The marriage was officially announced.
Naturally, the news became the center of everyone's attention. The entire Empire seemed to hold its breath in collective astonishment. The man and woman being united were descendants of families that had feuded for centuries—their enmity woven into the very fabric of Imperial history. Society perceived this union as nothing less than a turning point, a seismic shift in the political landscape of the Garmanian Empire.
The entire press, from serious publications to the most sensational tabloids, savored every morsel of the story. Wherever people of any class gathered—in drawing rooms and taverns, marketplaces and palace corridors—the topic inevitably arose.
*Calix Benvito was asking for Asella Charts's hand in marriage.*
Asella discovered firsthand how easy it was to construct countless incredible narratives from a single, simple fact.
> *Two years ago, the Garmanian Empire successfully concluded a war with neighboring countries, waged for the glory of the Great Monarch and the prosperity of the Empire. Archduke Calix Benvito, as commander-in-chief of the invincible Imperial army, proved himself a brilliant strategist. Having won a bloody war, he returned from the front lines in all his glory. Upon first meeting Asella Charts at the victory banquet, he fell desperately in love at first sight. The Archduke patiently awaited her coming of age. And finally—at long last—he proposed.*
Asella carefully read the article Philip had given her, her eyes scanning each embellished line. She had prepared herself for something like this, of course. And yet her fingers tightened on the thin paper with barely suppressed irritation, crinkling the edges.
This romantic nonsense bore no resemblance to reality. Every word was fabrication—except for one single, lonely fact buried somewhere in the middle.
A lie, mixed with a grain of truth.
But it had already spread everywhere, carried on eager tongues and printed in countless editions. People loved beautiful love stories. The tale of the fearless war hero. The knight, noble and without reproach, who fell in love with a beautiful maiden at first sight. No one was interested in the bitter, ugly truth hidden beneath all this gilded tinsel.
Asella was the only one who knew the reality, and she suffered alone—unable to speak, unable to protest, drowning in a relentless sea of lies.
---
## — Rebecca —
Meanwhile, in the finest wing of the mansion, cries of anguish echoed through the corridors.
"My dress! *Who dared?*"
Rebecca Lawrence stood trembling before her wardrobe, her body shaking with violent sobs. The moment she had entered the room and discovered her favorite gown—cut beyond recognition, disfigured by crude, hasty seams—hysteria had consumed her.
She seized the nearest maid by the collar, yanking the terrified girl close.
"What is the meaning of this? What happened to my wardrobe?"
"T-there was... This happened..." The maid's voice quavered with fear as she stammered through an explanation of the events from several days prior.
"You *cut up* my best dress and thought I would accept your pathetic excuses?" Rebecca's voice rose to a shriek.
"It was His Excellency's order, my lady. There was nothing we could do—"
"You must be joking!"
Rebecca whirled toward the table, her beautiful red hair billowing like flames caught in a violent wind. With one furious motion, she yanked the tablecloth free. Cups and vases crashed to the floor, shattering into glittering shards that scattered across the polished wood.
The maids stood frozen in terror, uncertain whether to flee or attempt comfort.
"Please, madam, calm yourself—"
"*Shut up!*"
Rebecca was unmarried and hadn't yet acquired the title of marquise. But she desperately wanted to be one. And so every servant in the mansion treated her as their mistress.
"Where is Philip? I want to see him! *Immediately!*"
"He will return shortly, my lady. He's not currently at the estate—"
"Oh, *really?*"
Rebecca kicked the door with such force that it slammed against the wall, then stormed down the corridor. The maids scrambled after her, their skirts rustling with urgent footsteps.
"*Philip!*"
"Rebecca?"
The enraged woman burst into his study. But the man appeared to have been expecting her arrival.
"Why was I told you weren't at the estate?" Rebecca's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I sent word I would be here today. How *could* you ignore that?"
"It was true—I only just returned."
"But I *warned* you!"
"Rebecca." Philip stepped forward and placed his arm around her shoulders, his gesture seemingly meant to comfort.
But she threw the ruined remnants of her dress at his feet.
"*Explain this.*"
*Damn it all. I'm so thoroughly sick of this entire situation.*
Philip cursed silently, his jaw tightening with concealed irritation. This woman's constant whining and endless complaints could drive anyone to the brink of exhaustion. He drew a measured breath and, hiding his growing frustration behind one of his practiced masks, arranged his features into a reassuring smile.
