_And yet... better to oversee this myself._
Philip chewed his lip and made his way toward Asella's room, located in the most neglected wing of the mansion. The corridor grew narrower as he walked, the walls darker, the air thicker with disuse. Her quarters were little more than a closet—cramped, unrenovated, with a single window so choked by overgrown trees that sunlight barely penetrated the grimy glass.
The smell hit him first: must and mildew, the particular staleness of spaces rarely disturbed. The maids seldom ventured this far, and it showed. Dust coated the floorboards in a fine gray film, clinging to his polished shoes, staining the hem of his trousers.
Philip's lip curled in disgust.
"I am *so* thoroughly sick of all this," he muttered.
In any case, this marriage was simply a transaction. The buying and selling of a woman—nothing more, nothing less. The deal was struck. The ransom received. All that remained was to conduct the ceremony with appropriate dignity and deliver Asella to her buyer in a manner that wouldn't raise eyebrows among the nobility.
_What was the point of these unnecessary rituals and gifts? The price has already been paid._
Grumbling thus, he pushed open the door to his stepdaughter's room.
---
Asella was brought in shortly after, followed by a maid carrying Rebecca's dress draped over her arms like a sacrifice.
The head maid examined Asella from crown to heel, her expression souring with each passing second. Finally, she delivered her verdict:
"Your Excellency, this will not fit. The size is completely wrong."
"I *know* that!" Philip's teeth ground together audibly. "Fix it somehow. Do whatever you need to do—trim it, hem it, pin it—"
"Your Excellency, but—" The maid's objection died in her throat when she met his murderous glare. Her mouth snapped shut.
Philip's jaw tightened until it ached. *What a hassle. These two daughters of Adele—a constant thorn in my side.*
Somehow, he had managed to send the younger one away from the mansion. But Asella... Asella was always *there*, a perpetual irritation, a reminder of everything he resented. How many times had he fantasized about locking her away in some remote monastery, far from sight and mind?
But he couldn't. His reputation would never survive such a scandal.
His eyes traveled over the girl with barely concealed nervousness. *Just get through this. One month—perhaps less—until the wedding. And once Asella is married off, every obstacle to Anthony's succession will be eliminated. He will finally become the legitimate heir. No one will dare dispute his claim.*
This marriage *had* to proceed. His son *must* inherit the title of Marquis of Charts.
The problem, of course, was blood.
Unlike Anthony, Asella was an heir by birth. Long ago, when Adele still lived, she had personally introduced her eldest daughter to society as her successor. The presentation had been formal, public, *binding* in the eyes of the old nobility.
Which made Asella dangerous.
For seven long years, Philip had worked methodically to crush that danger. He had broken her pride, crippled her ambition, stripped away every privilege she had once possessed. He had removed her from all family affairs and transformed her daily existence into an endless parade of humiliation.
And yet.
The Empire's aristocracy still valued bloodline above all else. Because of that *cursed* blood flowing through her veins, Anthony's position remained precarious. Too many noble houses remembered what Asella had once been. Too many still whispered about rightful succession.
This wedding was not merely convenient. It was *necessary*.
"I'll have you dismissed!" Philip barked at the hesitating maid.
"We will do our very best, Your Excellency."
His mouth curved with satisfaction at her submissive tone. "Good. Take her to Rebecca's chambers. And *hurry*."
"Yes, my lord."
Rebecca favored bright, revealing gowns designed to showcase her considerable charms. But the dress was far too large for Asella's slight frame—the hem would need trimming, the sleeves shortening, the plunging bodice somehow covered with whatever scraps of fabric remained. The maid rushed off to find suitable thread.
"Wait."
Philip's command stopped her at the threshold.
_What if Asella says something inappropriate in Count Cardon's presence?_
He considered the risk. As long as he held Mariel, he held power over her sister. That much was certain. And yet... he couldn't afford carelessness. Not now. Not when everything was finally falling into place.
Besides, he *had* gone rather overboard with the whip today.
_Even a cornered rat will bite._
"There is one more thing," he said slowly, beckoning the maid closer.
---
## — Rebecca's Chambers —
Asella stared at the room through unfocused eyes. Her head throbbed with a deep, persistent ache, and her back... her back was beyond description. Despite the painkillers they had forced down her throat, the wounds burned as though the whip still fell, stroke after stroke, the flesh splitting anew with each heartbeat.
