the Marchioness of Hermes thinks,” Marsha said calmly, “I believe in the Duke’s words and actions. If he ever tells me to leave…”
She paused, imagining Claudio turning her away coldly. But she couldn’t picture it. How strange—it should have been easy to imagine, given his normally stoic expression. Yet in her mind, his face was only ever kind and gentle.
“…then I suppose I’d have to leave. But somehow, I don’t think that day will ever come.”
A faint smile touched Marsha’s lips. Beatrice’s hand trembled violently.
“That’s impossible. You don’t know anything.”
“I think it’s you, Marchioness, who doesn’t know a thing.”
“Lies! I know everything about him!”
Beatrice slammed the table so hard that the teacups rattled with a chilling clatter. Marsha didn’t even flinch.
Beatrice thought of Claudio every day—she even dreamed of him in her sleep.
“The moment I met him, I knew. He’s my destiny.”
She was convinced that the dazzling sun that had descended to this earth existed solely to become her other half. Even though he’d ignored her for years…
“Now he has no choice but to choose me. Do you have any idea what I’ve done for him?”
What does she mean by that?
Marsha’s brow furrowed slightly. If Beatrice had any sense left, she might have felt a perverse pleasure at seeing her own mask of composure shatter.
“As long as Stravine exists, the Duke has no choice but to marry me!”
As long as Stravine exists?
Marsha turned the odd phrase over in her mind. What exactly had Beatrice done to make her say such a thing? Or was this just another of her delusions?
Then Beatrice pointed a trembling finger at her.
“I’ll give you one last chance. Leave now. Otherwise, when I become his wife, I’ll tear your body into pieces!”
Marsha saw Beatrice’s frenzied face overlap with Rosanna’s from four years ago. It was strange—back then, she had been terrified. But now, she wasn’t afraid at all. Her circumstances hadn’t changed much, and yet…
“…Fine. Do as you wish.”
Marsha rose from her seat, her tone detached.
“When that day comes, I’ll probably want to die anyway. But…”
She looked down at Beatrice with eyes filled with contempt and pity.
“…I don’t think that day will ever come.”
Marsha didn’t believe she and Claudio would ever marry. After all, he was a duke, and her situation was far too complicated.
Someday, reality would force them to part. The very thought made her chest ache—but reality was still reality.
Even so, when that day came, this woman would not be the one standing beside him. Even if every other woman in the world could, she never would.
“You’re not special to the Duke,” Marsha said coolly. “You’re just exceptionally awful and irritating.”
“!”
Beatrice shot to her feet, her face contorted with rage, and raised her hand to strike. But Marsha caught her wrist mid-air.
“Let go!” Beatrice screamed, struggling desperately.
If she said to let go—then Marsha would.
She released her grip without hesitation, and Beatrice stumbled backward, crashing to the floor.
“Ah!”
Marsha looked down at her coldly.
“You asked me to let go, so I did.”
“You… you wretch…!”
Beatrice’s entire body shook with fury, her eyes bloodshot as if she might foam at the mouth.
Marsha ignored her and walked out of the conservatory.
Outside, a maid stood frozen. The moment she heard the crash of teacups and Beatrice’s shriek, her face went pale, and she ran inside in a panic.
I thought she’d try to stop me. Good.
Marsha let out a quiet sigh and quickened her pace. She didn’t want to spend another second in that place.
Meanwhile, chaos erupted inside the conservatory.
“My lady, please—calm down!”
The maid’s voice trembled as she tried to soothe her mistress, terrified that Beatrice might hurt herself—or worse, damage her face. Not because she cared, but because the Marquis of Hermes would never forgive her if Beatrice’s face were injured.
When the maid grabbed her arm, Beatrice slapped her hard across the face.
“Insolent wretch! How dare you lay a hand on me?!”
One blow wasn’t enough.
Beatrice kept hitting her, again and again.
What she really wanted was to strike Marsha like this—no, to kill her.
“I-I’m sorry, my lady! Please forgive me!” the maid cried, her face flushed red from the blows.
Beatrice stood there, panting, her mind spinning. She had to find a way to rip that disgusting woman away from Claudio’s side.
“…Bring Petricks. Now.”
Her eyes gleamed with madness.
“Y-yes, my lady!”
The maid scrambled to her feet and ran out as fast as she could.
Left alone, Beatrice bit down on her finger until blood welled up, her mind racing to refine her plan.
***
That same day Petricks was once again taking out his anger on Tom.
He kicked the man hard in the leg—right where an untreated wound festered—and Tom didn’t even dare to scream.
I deserve this.
Ever since he’d failed to protect Marsha, Tom had lived in constant self-loathing.
Idiot. How could you hesitate?
He’d been given a chance to atone, a chance from heaven itself—and he’d wasted it.
“Useless bastard…Petricks spat, literally, and slumped onto the sofa.
Just then, a commotion broke out outside the door.
“I said you can’t go in—!”
Petricks frowned, glaring at the noise. Then the door burst open, and a familiar face stumbled inside.
“Lucas, you son of a—!”
Petricks hurled a wine bottle at him.
Lucas ducked, and the bottle smashed against the head of one of Petrick men’s standing behind him.
The man cried out in pain, but Petrick didn’t even glance his way.
“How dare you show your face here?!”
“…Help me.”
Lucas’s voice shook as he spoke. Petricks narrowed one eye suspiciously.
“What?”
“No—a deal. Let’s make a deal. If you help me, I’ll give you all the western wine distribution rights I own.”
Petricks froze.
Had he heard that right? Or was he too drunk to trust his ears?
“In exchange,” Lucas said, his fists tightening, “I just need you to bring me one person.”
“…Don’t tell me.”
Petricks eyes widened.
“I found Marsha.”
Tom, lying like a corpse on the floor, twitched at the sound of her name. But to both Lucas and Petricks, he was invisible—nothing more than a shadow.
“If you’ve found her, why not go yourself?” Petricks sneered. “Why come crawling to me? And offering up your western rights, no less?”
Lucas met his gaze and muttered,
“Lady Railford.”
The name that had recently caused such a stir in society made Petricks’s sharp eyes grow even colder.
“That’s who she really is—Marsha.”
The cigarette fell from Petricks lips.
“…What?”