"Come now, stop sulking. It was a last resort. The circumstances were—" He attempted a light, dismissive tone.
But Rebecca wasn't interested in levity. Her gaze sharpened like a blade.
"Explain yourself. *Immediately.*"
Philip offered a brief account of what had transpired. But his explanation only made things worse.
Rebecca's lips began to tremble. Then she burst into tears.
"So I tried *so hard* to obtain this dress—only for it to be destroyed for *that wretched creature?*" Her voice cracked with outrage. "How could you! You *know* how much I value my wardrobe!"
She collapsed into full hysterics, screaming and stamping her feet, utterly unable to stop herself.
Philip fought to suppress his mounting irritation. *Why must I endure this?*
His rise to this position hadn't been entirely due to luck. Much of the credit belonged to Rebecca herself. The only daughter of the highly successful Lawrence family—who had amassed substantial fortune through shrewd investments—she had been doted upon by Viscount Lawrence and his wife, who never dared deny their precious child anything. As a result, she had grown spoiled, capricious, and deeply immature.
Philip studied her now and found himself recognizing this fact with unexpected clarity.
He had once become entangled with Rebecca through what seemed like mutual attraction. He, a rather handsome and stately man with polished manners and a silver tongue capable of charming anyone, had found himself captivated by her independence and what he'd perceived as charming spontaneity. Rebecca, upon meeting Philip, had convinced herself their connection was the kind of fatal love described in romantic novels. She had been completely entranced by his apparent good nature and respectability.
By the time she came to her senses, she was already intimately involved with this man.
"How *dare* you! Don't even think about my daughter!"
By then, Philip had already been married to Adele. Viscount Lawrence and his wife had been furious at the mere mention of his name.
But Rebecca had declared that if she wasn't permitted to see her lover, she would throw herself from the window. The threat shocked her parents into reluctant compliance. They left the lovers alone, their only recourse being to prevent the unseemly affair from becoming public knowledge.
The couple had continued their liaison in secret, revealing their relationship only after Adele's death. Such arrangements weren't considered proper form in high society, of course—but neither party had a spouse, and the nobility chose to look the other way.
"Philip, when are we getting married?" For seven years, Rebecca had been waiting for him to finally make her his wife. "My parents keep pressing me about it. And Father's health worsens every day."
But each time she asked, Philip requested patience, citing his ongoing struggle for the marquis title.
"Be patient, my dear. As soon as the title is secured."
"How much *longer* must we wait?"
"Listen to me—once Anthony becomes marquis, everything changes. It's in your interest too, darling. So please, be patient."
The Lawrence family had only one heir: Rebecca. She could have become a viscountess in her own right, if she'd only wished it. And if Rebecca had possessed more sense, perhaps her life would have unfolded very differently.
But Rebecca was in love. And her mind was entirely at Philip's mercy.
He took full advantage of this.
"Darling, I had no choice—please understand, my love." Philip consoled the enraged woman with practiced tenderness.
Fortunately, his efforts eventually bore fruit, and Rebecca's anger began to subside.
"It was my *favorite* dress." She pouted, her lower lip protruding. "Do you have any idea how upset I was?"
"But thanks to this sacrifice, we will finally be able to marry."
Rebecca's eyes widened so dramatically they seemed in danger of escaping her skull entirely.
"*What?* A wedding?"
"Yes."
"Is this *true?*"
The Grand Duke had promised to support Anthony's claims. Once Anthony became marquis, there would be no further obstacles to their union.
"*Philip!*"
But this shriek carried an entirely different meaning. Her eyes grew even redder as Rebecca burst into tears of joy. She threw herself against him, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck.
"Do you feel better now?"
"*Oh!* I'm so happy! I'm the happiest woman in the entire world!"
Philip casually returned the embrace and, a mocking smile playing at his lips where she couldn't see, stroked her lower back.
"I love you so much, Philip!" Rebecca wept against his chest, rubbing her cheek against the fine fabric of his coat.
The man's face twisted into a crooked grin, a spark of cold sarcasm flickering in his eyes.
