“It was me. I caused my husband’s death. I staged it to look like an accident during a hunting trip, but the truth is that I hired someone to push him off a cliff.”

Aklaire spoke with eerie calm, her tone detached, as though recounting someone else’s story.

“Why…?”

Tilda asked, her voice barely audible.

“Because I approached him with that intention from the very beginning.”

“…For the Belmont estate? The title?”

“Close.”

Aklaire replied, a playful glint flashing in her eyes like a child teasing with a riddle.

“But not quite. To be exact—I did it to make you suffer.”

Tilda’s face twitched, her muscles refusing to cooperate. All she managed was a small furrow between her brows.

“I hated you, I hated you so much… I wanted you dead.”

In that moment, the golden warmth in Aklaire’s eyes vanished—replaced by something glacial.

The firelight from the brazier danced in her pupils, making it seem as though hellfire itself flickered within her gaze.

“Want me to tell you something that’ll truly break you?”

“…”

“I’m the one who gave you that fruit when you were a child—the one that triggered your divine power surge. Of course, I looked a little different back then, so you wouldn’t have recognized me.”

Her voice, light and offhand, crashed over Tilda like a violent wave—a single, casual sentence that shattered everything.

Tilda’s hands began to tremble uncontrollably. Her vision blurred, her thoughts unraveled.

‘This… this can’t be real.’

‘She was the one who gave me the fruit…? Aklaire…?’

Tilda couldn’t accept it. She didn’t want to.

The woman from back then hadn’t looked anything like Aklaire.
But even as she clung to denial, the truth clawed its way in.

‘The face didn’t matter.’

What mattered…was that her mother’s death hadn’t been a tragic accident.

It had been planned. There was someone behind it all.

The crushing guilt she had carried for so long—had been a lie. A shadow cast by someone else.

And now, as that truth unraveled before her, Tilda felt her heart collapsing inward.

“…You’re lying.”

“Why would I?”

Aklaire tilted her head slightly, her voice still airy, almost amused.

“You were only fifteen back then. You didn’t even know me—”

Aklaire clicked her tongue.

“And you really think that just because you didn’t know me, I couldn’t have known you? How naive. I’ve known you for a very long time.”

“…I never did anything to you.”

“There are people, who are harmful… simply by existing.”

Tilda’s jaw tightened, fury rising like bile in her throat.

“Then you should’ve come after me, not the people around me.”

Her hand twitched with rage—and for a single, violent heartbeat, all she wanted was to reach out and snap the delicate neck seated calmly before her.

That fairy-like face no longer looked beautiful to Tilda. Now, it resembled something monstrous—like a  demon risen from fire and ash.

And yet… she couldn’t move. Not even a finger.

Instead, her strength was seeping away, her vision darkening at the edges.
Still, she refused to show weakness.

Forcing herself to speak, she asked,
“…Why do you want to remarry Windsor?”

“If you die before the divorce is finalized, then as your legal husband, Windsor will inherit your position as the heir to the Vallinea family. That’s how the law works.”

‘So that was it.’

Aklaire intended to kill her—tonight. It had all been part of the plan.

From the start, everything had been orchestrated. Marrying Tilda off to Windsor, convincing the Pope—her own grandfather—to adopt her as his daughter…

None of it had been coincidence.

It had all been steps in a carefully laid path. A future where Aklaire would have it all: the Belmont ducal title, Windsor’s fortune, and the full prestige and power of the Vallinea name.

If Tilda wanted to stop that future from happening, she had to escape. Now.

But her body—slick with cold sweat and heavy with dread—refused to obey.

Aklaire let out a quiet, mocking laugh.
“And… Windsor says he much prefers me to a stiff, joyless woman like you.”

“…”

“I practically had to beg him not to file for divorce sooner.”

She added, her tone laced with cruel amusement. Every word was a deliberate wound—twisting the knife of betrayal deeper. Even in the end, Windsor had made sure to disgrace her.

Tilda drew on the last of her strength, straightening her spine and forcing her voice to stay firm as she spoke.

“…If you marry Windsor, the world will condemn you.”

He was Tilda’s ex-husband—or would be, once the divorce was finalized. And on paper, Tilda was still legally registered as Aklaire’s daughter.

For Aklaire to remarry Windsor would be nothing short of moral corruption.

No matter how carefully she had crafted her public image, she wouldn’t escape the weight of public scorn.

“That’ll only last for a little while. People are fickle. Just a flock of chattering birds, always fluttering to the next bit of gossip.”

“…Grandfather won’t recognize Windsor as his heir.”

Aklaire smiled faintly. But the chill behind that smile sent a tremor through Tilda’s chest.

“Well now… are you sure about that?”

