Chapter 20
Not long after Pheon was practically driven out of Lusenford, Beatrice Lavalle also began visiting Lusenford frequently. After all, with her family’s fortunes in decline, she had nowhere else to turn.
In Lusenford, she was always a welcome guest—more so, even, than the Grand Duchess, who, despite being the Emperor’s niece, was the daughter of a bastard.
The Lusenford nobles held both admiration and resentment toward the capital. Secretly, they favored the vibrant and dazzling Beatrice—the reigning flower of high society.
She loved establishing hierarchies. From a very young age, she’d always wanted to prove she stood above Caella, the Grand Duchess, within their established relationship.
The Lusenford nobility joined in, and whenever Caella tried to assert her ducal authority in response, Beatrice would immediately run to Pheon. After all, she possessed the powerful spell known as the Golden Seal.
“Pheon and I have always been so close.”
Beatrice shot back without so much as blinking at Caella’s words. Ever since childhood, Caella had adored Pheon, so all Beatrice needed to do was mention the special bond between herself and Pheon—and that was enough. Beatrice always won.
Caella recalled the widespread rumors that Beatrice had wept in front of Pheon because of her.
More precisely, it spread as “The Grand Duchess made Lady Lavalle cry.” She remembered the stifling chill of Lusenford, where every move she made felt constrained, suffocating her.
“I was just worried—suddenly announcing your marriage like that. That emotionally dense boy who never understands people’s feelings… you know he never understood your heart.”
Pheon never summoned Caella separately or took any action back then. He simply left her alone, as always. He did nothing; it was the nobles and palace staff within Lusenford who handled everything.
“Well, I suppose it makes sense. After all that persistent effort, you’re finally getting your reward, aren’t you?”
Though she wasn’t even treated properly as Grand Duchess, Pheon still insisted on calling her by that title.
Caella was certain that this was the only form of aggression from the emotionally reserved man—wasn’t it an insult to call someone “Grand Duchess” when she clearly wasn’t?
“I’m just worrying as Pheon’s closest friend, so don’t take it the wrong way.”
It was like clawing at someone’s heart and then asking, “Surely you’re not that narrow-minded?”
Beatrice gave a playful smile. It felt as though the surroundings instantly brightened. She seemed to glow at the center of the busy imperial palace corridor, drawing every bystander’s gaze toward her.
Caella knew well how powerful Beatrice’s beauty and presence truly were.
Otherwise, Beatrice would have been just another fading noblewoman from a nearly extinct house. Simply enduring this far was remarkable—and Caella genuinely admired her for it.
“I understand perfectly. I don’t take it the wrong way.”
Thus, whatever Beatrice said had to be accepted as reasonable—because, in truth, it was. What right did Caella have to interfere between Pheon and Beatrice?
She could only think, “They must truly love each other and be happy.” What else could she do? Compared to Beatrice, she was just a dull, charmless lump of stone—so unattractive that her husband had never once looked back at her.
“I also understand now just how specially you think of Brother Pheon.”
It would be utterly foolish to provoke Beatrice here. To everyone’s eyes, it was only natural that the Duke of Lusenford chose Beatrice. Or at least, that’s how it was in Lusenford.
“Well, you’d know best—you’ve watched us for so long, haven’t you? Right?”
Beatrice smiled faintly again. Caella nodded calmly, though inside, flames burned fiercely.
“Of course. I know you’re far closer to him than I am. Everyone in Crania knows how devotedly you’ve cared for him as the Duchess and how you grew up together since childhood. Just as you said—you truly are special to each other.”
She understood that well enough—but did they really have to stop her, the already overwhelmed bride-to-be, right here in the imperial palace, in front of so many people, just to play this game of dominance?
If this had happened before her death, Caella would have simply smiled, nodded sweetly, maintained perfect courtesy, and then returned alone to sulk in private.
Back then, she hadn’t known better—but more importantly, she’d still wanted to hold onto goodwill. She’d been that naive.
“I’m so disappointed we couldn’t attend my wedding together with you, Duchess. Given how special your bond is, I really hoped you’d come and celebrate with me.”
But goodwill wouldn’t save your life. Then again, what about ill will?
Having died and returned, Caella now began to step beyond the lines she’d always guarded. What more could happen if she crossed them? If she died, it would be a relief. If she didn’t, at least she’d have done something she’d never dared before.
“Sister, I’m counting on you to take good care of him. After all, as you said yourself, you understand him far better than I ever could.”
When had Beatrice first begun deceiving the Duke and colluding with the Emperor?
Caella could no longer distinguish whether the fury rising inside her was jealousy, inferiority, or sheer injustice.
It was unbearably unjust—and infuriating—that the Emperor’s spy, whom Lusenford had tried so desperately to root out, turned out to be Beatrice, not her.
Blinded by first love and nostalgia, and desperate to uphold his cherished beliefs, Pheon had essentially handed over all of Lusenford’s secrets to Beatrice.
And then, Beatrice had mocked Caella pitifully while feeding her poison.
Of course, the Beatrice Caella remembered had nothing to do with the Beatrice standing before her now. Strictly speaking, they were different people. But people rarely changed—only death could truly transform someone.