Rebecca had been useful to him. It was she who had first suggested Anthony as a possible contender for the marquis title, thereby igniting her lover's ambitions. The Lawrence family's connections and considerable wealth had proven invaluable to Philip's schemes. He had used Rebecca to strengthen his position in the capital's society—and he had used her money without reservation, spending freely on his hobbies and luxuries. He needed only to express a wish, and Rebecca would happily purchase whatever he desired, necessary or not.
Though she was tactless and willful, all he had to do was stroke her ego. That small effort was enough to keep her content.
But the day Anthony received the title, the game would end.
Rebecca would become useless.
While Philip calculated thus, the woman wept with happiness in his arms. He stroked her hair gently and murmured:
"Just be patient a little longer. Just a little while more."
And if Rebecca had thought to raise her head at that moment, she would have been terrified by the cold, arrogant expression on her lover's face.
*What's the point of sticky chewing gum that's lost its sweetness?*
In his mind, this woman's fate was already sealed. He would abandon her in the most humiliating way imaginable.
"A little while... How long is that, exactly?"
His smile turned cruel. "Asella and His Highness's wedding is in less than a month."
---
A noble marriage could not take place without a proper betrothal period. This tradition was so unwavering that shortening the customary duration could be interpreted as an insult by either party. Furthermore, such weddings required meticulous preparation—months of planning under normal circumstances.
However, Philip and Anthony hadn't lifted a finger.
The Benvito family handled everything.
Wedding preparations proceeded with remarkable efficiency. And Asella simply awaited her fate.
Beautifully designed invitations were dispatched to every noble family in the capital. The wedding dress from Madame Epordieu arrived, exquisite beyond words. Items necessary for the ceremony were delivered to Charts Mansion in a constant stream—linens and silver, flowers and candles, all bearing the Benvito crest.
One week remained.
Asella's anxiety mounted with each passing hour. Her heart would race in her chest like a wounded bird battering itself against the bars of a cage—then suddenly stop with a dull, leaden thud. She would stand at her window for hours, staring out at nothing, her body completely numb. She would pace her small room in endless circles until the floor seemed to spin beneath her feet. Sometimes she would huddle in a corner, nervously biting her nails until her fingertips bled.
Recently, insomnia had claimed her nights entirely.
Last night, she had tossed and turned in her narrow bed, finally managing to drift off only as the first gray light of early morning crept through her window. But a mere two hours later, her eyes flew open again.
The shabby room was barely illuminated by dim, uncertain light. Knowing she would not sleep again, Asella rose quietly and walked to the window. She watched as the walls of the mansion gradually brightened in the slowly approaching dawn.
*I'm going to die soon.*
If Calix Benvito had chosen her as his wife, there could only be one reason.
Asella wondered how much time she had left. Perhaps they would kill her immediately. Or she might live for a year—maybe two. Perhaps only a few months.
*How will I die?*
Poison, most likely. Administered slowly, disguised as a mysterious illness. The court physicians would shake their heads sadly. Everyone would offer condolences. No one would suspect.
*Well, at least it won't hurt too much.*
But what would happen to Mariel after her death?
There would be no one left to protect the child. And Philip and Anthony's next target would inevitably be her sister.
*It's all over for me.*
And yet—she could not accept such a fate for Mariel.
"Be kind to His Highness."
Philip's words surfaced unbidden in her memory. Terrible words, calling for submission and servility.
But now, in the gray light of dawn, Asella found herself reconsidering their meaning.
*At least for a little while. I need to hold out at all costs. I must protect Mariel while she's still just a child.*
All day long, Asella searched desperately for some way to shield herself from the Archduke—some strategy, some approach that might buy her precious time.
---
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horse hooves.
A carriage had entered through the central gate and was now proceeding down the wide road that wound through the gardens toward the mansion.
*Who could it be? And at such an early hour?*
Asella narrowed her eyes, pressing closer to the window. Philip and Anthony weren't expected back today. And judging by the absence of any coat of arms on its doors, this wasn't the Charts family carriage.
Curiosity stirred within her—a sensation she had almost forgotten how to feel.
She watched as the carriage drew nearer, its wheels crunching over the gravel path. Finally, it rolled to a stop before the mansion's entrance.
The door swung open.
Asella's breath caught in her throat.
In an instant, she was racing toward her door. She slammed it open and flew down the corridor, her feet barely touching the ground. The servants, who had only just begun their morning duties at that early hour, stared after her in bewilderment.
*What on earth has gotten into her?*
---