“I can’t even look at you! How could someone so stupid possibly pretend to be anyone else? What’s the point in having the title of a marchioness’s daughter if you’re so shallow inside? No wonder Sihon Blair can’t stand you.”

Sihon Blair.

Until her debut in society, Lydia had only ever heard his name in passing amid the whispered rumours about him among the aristocracy. She finally met her fiancé in person a few months ago.

Three years her senior, he was a young man with silver hair and violet eyes.

He was the very image of an icy noble: handsome, tall, lean and muscular beneath his formal attire.

Perhaps it was also his title — the Duke of Blair — that made him seem even more dazzling.

Once, she had foolishly felt thrilled, believing that she had been blessed with a fiancé who was far too good for her.

However, she knew full well that the Blairs and the Amaranths were sworn enemies.

And yet, she had dared to hope that, if she tried hard enough, she might win his heart.

That perhaps one day she could escape this suffocating mansion and live happily with him.

Like a fragile heroine rescued by a prince on a white horse.

It didn’t take her long to realize just how ridiculous that fantasy was.

Duke Sihon Blair had never cared about Lydia at all.

When they first met, before he knew who she was, they encountered each other alone on a palace terrace. Back then, he had seemed like a gentleman: graceful, considerate and patient.

Even when she stumbled over her words through nerves, he didn’t laugh. When he sensed her unease, he was the one who stepped away first to give her space.

However, once he found out who she was, he became cold and distant.

From that moment on, he no longer saw her as Lydia, but merely as the daughter of House Amaranth.

To him, an enemy’s daughter was worthless.

It might have been easier if she’d believed he was simply indifferent to all women. But she had seen his warmth, his quiet courtesy, and his genuine concern before that mask shattered.

Because she had seen it, his coldness hurt even more.

Even when he later noticed the bruises on her wrists, or saw her turn pale and stagger, he showed no reaction whatsoever, as though it had nothing to do with him.

Lydia last saw Duke Blair two months ago at the Imperial Ball.

At the time, she hadn’t eaten anything for a week, only drinking water.

Under the pretext of ‘maintaining a figure suitable for the dress’, the Marchioness of Amaranth had forbidden her to eat.

It was no wonder she could barely keep herself upright during the dance.

As the music drew to a close, she felt herself on the verge of collapse and clung to her fiancé for support.

She told him she hadn’t eaten in days, that she was dizzy and weak and begged for help.

But all she received in return was a frigid, disdainful gaze, as if he found her pathetic.

He must have assumed she was one of those frivolous noble ladies starving herself for vanity.

After escorting Lydia to the Amaranth carriage, Duke Blair spoke only once before walking away.

“If you’re unwell, seek a physician’s care, Lady Amaranth.”

Not even a perfunctory farewell like “Take care of yourself” or “Get home safely.”

Perhaps it was an exaggeration, but to Lydia, his words sounded more like this: Don’t bother me again.

When Stella witnessed that moment and laughed, it confirmed her suspicions.

Now, as she recalled that day, a cold smirk curled her lips.

“No wonder he ignored you so coldly, even when a lady claimed she needed help. He must’ve sensed it instinctively, that you’re not a real noblewoman, that you’re just putting on a cheap little act. You have no idea how much I wanted to tell him right then—she’s a fake, you know. I’m part of this farce, and it’s exhausting. After all, counterfeits are easy to spot, aren’t they?”

Lydia clasped her trembling hands together and said in a low, icy tone,

“You’d better watch your mouth, Stella. You’re right, I’m playing the part of Lady Arwen Amaranth. But if you keep insulting me like this in front of others, what do you think will happen? Wouldn’t that make things difficult for your dear aunt, the Marchioness? You might think it’s fine as long as I play my role perfectly in public, but tell me, what happens when the bucket leaks from the inside?”

At that, smack!

Her head snapped to the side.

Stella had slapped her.

And it didn’t end with one blow.

Slap! Smack!

Sharp, ringing sounds echoed through the room again and again.

“Have you forgotten your place? You’re nothing but a lowly wretch and shouldn’t lift your head in my presence!”

“Do you think you can play at being Lady Arwen and drag my aunt’s name into this as well? Do you really believe you’re the Marchioness’s true daughter now?”

“You, a filthy bug, dare to wear my cousin’s skin and speak to me as an equal?”

Lydia tried to push Stella away, but the waiting maid grabbed her by the arms.

On the surface, it appeared that the maid was restraining Lydia, but in truth she was simply holding her still so that Stella could hit her.

