My Husband Married My Stepmother - ✿ dusk blossoms ✿

The Belmont ducal estate boasted a large greenhouse.

It was built when Aklaire married the previous duke, Mumbles Belmont.

Mumbles, whose life had been saved by Aklaire, wanted to do everything he could for her. He gave up drinking, started taking care of his previously neglected health, and began managing the estate in an attempt to restore the family’s reputation.

Though it was a difficult time, he was not without ability — once he got going, he quickly gained momentum and rose to prominence among the nobility as the ‘Belmont’.

Aklaire’s contributions were significant, too. She supported Mumbles in every way — physically, emotionally, and mentally — helping him grow stronger and more grounded. Gradually, Mumbles came to love her, and the grand greenhouse became a lasting symbol of that love.

Thanks to its elegant design and excellent functionality, the greenhouse could keep even the most delicate flowers and herbs alive throughout winter. To Aklaire, it was one of her most cherished places.

“Hm-hmm…”

Humming to herself, Aklaire personally watered the herbs and medicinal plants. The dewdrop-covered blossoms swayed as if delighted. Tending to the plants was one of her favourite routines.

She had always loved flowers and greenery and took great pride in caring for this vast greenhouse. Especially during times like these, when her heart felt light, she could fully enjoy the task.

Though he had once seemed on the verge of ending his life, Windsor had recently begun to pull himself together. Even those who had whispered about the string of deaths tied to the Belmont name seemed to have realised the consequences of the rumours they had spread.

“I do feel a little sorry for the late Mumbles, though.”

According to Aklaire’s plan, Mumbles was exposed as a hypocritical domestic abuser who secretly beat his wife. Consequently, rumours spread that his sudden death was well deserved.

If things continued as they were, Aklaire might be able to announce her remarriage to Windsor within the year.

However, before that happens…

Once the Pope returns, she must officially designate Windsor as the successor.

If Tilda were to die, her husband would automatically become the next successor, regardless of whether he was of royal blood. This rule was established to reduce power struggles over the papacy and ensure the position was passed down through the family. After all, the more potential heirs there are, the fiercer the conflict.

Had Tilda had a child, that child would have been the next legitimate heir. However, as she had no children, her husband Windsor became the rightful successor by law.

Once an heir had been appointed, it would be extremely difficult to reverse the decision, essentially making it final.

Of course, the Pope could choose to ignore the law and name someone else as heir, but Aklaire was confident that he wouldn’t.

Recalling the Pope’s grief-stricken face, Aklaire curled her lips into a slight smile. She had anticipated opposition within the temple and had secured the support of key figures in advance.

Since the person she had brought in wasn’t a fool, he would help to steer public opinion and reduce resistance towards Windsor.

Hadn’t she worked tirelessly until now to make this grand plan a reality?

She had never felt happier than she did at that moment. Even the sound of the wind was music to her ears, and the gently swaying trees seemed to be cheering her on.

When the watering can finally ran dry, Aklaire straightened her back. She was thinking of returning to the mansion to enjoy afternoon tea with the herbs she had grown herself.

“Um… Duchess, you have a visitor…”

That is, until she heard news of an unwelcome guest.

The moment the maid told her someone had arrived, Aklaire pulled off her gardening gloves and tossed them carelessly aside. She threw her wide-brimmed hat onto a mound of soil.

‘No, that’s impossible.’

Still in a daze, she hurriedly walked, nearly tripping over her long skirt, but managed to regain her balance just in time. Then she marched forward with the speed of a racehorse in full gallop, intent on confirming the identity of the guest supposedly waiting in the drawing room.

Bang!

She threw open the door to find an elegant woman sitting with composed grace and sipping tea. She was dressed in pure white.

The woman with long silver hair looked utterly surreal, like an angel who had come down to Earth.

“Did you grow these yourself, too? The aroma is quite lovely.”

Aklaire felt her lips begin to tremble.

“How… how are you…?”

“Back alive, you mean?”

Tilda replied, fixing her gaze on Aklaire. Her eyes were clear and focused — not at all like the vacant stare of someone lost in darkness.

