Asella had dreamed of marriage as salvation—a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman, her one chance to escape this house of horrors.
In a single morning, that dream had shattered.
_Not this man. Anyone but this man._
She couldn't accept it. Refused to believe it. The shock had been so complete that she hadn't even begged for the beating to stop.
"I'll forgive you if you admit you were wrong."
Silence.
"Well? I'm waiting."
Philip's tone remained deceptively gentle, but the blows grew savage. The rawhide whip was merciless—hard, unforgiving, designed to break flesh as easily as spirit. The thin fabric of Asella's worn dress offered no protection. Soon the cloth across her back split open, the gray material darkening with spreading crimson.
Still, she did not speak.
"You're being particularly stubborn today."
No response.
"Ugh!" Philip exhaled dramatically. "You're exhausting me."
The whip cracked again. And again.
"Come now! I'm waiting. You can't hold out forever." His voice sharpened, patience finally fraying. "Answer me, you wretched creature!"
But Asella remained silent.
_What difference does it make?_
To escape one hell only to be delivered into a worse one. At least she wouldn't go willingly. Even if her resistance was laughable. Even if it meant nothing in the end. Even if Philip would simply force her anyway.
This was the last scrap of pride she possessed. She would not surrender it.
A sudden knock at the door. The whip froze mid-swing.
Philip's face twisted with displeasure as he approached the study door. "Who's there? I specifically asked not to be disturbed while speaking with my daughter."
"I beg your pardon, Your Excellency." The servant's voice was muffled through the heavy wood. "But this is urgent. The Benvito family's attorney has arrived."
Philip's hand stilled on the door handle. "The Grand Duke's envoy?"
"Yes, my lord. He says certain matters regarding the young lady's marriage require immediate attention."
"So suddenly? Without warning?"
His displeasure was evident, but this was Calix Benvito's personal attorney. One did not refuse such a man. Philip cast a final glance at Asella—at the ruined fabric of her dress, the blood pooling beneath her—then at the door. With a sound of disgust, he hurled the whip to the floor.
"Stubborn bitch." He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully dabbing the sweat from his forehead before tossing the soiled cloth at Asella's prone form.
She barely registered its landing. She could hardly breathe, let alone move. Every nerve ending screamed. Every muscle had seized. The simple act of drawing air into her lungs required concentration she could barely muster.
Philip paused at the door, one hand on the brass handle, and looked back.
"Whether you like it or not, your fate has been decided." His voice carried the casual cruelty of absolute power. "I would be *deeply* grateful if you accepted this as quickly as possible."
The door slammed shut. The sound echoed through the study like a death knell.
---
Asella stared at the closed door, her vision swimming.
The devil who had transformed her life into a living nightmare would be *grateful* if she consented to become another devil's prey.
Something rose in her throat—grief and rage and hopelessness twisted together into something physical. A sob escaped her, then another, and suddenly she was retching. Her stomach convulsed violently, though there was nothing to expel; she hadn't eaten properly in days. Empty heaves wracked her body as she writhed on the blood-stained floor, each spasm sending fresh agony radiating through her torn back.
_Perhaps I'll simply fall ill and die._
The thought drifted through her mind like a promise.
_If that's my fate... then thank you._
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling every cell in her body howl its protest, and waited for consciousness to abandon her.
---
## — The Drawing Room —
Meanwhile, satisfied laughter echoed through the grand drawing room of Charts Castle.
"I knew His Highness was generous," Philip practically crowed, all traces of his earlier rage vanished as though it had never existed. "But *this* generous! Count Cardon, I hardly know how to express my gratitude for such wonderful news."
He rubbed his hands together in a gesture that would have been obsequious on anyone, but on Philip, it verged on grotesque. His eyes kept straying to the documents spread across the polished table—deeds, contracts, inventories of wealth beyond imagining.
The man seated across from him did not share his enthusiasm.
Count Raizen Cardon's face might have been carved from marble. His tone, when he spoke, held all the warmth of winter stone. "Archduke Benvito does not wish to delay the wedding ceremony."
_Why such a completely colorless voice?_ Philip studied the attorney with barely concealed distaste. It was as though Count Cardon had been drained of all human emotion, leaving behind only cold efficiency. Philip didn't like this man. Not at all.
But what could he do? He needed to make a favorable impression, even on such an insufferable snob.
"Of course, of course!" Philip spread his hands expansively. "Please assure His Highness there is no cause for concern. Preparations have already begun. Everything will be absolutely flawless."
"Nothing is required from this household." Raizen's interruption was smooth, dismissive. "The Grand Duke will handle all arrangements personally. The *acting* marquis will be informed of the details in due course."
Philip's stomach clenched at the deliberate slight.
_Arrogant bastard._
His own servants addressed him as "Your Excellency." The nobility showed him proper deference. But not the Benvito household. Philip had accepted this—had to accept it. Calix Benvito outranked him by such a margin that formality became optional for the Grand Duke's people.
But hearing such casual dismissal from a mere vassal count? It grated. If this arrogant Raizen Cardon hadn't been the Grand Duke's personal envoy, Philip would have struck him across the face.
His expression soured momentarily, but the documents Raizen slid across the table quickly restored his good humor.
"I am deeply grateful that His Highness shows such consideration for my daughter." Philip arranged his features into something approximating paternal warmth, though the effect was unconvincing.
"It is only natural." Raizen's tone suggested he found the entire conversation distasteful. "Is it not?"
"Indeed, indeed!" Philip's smile widened, revealing too many teeth. "But truly, this is extraordinarily generous of His Highness. *Extraordinarily* so."