“I was just thinking how much easier things will be for me thanks to you, Sister.”
She hated using the term “Sister,” yet it slipped out effortlessly. Mimicking Beatrice’s own manner felt surprisingly easy. Seeing Beatrice’s expression shift confirmed she could say “Sister” as casually as she liked.
Yes—just now, Caella had essentially said, “Since I’m too busy to care for my husband, you, his mistress, should take care of him.” After all, this was a political marriage—staying faithful to the “politics” was all that mattered.
Having never before spoken such wicked words openly, Caella gripped her pounding heart tightly as she spoke.
“Please visit Lusenford often. Brother and I will always welcome you.”
As a wealthy Princess of Ostein and future Duchess, she had no reason to fret over her husband’s mistress—bearing an heir was all that mattered.
Though she’d always loathed conflicts between wives and mistresses, Caella was certain she’d struck true when she saw Beatrice’s expression harden instantly.
At the same time, a pang of self-loathing hit her for doing something she despised—but she resolved to be shameless. She’d already hit rock bottom.
Yes—she should’ve done this long ago. She should’ve spoken her mind clearly and fanned the flames for the swift downfall of the two who ruined her.
It had been foolish to stubbornly refuse to treat Beatrice like a mistress, just because she was called “daughter of a bastard” while Pheon himself bore that same label.
“Please also give my regards to the Duchess.”
“Of course. Certainly.”
Beatrice never lost her smile to the very end. She’d intended to mock Caella, speak dismissively, and hurt her—but instead, even though she’d been bested, she hadn’t completely crumbled. She’d surely return better prepared next time. It was obvious.
“And unlike the imperial palace, House Ostein’s doors are always open to the Duchess.”
If you’ve caused trouble, you must come apologize. After saying “always,” Caella paused briefly.
“Do let her know.”
So you and your mother need to be explicitly told that you must come apologize to me?
Nearby nobles widened their eyes at Caella’s sharp retort.
“Both of you are always welcome at the Ducal House as well.”
Knowing she could never replicate Beatrice’s dazzling smile with the same effect, Caella simply offered a faint, gentle smile. She, too, knew how to smile.
“I’m pressed for time, so I’ll take my leave first. See you again, Sister.”
Attacking and belittling someone wasn’t as satisfying or exhilarating as she’d imagined.
Everyone—the Lusenford nobles and palace staff, the Emperor, Beatrice, Duchess Monde, and the rest—who’d eagerly done this for so long must have boundless energy. Unlike her, they seemed remarkably healthy.
Caella turned away from Beatrice and gave a bitter smile as she saw the nobles who’d been eavesdropping scurry off, ducking their heads.
In a realm where a bastard’s daughter marries a bastard, rumors would surely spread that the flower of high society was treated like a mistress.
Well—had anything ever gone right for her? This was just her usual, ordinary life.
*
Pheon was the first to learn that Beatrice and Caella had met in the imperial palace and even exchanged words. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly upon reading the conversation report hastily sent by his informant assigned to Beatrice.
“Where on earth do I even begin to fix this…?”
He wanted to rush to Caella immediately and apologize again—but that was absolutely impossible.
From the report, he was already firmly branded in her eyes as a man with a mistress. Going to her now would only make him look like an idiot apologizing for his mistress’s misdeeds to his heartbroken fiancée.
No—truthfully, apology was just an excuse. He simply missed her. The feelings he’d desperately denied in Lusenford, which he’d only recently begun acknowledging, now overwhelmed him to the point of fear.
He forcibly suppressed the shameless urge to sprint to her. He’d avoided her precisely because he’d known it would come to this. What a pathetic fool he was.
“Caella said, ‘Thanks to you, Sister, I’ll feel much more at ease now…’”
He was so flabbergasted he could barely speak.
“And that she was counting on me to take care of you?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
She’d retorted brilliantly—honestly, perfectly.
Beatrice had always been the sort of woman noble gentlemen admired and longed just to speak to—even once—never someone treated as a mere mistress. Only someone of the Princess of Ostein’s standing could dare address her as such.
But Caella—the very Caella who had braved the cold to seek out the Duke and clearly, precisely laid out “how Lady Lavalle was encroaching upon the Grand Duchess’s authority and how the situation should be resolved”—had actually said those words?
“That can’t be…”
Pheon’s brow furrowed deeper in concern. The Duke, seated on a soft, low sofa with his long legs crossed, rested his chin on his hand, elbow propped on the armrest, lost in deep thought.
Truthfully, whenever Beatrice visited Lusenford, trouble always followed. Pheon’s experience was always the same: Beatrice would come running in tears, or he’d receive reports from the butler or head maid.
They’d always say things like, “Lady Caella did this,” or “Her Grace the Grand Duchess did that.” Caella was always the cause. And then he’d console Beatrice just enough.
A few vague, dismissive responses were all it took. Then, a few days later, he’d inevitably bump into the Grand Duchess he’d left alone due to his own helplessness.
Damn it—Beatrice would surely come crying to him again soon.
“Wilberk.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Lady Lavalle will probably come running here in tears today.”