"My lady, stand up *straight*."
The maid's voice dripped with displeasure. Asella swayed where she stood, her balance precarious, her gaze drifting over the women who surrounded her on all sides. She had seen these faces only a handful of times and knew nothing about them except that they belonged to Mistress Rebecca's personal staff.
Consciousness flickered like a candle in a draft. If she relaxed—even for a single moment—she would collapse. She was certain of it.
Asella bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. The sharp pain, the copper taste of blood flooding her mouth, cleared her head somewhat. She focused on remaining upright, her toes curling unconsciously inside her shoes against the waves of agony.
The head maid noticed this small movement. Her lips pressed into a thin, contemptuous line, poorly concealing her amusement at the girl's pathetic efforts.
The others were no kinder.
"What a shame to ruin such a *luxurious* dress," one of them sighed, her voice dripping with false sympathy as she roughly adjusted Asella's long sleeves.
"Oh, indeed. It certainly wasn't meant for someone like *you*," another chimed in, kneeling to shorten the hem. "Oh—forgive me, my lady, I didn't mean it *that* way. It's simply such a pity to cut up this beauty only to throw it away afterward. It suited Mistress Rebecca *perfectly*. On you, though..." She clicked her tongue. "It looks simply dreadful. Oh, I'm so sorry, my lady—I don't mean to suggest you're unattractive. Please don't misunderstand."
The words were daggers wrapped in silk. Such treatment would have been unthinkable for any other marquis's daughter—but these women knew exactly how much they could dare.
Asella endured in silence.
_It doesn't matter. These people... none of them matter. This is the last time I will ever see them._
The knights and servants who had once faithfully served the Charts family had long since been banished from the estate. Every soul remaining answered to Philip. Every one of them acted to please their master, no matter the cost.
"*Ah!*"
A searing pain shot through her wrist. The thick needle that had been sewing the frill of her sleeve plunged deep into her flesh.
"What's wrong, my lady? Don't be such a delicate flower—it's nothing to fuss about." The maid's voice dripped with mock concern. "We've heard you're *very* patient."
Asella said nothing. She lowered her gaze to her wrist, where a single drop of blood bloomed crimson against her pale skin.
_It doesn't matter. Nothing will change anyway._
The maids exchanged knowing glances at her silence.
"Well then. That's convenient."
---
The abuse continued with methodical cruelty.
Needles found their way into Asella's body with unwavering regularity. Where the skin would be visible, they pierced shallowly—just enough to cause pain without leaving marks. But where fabric concealed the flesh, they drove deeper, puncturing muscle, drawing blood that soaked into the hastily pinned dress.
"Oh dear—excuse me, my lady! Did that hurt terribly? I'm *so* clumsy—that's the fourth time I've pricked you." The maid's laughter was bright, cruel. "But you're accustomed to pain, aren't you?"
Asella regarded them with an expression as blank as a porcelain mask.
_If I close my eyes... perhaps they will disappear._
These servants—occupying a lower rung of the social hierarchy—took particular delight in tormenting a noblewoman, knowing Philip's silent blessing protected them from consequence. Each wound they inflicted was a small victory against the natural order, a petty revenge for every moment they had ever felt inferior.
Sometimes Asella felt like a marionette, her arms and legs bound by invisible strings that anyone could tug at will. She couldn't cry when she wanted to cry. Couldn't smile when she wanted to smile. Couldn't even flinch without permission.
_If you care about Mariel, you will behave properly._
Philip's voice echoed through her skull.
_You'll make the right choice if you care about your sister._
The threats were never explicit. They didn't need to be.
Her vision swam. Nausea rose in her throat. She suddenly remembered that she hadn't eaten anything all day—not a morsel of bread, not a sip of water. The maids' voices grew distant, distorted, like bells ringing underwater.
"*AAAH!*"
Someone had deliberately driven a needle into the wound on her back.
The lash marks still wept beneath the hastily applied bandages. Before the dress had been forced over her body, they had slathered medicine onto the raw flesh and wrapped her torso in dry cloth—cloth that now stuck to the wounds, pulling with every movement.
The needle pierced through all of it.
