Ophelia had always tiptoed around Caroline, trying to soothe her and read her moods. She was afraid of upsetting her.

This was because of Simon Wilhelm, Caroline’s son and once Ophelia’s fiancé.

After Simon died of the plague, the former Marquis Wilhelm immediately named his illegitimate son, Renoir, as the new heir and had him legally adopted by Caroline.

King Alfonso had initially disapproved of this, as he disliked the idea of a bastard inheriting.

However, once Renoir had proven himself through his exceptional achievements, the king arranged his marriage to Ophelia.

In truth, her engagement to Simon had been arranged when they were children, long before they knew anything about love.

They had never formed a deep attachment.

Nevertheless, the boy she remembered had always been respectful and kind.

This was why Ophelia could never bring herself to oppose Caroline, a woman who had lost her own son and had then been forced to accept her husband’s illegitimate child as her own.

Guilt and a strange sense of obligation had kept Ophelia bowed down to her for far too long.

“Grandmother… I’m sorry…”

Veronica stepped forward timidly and bowed her head to Caroline.

“Tsk.”

“…”

“Did I not teach you to call me ‘Madam Dowager’? No wonder the child is so lacking.”

At some point, Caroline had grown accustomed to talking down to Ophelia, as if it were her right.

The reason she could belittle Ophelia and look down on Veronica so easily was because Ophelia had allowed it.

Even at Veronica’s funeral—

“How refreshing it is now that that filthy blood is gone.”

“Congratulations, Madam Dowager, the disgrace of House Wilhelm is finally dead.”

“I heard that Ophelia—the wench—actually knelt and begged the servants not to clear the room?”

Not grief.

Not mourning.

But bright, breathless laughter as Caroline and the head maid whispered with delight over her daughter’s death.

“Her blood is lowborn, so I suppose it can’t be helped. But be more mindful from now on.”

“…How dare you…”

In truth, she had never needed to bow her head at all.

Even if her mother had once been a dancer in Larne, Ophelia was still a formally recognized member of the royal family.

By rank alone, she stood far above Caroline.

“…What?”

Caroline’s lips stiffened.

Ophelia met her gaze calmly.

“Are you aware that depending on your answer, this could fall under the crime of insulting the royal sovereign?”

“Milady!”

“No… perhaps it would be treason instead, since you dared call the Quilche royal line vulgar?”

“How dare you—!”

Caroline trembled with rage, staggering. The head maid rushed to support her as she clung to her arm, her wrinkled hands shaking.

“Young Marchioness, your words go too far…!”

Supporting Caroline so she wouldn’t fall, the head maid raised her voice at Ophelia.

“Head maid.”

“…”

Ophelia turned her head sharply and looked straight at her.

“I addressed the Madam Dowager. Where do you think you belong, interrupting as you please?”

“I—I only meant—”

“Learn where you may speak and where you may not.”

Her firm tone made the head maid shrink back.

She bit her lip and lowered her head.

“And… it is the Madam Dowager who should show respect to Veronica first. From now on, address her with proper honorifics.”

“…Honorifics?”

Caroline pushed the head maid’s hand away and took a sharp, ragged breath.

Unable to control her anger, she pointed a shaking finger at Veronica and shouted.

“Do you know who I am, you insolent girl?”

Veronica flinched violently, curling in on herself with a small, frightened whimper.

‘I should’ve said all this when Veronica wasn’t here.’

She had forgotten that this conversation was far too harsh for a child to witness.

Swallowing her sigh, Ophelia decided it was best to bring it to a swift close.

“There’s no point repeating myself like a parrot, so I’ll say it only once more.”

“…”

“Veronica is Quilche’s only royal heir. A mere noble such as the Dowager Lady cannot hope to rival her standing.”

Ophelia lifted Veronica into her arms.

The child’s small hands clung tightly to her neck.

As they passed Caroline, Veronica lowered her gaze, her lips trembling.

“Mommy… Bebe is otay…”

Her voice was blurred with tears and she hiccupped between syllables.

Hearing that tiny voice trying so hard to be brave caused Ophelia to falter for a moment.

“Bebe can jus’ hold it in. Grandma’s alwaysh like dat anyway…”

Her words echoed Ophelia’s painful childhood memories all too closely.

It hurt.

Ophelia pressed a soft kiss onto her rounded forehead and spoke quietly.

Was Renoir ever truly at fault?