Lord Wilberk looked at the Duke issuing orders with a cold stare into the air, his tension palpable. The Duke, cutting himself off mid-sentence as frustration surged, swallowed hard.
“Have the carriage ready—I’ll leave in five minutes. No, three.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The Duke’s voice crackled with barely contained rage, simmering on the verge of explosion. How amused the Emperor would be to hear this—mocking them for marrying two bastards and still playing mistress games.
Pheon was used to this by now, but Caella—forced into a marriage she never wanted—what humiliation this must be for the future Duchess of Ostein.
Lord Wilberk withdrew quietly, leaving the clearly furious but restrained Duke behind. Exactly thirty minutes later, when Lady Lavalle rushed in, Wilberk couldn’t help but marvel.
Pheon, plainly showing he didn’t even want her inside his office, kept his eyes fixed on documents at his desk, indifferent to whether Beatrice entered crying or not.
“Pheon, I…”
“Everyone’s already heard what you said outside just now. I know too.”
Beatrice, who had prepared a perfect closing line—“Though I’m heartbroken you’re marrying someone unworthy of you, congratulations, and don’t forget me”—couldn’t even begin her rehearsed speech. She glared at Pheon, who refused to even look at her.
“Caella told me to take good care of you.”
“You told me the same thing yourself.”
“I said that as a friend…”
“And Caella said it as my fiancée. If we go by your reasoning, there’s no difference—so why are you here?”
Beatrice was deeply shocked by his dismissive, impatient question.
“Are you… upset with me because I rejected your proposal? What power do I have over you? How can you treat me like this?”
There it was again—that accursed Golden Seal. Pheon sighed, looking up at the ceiling in exasperation. How could they talk if she refused to understand?
“The very act of coming here to complain proves you’re treating yourself like a mistress, Beatrice. If it bothers you so much, don’t come here—go to House Ostein with your mother and apologize first.”
Beatrice stood speechless, mouth agape. Seeing she couldn’t reply, Pheon finally turned to face her.
“Didn’t Duchess Monde tell you? I sent her away after she came here to make a scene.”
He said “sent away,” but his tone was closer to “chased out.” Just like Caella had done, Pheon deliberately brought up Beatrice’s greatest weakness—her mother.
“You seem to be the only one who knows I proposed to you. So why is your mother coming to yell at me?”
“How can you say that! What if someone hears?”
“Then you shouldn’t have dared speak to the Princess in the first place. Your mother ignored her greeting, and you addressed her as though claiming to be my mistress.”
Who could have expected such words—about mistresses—from that demure princess? Beatrice, who’d come intending to humble the overly refined Caella, now felt utterly baffled after getting struck down herself.
Caella wasn’t like this before—wasn’t she supposed to be like Pheon?
One of those so-called noble types who’d rather die than lose dignity—too timid to confess her crush, foolishly believing that quiet devotion would someday earn a single glance.
And Pheon himself was acting strangely too!
“Leave, Beatrice. I’ve never kept a mistress like you.”
“What?”
“I said leave. It seems your mother never told you—I made it perfectly clear there’s nothing between us.”
Nothing between them? As Beatrice stood there, reeling from blow after blow, Pheon opened the door himself.
If he hadn’t married Caella—if he’d remained entirely detached—he might have used Beatrice just as she and the Emperor had used him, tossing aside all his principles and dragging her down with him.
But now that Caella was tied to him, that was impossible.
“Leave and never come back.”
Beatrice felt the leash she’d always held tightly around Pheon slipping smoothly from her grasp.
Beatrice, who prided herself on effortlessly managing women in society while finding far more enjoyment among men, felt her head spin with feverish confusion over what had happened in just these past few days.
Pheon had always—always—listened whenever she cried, yet now he’d cut her off completely, as though he’d died and come back a stranger. Why? He’d placed the Golden Seal himself—how could this be?
The Golden Seal was still active. She checked it habitually every time they met, reinforcing the spell again and again. Yet Pheon no longer seemed ensnared by it. The strangeness of it chilled her to the bone.
But she couldn’t let her last shred of dignity crumble. Beatrice shot to her feet, held her head high, strode to the door—and slapped Pheon across the cheek.
“You’re betraying both me and Her Imperial Majesty the Empress, who’s suffered alongside you all this time, all for a few measly coins.”
“I’ve always been a rather disgusting bastard, haven’t I?”
When the noble knight nodded while uttering those vulgar words himself, Beatrice was stunned. The Pheon who’d never sworn before—what had happened to him? He seemed like a stranger.
“You… you… what’s wrong with you?”
Instead of answering, Pheon irritably called for Lord Wilberk.
“Wilberk!”
“Yes, Your Highness. This way, Lady Lavalle.”
After driving Beatrice out himself, Pheon could already predict tomorrow’s gossip exactly: the fiancée-to-be treated the queen of high society like a mistress, and the queen chased after the Duke and slapped his face.
No matter how you looked at it, the Duke was clearly the asshole—but it would inevitably be framed as a feud between the Princess and society’s queen over the Duke. Pheon reached for alcohol in broad daylight. He kept dragging the noblest woman he knew deeper into the mud.
His guilt only grew heavier.