Her words struck a nerve. Tilda gritted her teeth in frustration—but her body was already starting to betray her. Her limbs felt like jelly. Her vision blurred at the edges.

She reached out, trying to steady herself against the table—only for Aklaire to step closer.

“Oh dear. Looks like the poison’s finally starting to work. I was hoping to watch your eyes twist in fear a little longer.”

By then, the world had gone dark. Tilda could no longer see anything.

“…What did you make me drink?”

“A poison that takes your sight.”

Aklaire replied sweetly. Then her hand touched Tilda’s face.

That touch—soft, delicate, almost tender—felt like the hand of a demon caressing its prey.

“I always hated how your eyes never wavered—no matter the situation.”

“…”

“And that dignified composure of yours… like the goddess Vallinea herself was standing beside you.”

Windsor had said something similar once. But Tilda had never truly understood what they meant.

She wasn’t graceful. She wasn’t strong. She was nothing more than a hollow shell—a soulless rag doll barely stitched together, rotting from the inside with guilt, enduring each day like penance.

And now, even that turned out to be meaningless.

Her mother’s death… hadn’t been the result of her power running wild. It had been someone’s deliberate, calculated act.

In the darkness, tears of blood spilled from Tilda’s eyes. Her heart twisted at the thought that someone’s hatred for her had ended up hurting the people she loved most.

And now, she was helpless—trapped in a world of black, flailing with nothing to hold onto.

Aklaire’s voice dropped to a whisper, low and intimate.

“I even felt a thrill each time I tore my nail out. I’ve been imagining this day for so long.”

With the last of her strength, Tilda lashed out—swinging blindly toward the voice.

But she missed.

Aklaire’s hand caught her wrist with ease.

“This is goodbye, Tilda.”

Aklaire’s voice was close—too close. She was right beside her now, and yet Tilda couldn’t lift a finger.

Her vision was gone. Her strength had vanished. Her limbs hung useless at her sides, her body growing heavier with every passing breath.

And then, as she slumped forward, powerless, Aklaire leaned in—and whispered into her ear one final time:

“Farewell, Tilda Vallinea.”

***

Tilda jolted back to consciousness as a piercing, icy chill cut through her body.

“Haah—!”

She was underwater.

The crash of waves above her, the sting of salt in her nose and throat. She was in the sea. But she couldn’t see.

Not a single glimmer of light reached her eyes. She had no way of knowing whether she was near the shore… or lost in the vast, open ocean.

This—this was Aklaire’s doing.

Knowing Tilda wouldn’t last much longer, she hadn’t even bothered to kill her properly. She had simply discarded her like garbage, tossing her into the sea.

Even if—by some miracle—Tilda survived this…

What could she possibly do now, when the world around her was nothing but darkness?

Her eyes burned with the need to cry, but even that was stolen from her.
The merciless sea didn’t allow tears—they vanished into the waves before they could ever fall.

Just like those lost tears, no matter how hard she struggled, her fate refused to change.
There was no escaping it.

And once that realization sank in… everything began to feel meaningless.

The tension drained from her limbs. She let go. Let herself float—drift like debris.

Shhhhaa—!

A thunderous wave crashed overhead.

And just as the raging sea was about to pull her under for good—

A hand seized her arm. A fierce, desperate grip that pulled her upward.

“Stay with me!”

The voice was urgent, sharp—but it barely registered through the haze clouding her mind.
Tilda couldn’t tell who it was. She couldn’t even think.

All she could feel was that the arms pulling her in were strong—and warm.

“Damn it.”

The man’s voice cursed under his breath, rough with panic.

‘Why… why would this man save me?’

But Tilda couldn’t say a word—not even a simple thank you, not even just leave me be.

Her consciousness was slipping fast, carried off by the cold and pain, her body hanging limp like a waterlogged rag doll.

She truly believed this was it—the end of her life.

Until she woke again.

This time, it wasn’t the freezing grip of the sea that pulled her back—it was heat.

A suffocating, stifling heat, heavier than the thickest southern summer.

Her entire body felt like it had been set on fire. The pain was so intense it tore a groan from her lips as she twisted in agony.

Her fingers, curled tightly from the searing ache, clutched at something soft—a cotton blanket, warm and gentle against her skin.

But she couldn’t recognise where she was yet. She couldn’t register that she was lying in a bed somewhere safe.

All she could feel was pain—blazing, unrelenting, like someone was trying to burn her alive.

And yet, through that pain, she understood one thing: she hadn’t died.

The agony itself was proof she had been dragged back from the brink—but at what cost?

She was still blind. And with no sight to dull the edge, every spike of pain cut even deeper.

“Ugh…”

She writhed, helpless in the dark—until a voice spoke nearby.

A man’s voice, low and strained with frustration.

“…This is driving me insane.”