It was a maid he hadn't seen before.
Anthony's greasy gaze crawled over her figure, drinking in every detail. Her sweet face, flushed pink from exertion. Her ample chest, rising and falling with each breathless gasp as she struggled under her burden.
He licked his lips. Dirty desires, ignited by alcohol, spread through his body like wildfire.
"A maid should obey her master," he drawled. "Isn't that right?"
He was a nobleman. He would soon become a marquis. And the woman before him was nothing—a commoner, a servant. She couldn't refuse him. If she disobeyed, she would be dismissed without references, thrown into the streets with nothing.
"If you don't want to lose your position, you'll do as you're told."
An ugly laugh escaped from his twisted, drooling lips.
The maid, who had been struggling to carry an enormous stack of plates, paused in confusion. Carefully, she set the dishes on the floor and straightened, wiping sweat from her brow with the corner of her apron.
In that moment, Anthony seized her wrist.
"Oh—! Master—!" The maid named Cecile's eyes flew wide with shock.
Her face drained of color as the reality of her situation crashed over her. She looked around frantically, searching for help, for anyone—but the corridor stretched empty in both directions. Anthony grinned and stepped closer, pressing his advantage.
"Is it hard for you, little one?" The stench of alcohol rolled off him in waves. He massaged her captured wrist in a mockery of tenderness, his thumb pressing into the delicate bones. Shame flooded the girl's face, turning it crimson—but the fear was stronger. She had heard whispers among the servants about things like this, about what could happen to maids working in noble houses. They said most women had no choice but to submit, terrified of losing their livelihoods or incurring their masters' wrath.
She had never imagined it would happen to *her*.
"Sir, truly—everything is fine." Her voice trembled. "This is simply my job."
But her fear only excited him further.
"I think I can make your life *much* more comfortable."
"No—that's not necessary—"
"Don't resist. It will be easier."
"Thank you, sir, but everything is *fine*—!" Cecile cried out as his grip twisted viciously around her wrist, grinding the bones together.
She tried to wrench free.
But he was too strong.
"But *I'm* not fine," he hissed. "Follow me. If you want this over quickly."
"No! Let me go!"
"How *dare* you—"
Cecile's head snapped back from the force of his slap. Her vision exploded into darkness. She lost her balance and crumpled to the floor, the cold stone biting into her palms and knees.
"You impudent *bitch*!" Anthony's voice rose to a snarl. "You were the one who seduced me—and now you refuse? Are you tired of living?"
Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her hand rose unconsciously to cradle her throbbing cheek, already swelling beneath her fingers.
"Get up!" He seized a fistful of her hair and hauled her upward. "Are you deaf? I said *get up*!"
In the midst of her terror, Cecile heard something—the distant rhythm of approaching footsteps. Hope blazed through her chest, and she screamed with everything she had:
"Help! *Please!* Someone *help me!*"
Fear had stripped away her pain. She thrashed wildly, no longer feeling the hair tearing from her scalp, no longer caring about anything except escape.
"What are you shrieking about? There's no one here!" Anthony struggled to follow her desperate gaze, his face twisting with displeasure.
The footsteps paused.
For one agonizing heartbeat, Cecile thought—*hoped*—
Then they turned. Retreated. Faded into silence.
A groan of pure despair tore from her throat.
"Please, master." She was begging now, her voice raw and broken. "Please let me go."
"Do you know how negligent servants are punished?"
"Forgive me! *Please!*" Cecile shook her head frantically, tears streaming down her face, cutting pale tracks through the dust on her skin.
"Well..." His eyes blazed with triumph. "That all depends on you. You know what to do, don't you?" His hungry gaze traveled slowly down her body. "Consider it an honor. Such a rare opportunity—for a servant to *truly* serve her master."
The girl stared blankly at the floor. Something inside her had broken. She rose numbly, pulled upward by the man who still gripped her wrist like a vise. Trying to contain her sobs, she covered her face with her free hand, surrendering to despair, preparing herself for the worst.
Then Anthony's bleary gaze fell upon the figure that had appeared directly before him.
---
"What's going on here?"
"What—" Anthony blinked stupidly. "What are *you* doing here?"
Asella didn't answer. She simply approached with silent steps, her movements fluid and unhurried. Several maids trailed behind her.
Anthony knew perfectly well how the servants had treated his half-sister all these years. He snorted with contempt.
"Go back to the banquet hall. That's where you belong."
Asella didn't move. She simply stood there, her face utterly impassive, and regarded him. Then her gaze shifted to Cecile.
"Can't you just walk past?" Anthony's expression curdled with irritation. "You're the bride. What business do you have here?"
"I came to change my dress," Asella replied simply.
Anthony's eyes traveled over the elegant evening gown she now wore in place of her elaborate wedding attire.
"Then get back to the guests."
But Asella remained where she was. Motionless. Unmoved.
Anthony squeezed the maid's wrist even harder. His knuckles had gone white; Cecile's fingers were turning blue. His patience had reached its limit. He wanted to be rid of Asella immediately so he could finally satisfy his animal desires.
"*Get out!*" he barked.
The servants behind Asella retreated at his shout, pressing themselves against the walls. Anthony's temper was infamous throughout the mansion. He harassed the maids constantly and had no qualms about physically assaulting any servant who displeased him. Unlike Philip, who at least maintained a veneer of respectability in public, Anthony behaved like a beast with no leash.
Philip constantly tried to control him, but it never worked. And now this unfortunate maid would become his latest victim. Afterward, she would receive a scolding from Philip and be banished from the estate empty-handed—if she was lucky.
"Help..." Cecile moaned weakly.
But not one of the servants responded. Each was thinking first and foremost of their own safety.