Had he really taken Simon’s place?

‘The one who kept a mistress was the former Marquis… If Simon hadn’t died, Renoir never would’ve become the heir.’

There was no reason Veronica should bear the consequences.

“…My love, can you say your name for me?”

Veronica nodded, sniffing, and managed to speak through her unsteady breaths.

“…Bebe is… Veronica Wilhelm… of Quilche.”

“You are His Majesty the King’s only granddaughter, and your father is the Marquis Wilhelm.”

Ophelia spoke firmly.

“…Yesh. And Bebe’s mommy is the noble Princess!”

At that, Veronica lifted her head proudly, her smile returning.

“Remember this. No one has the right to mistreat you.”

“Mm… Bebe undashtands! Bebe won’t hold it in anymore!”

She raised her little fists with determined enthusiasm.

Ophelia closed her eyes and exhaled slowly at her brave response.

***

Later that night, once it was fully dark, Ophelia sat beside Veronica’s bed and watched her sleep.

She had brought the child into her own room because the thought of letting her sleep in the other room filled her with dread.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she gently brushed Veronica’s hair, then looked towards the door.

Outside, Meryl had fallen asleep in an upright chair, dozing lightly.

Ophelia slipped off her shawl and draped it over Meryl’s shoulders, then stepped out quietly.

The weight in her chest refused to lift.

She wandered into the night, hoping the cool air would steady her and ease some of her inner turmoil.

‘I can’t keep Veronica and the Dowager apart forever. They lived in the same palace — there was no escaping it.’

Perhaps it would be better to abandon Veronica’s right to succession altogether: divorce Renoir, and flee the kingdom.

Veronica’s safety and happiness were the only things that mattered now.

‘If I ask for a divorce… he’ll probably agree immediately…’

She was still thinking about how Renoir might answer when—

“Are you out of your mind?”

A firm hand clamped tightly around her left shoulder, yanking her around.

“…Renoir?”

Under the cold moonlight, Renoir’s face was rigid, his breath unsteady.

“Without a single attendant, wandering outside again in the middle of the night…”

What was he talking about?

‘…Again?’

Had something like this happened before?

No matter how hard she tried to remember, nothing came to mind.

His eyes, which were usually unreadable, were now burning with anger, the veins visible beneath the skin.

The man who was always so composed now looked as though he were barely containing himself.

“If you do this one more time,” Renoir said through clenched teeth, “I will assign someone to watch you at all hours.”

Ophelia was so stunned she snapped back sharply.

“…What did you just say?”

She felt as if she were being scolded, treated like some foolish woman caught sneaking around.

“If you dislike that, then stop getting in my way.”

“…Ha.”

Ophelia drew a breath, trying to force down her anger.

His tone sounded exactly like a superior berating a subordinate.

“…Let go of me.”

She pushed against him, trying to free herself.

“Don’t order me around as if I’m your lieutenant.”

Renoir gave a soft, cold laugh.

“I’m aware. You are not beneath me.”

His mocking tone made her face flush with heat.

“You are my noble princess.”

She couldn’t bear to be in his presence for another moment.

With her lips pressed together, she turned and went inside.

“…!”

But her foot slipped.

Her weakened legs could not support her weight and she lost her balance.

Renoir reached out silently, pulling her into his arms and locking one arm firmly around her waist.

With a sharp exhale, he slid his other hand beneath her knees and lifted her in one smooth motion.

“…Put me down.”

The heat of his body and the closeness of his breath made her uncomfortable.

But Renoir said nothing. Instead, he looked down at her foot, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It was a cold night, and all she could hear was the sound of their breathing in the still air.

“Renoir.”

It was true that Veronica needed her father. But if he truly felt nothing for her…

“…Should we divorce?”

Maybe ending it now—separating—was the right choice.

A heavy silence settled between them.

“Is there… another man?”

Renoir’s lips twisted.

His gaze toward her turned icy.

“A—another man? What are you talking about?”

She had never expected such a reaction.

It left her bewildered.

“Are you planning to divorce me and marry someone else?”

His voice slid lower, weighted with fury.

“…

Renoir.”

A sharp headache surged, and Ophelia pressed a hand to her temple.

“I didn’t say it… with that meaning.”

“And what meaning did you intend?”

His icy blue eyes flickered—dark, unreadable.

“Even in death, you would still belong to Wilhelm.”

“…”

“Don’t harbor pointless hopes.”