Asella's face contorted in animal agony. Every hair on the back of her neck stood on end, her spine arching involuntarily as lightning shot through her nervous system. For one terrible moment, she was certain she would scream.
But the moment passed.
Her expression smoothed. Her back straightened. The mask fell back into place.
_Stand straight. That is all I can do. Stand straight._
She was still Charts. Even if all she possessed was the name. That glorious name, borne by generations of her ancestors since the Empire's founding. Long ago, when Adele was alive, Asella had been raised as the successor—trained in grace and dignity, taught that her bloodline carried both privilege and responsibility.
Much had changed since then. But some things remained rooted in the deepest chambers of her heart, impossible to uproot no matter how viciously Philip tried.
The name Charts could not be insulted. Could not be tarnished. Not while she still drew breath.
Pride in her lineage seemed to have been written into her very bones at birth.
Asella pressed her lips together until they went white. *I can endure this. The headache. The agony in my back. The nausea threatening to spill over. I will not scream. I will not howl for the amusement of these wretched, vile people.*
Better to remain silent.
She felt that if she opened her mouth—even slightly—something would escape. A sound buried in the deepest depths of her soul. A scream that, once released, might never stop.
"You're holding up *remarkably* well, my lady." The head maid watched her with undisguised amusement. "Such aristocratic composure."
"That's right—a *true* Charts," another echoed in saccharine tones. "Family interests come first, don't they? Marriage to a powerful man! Never mind that you barely know him. Such a small detail won't prevent you from feeling *happy*, will it? After all, it's for the good of the family."
She purred the words like someone soothing a frightened child, even as she twisted the invisible knife deeper into Asella's wound.
"Indeed! The late Marquise would be *so* proud of our lady now."
---
The words landed like physical blows.
Asella's heart—which had seemed to petrify under the weight of her despair—began to ache anew. A fresh crack spread through the stone.
She closed her eyes tightly. It felt as though these people were trampling through her chest with muddy boots, grinding their heels into everything soft and vulnerable that remained.
"Be grateful for this opportunity to strengthen your family's position, my lady."
The household knew *exactly* how to handle her. Philip had taught them well. Every time her mother was mentioned, Asella's defenses crumbled. She couldn't respond. Could only fall silent and still, like an animal freezing before a predator.
The servants had learned this technique quickly. It proved devastatingly effective.
"Your sister... Lady Mariel... such a tiny, fragile thing. She needs your protection so badly." The maid's voice was honey over poison. "My lady, please turn this way."
Asella shifted her feet. Quietly. Obediently. The movement was almost mechanical—her body responding to commands without her conscious participation. Even though she was performing the actions herself, it felt as though she were watching from somewhere far away, observing a stranger puppet through familiar flesh.
Everything swam before her eyes.
"There—that's all, my lady."
Finally. *Finally*, it was over. Though she had barely survived.
"Very beautiful indeed." The head maid examined her from crown to hem, nodding with clinical satisfaction. "Now, please—sit on the sofa as carefully as possible. Once you're seated, try not to move. The seams are fragile. We've worked *so* hard." Her smile was a blade. "You wouldn't want to look *unsightly*, would you?"
The maids made final adjustments, deftly concealing the rough stitching and hastily pinned fabric.
Asella lowered herself onto the sofa without a word.
---
There are things in this world you cannot avoid. Even when you've been warned. Even when you see them coming from miles away. Things you cannot refuse, no matter how desperately you wish to.
Sometimes Asella felt herself slipping backward through time—to moments when her mother was still alive, when Mariel was still within reach, when the word *family* meant something warm instead of weaponized.
At such moments, her thoughts would grow hazy, and her feet would sink into quicksand. Perhaps some memories had faded over the years, their edges growing soft and indistinct.
But there were things she could never forget.
"Count Cardon will arrive shortly." The maid's voice pierced through the fog. "The young lady can handle this, can't she? Remember—this is for your family. For *Mariel*."
Asella nodded. Slowly. Mechanically.
_No matter how hard I struggle, nothing changes. It has always been this way. For years upon years. Every attempt leads only to more suffering._
_If it doesn't matter..._
_If there's no point..._
She closed her eyes and prepared herself for the inevitable.
_Everything as always._
---