This was precisely why Asella had been brought to every important social event—the New Year's Ball, the Empire Day banquet at the imperial palace, countless gatherings of the nobility. Philip needed her visible. Presentable. *Valuable.*
A commodity displayed at its best fetches the highest price.
And that was why Asella's threat had carried real weight.
"You *dare* blackmail me?" Philip's face had contorted with rage, flushing crimson as a ripe tomato. "You think you'll get away with this?" He ground his teeth together so hard the sound was audible. "Aren't you afraid for your own life after making such threats?"
"But then my stepfather won't be able to obtain what he so desperately desires."
It was nothing but the truth. Philip was officially listed only as guardian—not as lord of the Charts estate in his own right. If society ever learned the truth about how Adele's daughters were actually being treated, he would lose everything. The doors of every decent house would slam shut in his face, never to open again.
The nobility valued honor and dignity above all else. Their own petty interests came second. Philip had managed to suppress the rebellion of the Charts vassals through force and cunning, yes—but he couldn't afford to turn the entire Empire's aristocracy against him.
Ultimately, Asella had prevailed that day.
"Get out! Both of you! Back to your room!" His voice had cracked with fury. "And don't you *dare* crawl out of there without my permission!"
Asella had taken a deep breath, grateful beyond words that it had ended this way.
---
However, revenge soon followed.
A few weeks later, Mariel was sent away to a remote estate. Now the sisters were separated by a grueling four-day journey to the southern holdings of the Charts family.
Late one evening, Asella returned from yet another banquet—one Philip had ordered her to attend—only to find Mariel's room empty. The small bed was stripped bare. The toys were gone. Not a single trace of her sister remained.
Asella wept through the entire night.
Afterward, she couldn't sleep properly for weeks, tormented by guilt. Because of her—because of her foolish, momentary bravery—the little girl had been torn away without warning, denied even the chance to say goodbye.
A month later, a letter arrived.
> *Sister, I'm fine. It's warm here and everyone is friendly.*
The childish handwriting was careful, each letter formed with painstaking attention, as though the seven-year-old had labored over every stroke.
*Perhaps it's for the best,* Asella told herself. *What good could she have seen if she'd stayed in this house?*
But everything has its price.
*You're worried about Mariel, aren't you?*
Philip reminded her constantly. The threat hung over every conversation, every interaction, every moment of every day.
And Asella found herself unable to contradict this man, paralyzed by fear for her sister's safety.
---
Here and now.
"You should be grateful that I've arranged your life so well." Philip's voice slithered into her ears like venom from a serpent's fangs. "And make *certain* I don't change my mind. Otherwise, you'll regret it for the rest of your days. Do you understand me, Asella?"
The will that had been trying to raise its head was crushed in an instant. Her feeble spark of hope crumbled to ash.
"You shouldn't keep resentment in your heart."
Silence.
"Do you understand?"
Philip extended his hand and patted her shoulder.
The touch made her shudder so violently she nearly retched. A blow from the whip would have been preferable—at least that pain was clean. This false gentleness filled her with such revulsion that she wanted to tear away the piece of flesh he had contaminated.
"Answer me."
"...Yes, Father." The words barely escaped her lips.
Philip smiled, satisfied.
"Your Excellency, Madame Epordieu has arrived," the butler's voice announced from the corridor.
"Excellent timing!" Philip's smile stretched wider still.
---
## — Madame Epordieu —
Madame Epordieu's reputation was truly formidable. Even the most noble houses were required to place orders well in advance and wait patiently for her attention. So when she had been informed that a messenger had arrived from the Marquis of Charts, she found herself somewhat perplexed.
The House of Charts had not been on her client list for quite some time. This was particularly surprising given that the Charts were among the wealthiest families in the Empire—and they had two daughters.
The messenger wasted no time with pleasantries.
"My master requires a wedding dress to be commissioned."
"How wonderful." Madame Epordieu reached for her appointment ledger. "And when is the wedding?"
"In one month."
Her fingers, which had been leafing through the pages with practiced efficiency, stopped mid-turn.
"I apologize, but our schedule is extremely demanding. We have so many existing orders... I'm afraid I simply cannot—" She was preparing to deliver a polite but firm refusal.
"Providing such a service to the future Grand Duchess Asella Benvito would surely benefit Madame Epordieu herself. Would it not?"
The woman couldn't believe what she was hearing.
"Lady Charts is marrying the *Grand Duke*?"
"Yes. That is correct."
This was an entirely different matter. This was a whole new level of clientele—refusing such a commission was simply unthinkable. Madame Epordieu immediately postponed all her existing work and cleared her schedule for an entire month.
Her assistant spent the remainder of that day dispatching apologetic gifts and carefully worded cards to the affected clients. None of them would have dared object had they known the true reason for the delay—but therein lay the difficulty. The engagement had not yet been officially announced, which meant absolute discretion was required.
Either way, there was no choice to be made.
And so Madame Epordieu and her assistants set off for Charts Manor.
"I wonder what sort of man this Marquis of Charts is," Madame Epordieu mused aloud as the carriage rattled along the road.
"Indeed, it would be interesting to know," the other tailors agreed.
"And his daughter? The Grand Duke himself has chosen to marry this woman." She turned to her companions. "Has anyone here ever seen her face?"
To this question, Madame shook her head thoughtfully.
"I've heard of Asella Charts, certainly. But I've never laid eyes on her. I only know she's been appearing in society for the past three years."
In truth, Madame Epordieu's luxurious boutique functioned as much as a social salon as a place of business. This gave her access to extensive connections and the freshest gossip circulating through aristocratic society. Yet she knew virtually nothing about the Marquis of Charts's two daughters beyond the occasional vague rumor.