Aklaire couldn’t believe it. She had thrown Tilda into the cold sea at night after she had gone blind. It was as if time had been reversed — Tilda had returned completely unharmed.

And yet the poison she had used had come from a toxic herb that she herself had cultivated. Its effects were certain. Once sight was lost, it could never be restored.

“A lot has happened.”

Aklaire wanted to scream and demand what on earth Tilda had done to come back.

“Did you put something in this tea, too?”

Tilda murmured, staring calmly at the faintly rippling golden liquid in her cup.

Now that she thought about it, something felt wrong. Having been poisoned before, she should have refused to touch anything served here, yet she had drunk the tea without suspicion.

“I suggest you don’t try anything like that again.”

She said, lifting her teacup as she stood up.

Splash!

The scalding tea hit Aklaire in the face, forming droplets that streamed down her skin.

It all happened so quickly that Aklaire didn’t register the heat of the tea at first.

The usually composed Tilda, who always acted so refinedly, had just done something so crude. It shook Aklaire to her core, as if the ground beneath her had shifted.

“It won’t work anymore.”

Drip, drip — the tea continued to fall from Tilda’s raised cup, soaking the gleaming velvet rug.

Aklaire stared blankly at the drops trickling down her hair and falling to the floor, then slowly lifted her gaze.

“Did the goddess save you or something?”

“No.”

Tilda replied, calmly setting the cup down on the table.

“The opposite, actually.”

“I’ve decided to sink just as low as you.”

She said that she had chosen to sink to the very bottom.

The tea had been steaming hot, but to Aklaire it felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her head, bringing her senses into sharp focus.

Seeing the changed Tilda, who was so different from before, triggered a warning inside Aklaire: now was not the time to show weakness.

Yes, Tilda’s return had disrupted many of Aklaire’s carefully laid plans. But so what?

Without the prestige of being the Pope’s successor, who was she? Just a penniless, divorced noblewoman with nothing left. She knew how fragile her current status really was.

Aklaire wiped the tea running down her chin with her sleeve, not caring how careless the motion was. The heat still stung her skin, but that was something to deal with later.

She twisted her lips into a smirk.

“So you think you can take me on just because you’ve given up?”

“…”

“Don’t make me laugh. You’ll never be a match for me.”

Talk of falling was just that: talk.

How could someone like her, born into a spotless family, possibly understand what it meant to crawl through the mud?

With her silver hair, she had been revered since childhood. This was just an episode of self-pity masquerading as rebellion. Nothing more.

Desperate to survive, she had ripped out her own fingernails and slept with a man who didn’t love her.

The so-called saint in front of her could never have stooped to such a level of desperation.

“Do you know what I’m actually grateful to you for?”

Tilda suddenly asked, her voice calm.

‘Grateful…?’

Aklaire furrowed her brow, pressing her lips tightly together in response to this vague and unexpected question.

“You confessed everything before you tried to kill me.”

Tilda’s eyes met hers.

That unwavering gaze—

Just looking at it made Aklaire feel nauseous.

And yet she had come back completely unchanged.

“Yes, you’re exactly the same as before.”

“You’ll never beat me.”

“I spent my whole life crushed by the guilt of killing my mother, but you… you took that weight off me.”

For a moment, Tilda’s eyes rippled like a whirlpool, and Aklaire’s widened in alarm.

“It means I have nothing holding me back now.”

Aklaire had thought Tilda was the same as before—but something was different. Not just her words or actions, but the very atmosphere around her had shifted.

In her usually composed eyes, there now flickered a momentary surge of intense desire. That raw, unfiltered desire struck Aklaire like a blow.

Snapping back to her senses, Aklaire responded coolly.

“So what?”

“I’m going to take back everything you stole from me—one by one.”

“What a fun little fantasy.”
Yet Tilda simply looked at her, silently.

“Have you ever turned a fantasy into reality?”

“…”

“Or… were you just about to, before I showed up?”

The calm tone, laced with quiet mockery, made something primal twitch inside Aklaire.

Her hands trembled with the urge to grab Tilda’s silver hair and wrench her neck back violently.

“Look forward to it.”

“…”