_Yes,_ he thought, his pulse quickening with avarice. _This marriage is a gold mine. The House of Benvito offers endless possibilities. Power. Prestige. Wealth beyond counting._
His hands trembled with barely suppressed excitement.
Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, Philip revealed his true nature: "By the way—the income arrangements. What exactly...?" He trailed off hopefully, expecting the most pleasant of answers.
He was disappointed.
"The details are in the documents." Raizen's voice was ice. "Please read them for yourself."
"Yes... of course." Philip snatched the stack of papers and began reading with barely concealed greed. He wanted to maintain his dignity, but impatience made restraint impossible.
"Oh! How generous! Such quantities..." The words escaped him involuntarily.
When he reached the inventory of gemstones—the types, qualities, annual yields from the Benvito mines—his eyes bulged until they seemed in danger of leaving his skull.
Raizen watched these petty displays of avarice with contempt he barely troubled to hide.
_Pathetic._
Even if one scrubbed Philip's eyes with soap and examined him under the brightest light, there wasn't a shred of genuine nobility to be found. Here was a man who had sold his adopted daughter to her family's oldest enemy, blinded by nothing but material greed. There was no more charitable interpretation available.
_Could such a wretched creature truly lead the Charts family?_
The Charts, whose history stretched back to the Empire's very founding. The Charts, whose every generation had produced individuals of exceptional magical ability. The Charts, whose legacy of service to the realm was written into the very stones of the capital.
_Ridiculous._
Raizen's lips pressed together in bitter amusement. He didn't know how Philip had managed his ascent—but such a stupid, greedy, hollow man wearing the marquis's mantle? It defied explanation.
_No. Something like this doesn't happen without powerful patronage._
He filed the thought away for later consideration.
_In any case, it cannot last._
Raizen straightened in his chair. It was time to address his true purpose.
"Well then," he said, smoothing his expression into professional neutrality just as Philip looked up from the paperwork, "if everything is satisfactory, I would like to meet with Lady Charts."
Philip's laugh was sudden and awkward—the sound of a man caught off guard. "Why would you need to do that?"
"I am to present her with an engagement gift. From His Highness."
Philip's teeth worried at his lower lip. The request was perfectly reasonable—such gifts were an ancient custom, expected upon any formal engagement announcement.
"You see..." Philip's mind raced, searching desperately for an acceptable excuse. For the first time in his miserable life, the scoundrel regretted being quite so thorough in Asella's punishment.
Everyone knew she was forbidden to leave the mansion. He couldn't claim she was traveling. But neither could he claim illness—not without risking disaster.
The reason Calix Benvito had proposed to Asella Charts was, obviously, her impeccable bloodline. If the Grand Duke doubted the bride's health, the marriage could collapse before it began. A damaged product was returned, after all—even *after* purchase. How much more easily might a buyer withdraw *before* the transaction concluded?
Breaking an engagement carried social consequences for most noblemen. But not for Calix Benvito. The Grand Duke could break a dozen engagements without suffering the slightest damage to his reputation.
Which left only one option.
"Excuse me for a moment." Philip rose with an awkward smile and hurried from the drawing room.
His secretary waited in the corridor, looking up expectantly. "Your Excellency? Have you concluded your business?"
"Bring Asella. Immediately."
The secretary blinked. "Now? Why suddenly—"
Philip's face contorted with ugly frustration. "Damn it all!" He swiped his thick palm across his mouth. "That bastard Cardon insists on meeting her personally. Some nonsense about presenting an engagement gift." He glanced back toward the drawing room, then toward his study. "She's still in my office. The room will need... attention. I don't want the Count noticing anything *inappropriate*."
The secretary remained frozen, clearly struggling with some objection.
Philip's eyes narrowed. "Is there a problem?"
"She has no suitable clothes for a formal reception, my lord."
Philip's expression shifted from irritation to genuine alarm. He had never wasted money on proper attire for his stepdaughter—an unnecessary expense for a girl who never entertained visitors. Until this moment, it had never been a problem.
"*Damn it all!*"
In public, Philip cultivated the image of a refined nobleman and devoted father. He could not present Asella in her current state—wearing rags that would shame a scullery maid, looking more like a beggar than the daughter of an ancient house.
The solution came to him immediately, though it brought no pleasure.
"Get one of Rebecca's dresses."
The secretary's face drained of color. "My lord... Lady Rebecca will..."
Rebecca was Philip's longtime mistress, their relationship carefully hidden from society until Anthony could secure the marquis title. Though they hadn't yet married, she had already furnished the mansion according to her tastes and treated it as her own domain.
The secretary began to stammer. "B-but if Lady R-Rebecca discovers—"
"Be *silent* and do as I say. Now!"
The man was right to be terrified. When Rebecca learned that Asella had worn one of her gowns, there would be hell to pay. Philip could already envision his mistress's fury—could picture her ripping the contaminated garment to shreds before his eyes.
The thought sent a spike of irritation through him. But there was no alternative.
At least she wasn't in the mansion today.
"I'll explain everything to Rebecca later."
His mistress possessed a volcanic temper, but she was equally quick to forgive. A few honeyed words, perhaps a small gift, and she would forget the offense quickly enough.
But the secretary wasn't finished. "Your Excellency... the size difference..."
Philip closed his eyes briefly, summoning patience. Rebecca stood half a head taller than Asella and possessed considerably more... *presence*. Her gowns would hang absurdly on his stepdaughter's small, underfed frame.
"Adjust it. Pin it. Do whatever is necessary to create the *illusion* of a proper fit." His voice cracked like a whip. "Just enough for a brief meeting. No more, no less. Now *go*!"
The secretary fled to carry out his orders.
---