However, Madame Epordieu had been well acquainted with the late Adele Charts. Therefore, she felt confident that the girl she was about to meet would be quite attractive.
---
"Please come in, Madame Epordieu."
When Epordieu finally met Asella, she realized how profoundly she had underestimated the truth.
The woman who dressed the Empire's wealthiest and most influential people possessed an innate sense for beauty—it was precisely this gift that had made her an unrivaled milliner. In Madame Epordieu's expert eyes, Asella could hardly be called merely *beautiful*.
That word was insufficient.
Deep blue eyes, luminous as still water. Thick waves of silvery hair cascading over slender shoulders. These were the distinctive traits found only in direct descendants of the Charts bloodline, a family renowned for their beauty across generations. And like her mother before her, this girl possessed something rarer still—a unique aura, an ineffable quality that commanded attention without demanding it.
Madame Epordieu found herself momentarily speechless, captivated by the innate grace and dignity emanating from such a fragile frame.
"My name is Asella Charts."
The greeting finally broke through Epordieu's reverie.
"It is a tremendous honor to meet the future Grand Duchess." Her practiced flattery emerged smoothly, accompanied by a polished, gentle smile. With a discreet gesture, she signaled to her assistants. They began arranging bolts of fabric before their client—silks in every shade imaginable, samples of magnificent lace, glittering accessories and delicate trimmings.
Asella listened attentively to Madame Epordieu's explanations, nodding in agreement with each recommendation.
"Since I'm not yet familiar with Miss Charts's personal tastes, it would be best if we discussed every detail thoroughly. I want to ensure you are completely pleased with the result."
"I defer to your expertise."
"Then... may I take your measurements?"
A flicker of awkward worry crossed the girl's face—there and gone so quickly that anyone less observant might have missed it entirely. "Please. But I ask that you take them yourself."
Madame Epordieu understood the situation immediately. Aristocrats were notoriously particular about being touched by commoners. She herself was a noblewoman by birth, as were all her assistants—women of good family who had been forced by financial circumstances to take up respectable work.
"My lady, you needn't be concerned. All of my people are of the upper class." She began quietly listing the titles and surnames of her tailors, each one impeccable.
"...That's not the issue."
"No?"
"I simply don't wish to show my body to anyone but you."
"I see..." Madame Epordieu tilted her head, genuinely puzzled.
This was unusual behavior indeed. Nobles typically paid no more attention to the servants who washed, dressed, and attended them than they did to the furniture. They treated such people as tools—convenient instruments for tending their well-groomed bodies. What could possibly be amiss in the Charts household, whose wealth was the envy of half the Empire? Such excessive modesty was... odd.
However, Madame Epordieu had not built the most sought-after salon in the capital by asking uncomfortable questions.
"Of course." She turned to her assistants. "Please leave us for a moment."
The room emptied instantly.
When the door closed, she turned back to Asella.
"Now then—may I help you remove your dress?"
"Madame Epordieu."
"Yes, my lady?"
"What you are about to see..." The girl's voice was quiet but steady. "I must ask you to pretend that you don't notice it."
This strange request puzzled the woman even further. But Asella offered no explanation.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Madame Epordieu stepped forward and began her work. Her skilled fingers untied laces and released fastenings, gradually freeing Asella from her gown.
And then she understood.
Through the thin fabric of the girl's shift, she could see that her entire upper body was wrapped in bandages. Brown stains of dried blood showed through the cloth in several places—some faded, some darker, more recent.
"*My God*, my lady... How is this possible..."
Rumors had circulated that Philip, the acting marquis, wasn't particularly kind to his adopted daughters. But Madame Epordieu had never imagined—could never have imagined—that things had gone this far. Who would believe such violence was being perpetrated against the eldest daughter of one of the Empire's most ancient aristocratic families?
She stood completely speechless.
A warning thought flashed through her mind with sudden, cold clarity. *I shouldn't say anything. I didn't see anything.* Only now did the butler's words—spoken when he had greeted them at the mansion's entrance—take on their full, sinister meaning:
*"Nothing you see or hear within these walls must become known outside them. No one will guarantee your safety if this information is disclosed."*
Noble families had always valued confidentiality, and Madame Epordieu's salon had built its reputation on precisely this discretion. One couldn't serve the aristocracy with a loose tongue. She had learned long ago how to pretend not to see or hear things—even shocking things.
But such an explicit threat from a family with which she had once shared close ties... it filled her with profound unease.
And now *this*.
Madame Epordieu stood frozen in complete stupor. The girl's shabby, worn dress—so different from what a Charts daughter should be wearing—had slipped awkwardly, hanging off one shoulder. Beneath it, the evidence of prolonged cruelty was unmistakable.
The woman was utterly at a loss. She didn't know what to do, what to say, where to look.
"You will keep my secret, won't you?"
The quiet voice brought her back to herself.
"Yes. Yes, of course." Epordieu finally regained her composure. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she withdrew her measuring tape and began taking measurements with swift, professional efficiency.
She felt unbearably ashamed—not for herself, but *for* this very young lady who was not yet even truly an adult. Finishing faster than she ever had before, Madame Epordieu helped the girl dress, her hands gentle, careful not to cause any additional pain. She tied the laces with the same tenderness one might use with a wounded bird.
Asella noticed her sympathy.
"Thank you, Madame."
Epordieu was a pragmatic woman. She had built her success by never allowing herself to become emotionally involved in her clients' lives. But today—this one time—she simply could not walk away unmoved.
She hesitated, choosing her words with care.
"I will sew the most beautiful dress you have ever seen." Her voice carried a weight of feeling she rarely permitted herself. "You will be the most beautiful bride in all the world."
But Asella—who was perhaps the most unfortunate bride in all the world—only offered a weak, sad smile.
---