"Are you *deaf*? I told you to get out!"
Asella didn't move.
She seemed to be the only person present unaffected by Anthony's rage. She studied him calmly—this drunken man, breathing heavily with fury and bestial lust.
_Anthony Charts._
Philip claimed he was a distant relative. But Asella didn't believe him. Philip couldn't have known how meticulous the Charts family was regarding their descendants. The family had always cared scrupulously for even illegitimate children—their inherited abilities were far too valuable to waste. Anyone carrying Charts blood was invariably entered into the family register.
However, the last collateral branch of the dynasty had died out over a century ago. Currently, the only Charts descendants were Asella herself and Marielle.
It wasn't difficult to deduce Anthony's true origins.
_Philip's illegitimate son. Almost certainly._
"Get out! *Immediately!*"
_And this worthless creature will represent the Charts family? Until death. And even after death._
"Please release her hand," Asella said quietly.
"Mind your own business."
"You are tormenting an innocent person."
Anthony's face contorted with rage. He released the maid's wrist with a violent jerk. Cecile, who had been straining against his grip, screamed in surprise as she lost her balance and collapsed into the corner, curling into herself.
The corners of Anthony's lips twitched into a mocking sneer.
"What *nonsense*."
A sinister expression settled over his distorted features. Slowly, deliberately, he stalked toward Asella. The servants pressed themselves even further back against the walls, but none dared flee. Asella, however, remained perfectly still. The only sign of her reaction was a slight wrinkling of her nose at the sour reek of alcohol emanating from him.
This infuriated Anthony further.
_Noble Asella Charts._ Always so elegant. So solitary. Even simply standing beside her made him feel worthless—small and dirty and *wrong*. How many years had she endured beatings and humiliation? Yet her aristocratic bearing had never wavered. Even when forced to her knees, she had always looked at him as though he were something scraped off the bottom of a boot.
And indeed—he always *felt* dirty next to her.
He had taken *everything* from her. Yet he could never rid himself of that gnawing sense of inferiority.
"What, have you grown bold?" His voice dripped with venom. "You couldn't even utter a peep before. Do you think that now you've become a Grand Duchess, you can do whatever you want?"
He spoke crudely, making no effort to moderate his language.
But Asella was accustomed to far worse.
"Yes," she replied calmly. "I am the Grand Duchess."
"*Really?*" Anthony's eyebrows shot upward. "You're a pathetic woman, sold for a pretty price to benefit me and my father. And you, *creature*, still dare to speak to me this way?"
His gaze swept over the servants present. They were all Philip's people.
A wicked grin twisted his face.
"Grand Duchess. How amusing." He laughed, the sound ugly and sharp. "Do you actually think His Highness will fall in *love* with you?"
Asella harbored no such illusions.
She had never been the sort of child who could lose herself in daydreams and foolish expectations. No—more precisely, she *had* once possessed such dreams. But they had faded long ago, worn away by years of cruelty until nothing remained but dust.
And even if her wish had come true—even if she could somehow reclaim what was stolen—she would still be *Charts*. A woman who had spent most of her life imprisoned in an outbuilding, waiting to die.
Could such a woman truly hold her head high?
"Are you deceiving yourself with the illusion of a successful marriage?"
Asella smiled faintly.
It was the truth. Harsh, perhaps. But true nonetheless.
A sad smile drifted across her pale face like mist across water. But when she lowered her eyes for a moment and then raised them again, her expression had become unreadable.
"Even if that is so," she said quietly, "it does not change the fact that I *am* the Grand Duchess."
"Oh, *listen* to you!" Anthony's face, which had been anticipating her humiliation—her bowed head, her stammered apologies—contorted with fury. "You're forgetting your place. You're nothing but a *thoroughbred mare*, meant to bear the prince an heir. Nothing more."
Quiet snickers rippled through the servants gathered behind Asella. It was the only response to his brazen insult.
Asella knew that although none of them would say it aloud, they all thought the same thing.
One of the servants' favorite pastimes had always been speculating about her future. It was obvious that Philip would dispose of his stepdaughter at the earliest opportunity. Most had predicted she would be married off to some wealthy old nobleman living far from the capital—someone obscure, someone easily controlled.
But instead, her husband had become the Grand Duke of the Empire. Heir to the royal bloodline. A man with a legitimate claim to the throne. Calix Benvito could have seized the crown itself if he had so desired. And this man had not only proposed marriage but, by all appearances, treated his bride with extraordinary care.
It was difficult to believe—yet they had witnessed it with their own eyes.
Of course, the servants understood they would now need to be extremely cautious in their dealings with Asella. But deep down, resentment gnawed at them like rats.
"If you understand your position, then leave. *Quickly*."
Silence.
"Can you hear me?"
Silence.
"Stop meddling in other people's affairs and return to your guests!"
Asella, who had stood motionless beneath the torrent of ridicule and abuse, finally took a step backward.
Anthony's face split into a triumphant grin.
"Take this maid away from here. Immediately."
Anthony, intoxicated by the dirty desires flaring up with renewed intensity, didn't immediately grasp the meaning of her words.
"What are you doing?" He turned toward her, fingers working at the buttons of his sweat-soaked shirt.
But Asella walked past him as though he didn't exist.
_I'm not the only unhappy person at this wedding._
The thought flickered through her mind as she approached the cowering maid. She didn't spare Anthony so much as a glance. Instead, she addressed the trembling girl directly:
"What is your name?"
"C-Cecile."
"How long have you worked at the mansion?"
"Almost... almost a month." The maid rose unsteadily, accepting Asella's offered hand, gazing at her through tear-swollen eyes.
Asella reached up and removed one of the jeweled ornaments from her hair.
"Take this."
---