Theodore and Vincent merely muttered, “That’s enough,” and “Don’t make a scene,” but neither of them intervened properly.

Meanwhile, another maid quietly slipped out of the room, no doubt to fetch the Marchioness of Amaranth in case things went too far.

The violence only stopped once Stella’s hand began to sting from the repeated blows.

Breathing heavily, she glared down at Lydia. It was hard to tell whether this was due to her anger at being challenged or her exhaustion from striking her.

Shortly after the commotion began, a vision of refinement entered the drawing room: a woman with cascading rose-colored hair and cool, intelligent, sky-blue eyes.

It was Maeve Amaranth, the true Lady Arwen’s mother.

Maeve’s gaze passed over Lydia with detached indifference.

Lydia’s golden hair was disheveled, her cheeks were red and bruised, and her lips were split and bloodied.

But Maeve’s eyes held not a trace of sympathy. Only apathy.

This was only natural; after all, the girl before her was her husband’s illegitimate daughter.

Nevertheless, behind that cold composure, a faint glimmer of irritation flickered.

The garden party was in a week and Lydia would have to attend it in Arwen’s place.

This wasn’t an insurmountable problem, of course. A few generous donations to the temple would cover the cost of hiring a skilled priest to remove the visible marks.

Without sparing Lydia another glance, Maeve walked straight over to Stella.

The maid had already reported that the b*stard child and the young lady were quarrelling.

Worried, Maeve examined her niece.

As expected, there wasn’t a single scratch on Stella’s flawless skin.

The only part of Stella that showed any sign of injury was the faint redness on her hand.

Maeve sighed, her expression steeped in weary disapproval.

“What kind of disgrace is this, Stella? With the garden party only a week away, how could you bruise the stand-in’s face?”

“I’m sorry, Aunt. I acted rashly. I should have kept quiet, no matter how infuriating she was.”

“Well, enough. It happened within the family, so we’ll keep it that way. No one outside the family needs to know. But you must never make such a mistake in public again.”

“Yes, I understand.”

Aunt and niece exchanged only a mild reprimand for Stella’s impulsiveness and a perfunctory apology.

Naturally, no one mentioned apologising to Lydia, who had been hit.

If the Marchioness of Amaranth had decided that the matter would end there, then so be it.

As always, Lydia accepted this with quiet resignation.

She had never expected fairness in this house.

✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦ ✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦ ✦❘

The next day.

Lydia let out a small sigh as she looked in the mirror.

No matter how much ice she pressed against her cheek or how much powder she covered it with, the swelling refused to fade. Her reflection was unmistakably that of someone who had been beaten.

If she had needed to go out or guests had been expected at the manor, the Marchioness would have summoned a priest to heal her immediately.

But Maeve had done no such thing.

She wanted the illegitimate child to suffer, if only for a while.

Perhaps, just before the garden party a few days later, she would have the wounds healed when they became inconvenient to display.

It was an obvious, petty cruelty. Yet for the person on the receiving end, it was anything but trivial.

No matter how accustomed one became to it, pain was still pain.

What hurt most wasn’t the beating itself, but the knowledge that no one cared.

Her father, Marquis Kyle Amaranth, felt neither affection nor pity for her.

Instead, he allowed his wife to vent her temper on Lydia freely, because it spared him from her anger.

For the Marquis, it was a convenient arrangement.

As long as the girl kept breathing, that was enough.

If her own father turned a blind eye, what hope was there that anyone else would defend her?

Even her fiancé, the Duke of Sihon Blair, ignored her silent pleas for help.

She came to the same conclusion as always: she would have to find a way to escape the house alone.

But how?

This question circled endlessly in her mind, unanswered.

The weight of it pressed behind her eyes, and before she knew it, tears stung them.

But this was no place to cry.

If the Marchioness or the servants saw her crying, they would use it as an excuse to mock or scold her further.

So, Lydia dabbed her eyes with a tissue, took several long, steadying breaths and forced herself to calm down.

Stop hoping for kindness. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

She repeated this to herself over and over again until the ache in her chest began to dull.

How long had she been standing there, punishing herself with resolve?

From outside, the sound of servants hurrying about filled the hall: urgent footsteps, voices and the rustle of skirts.

It seemed an unexpected visitor had arrived.

Whoever it was, it certainly had nothing to do with Lydia. She had no friends or acquaintances of her own, not a single social connection that would warrant such a commotion.

It must have been someone visiting the Marquis, the Marchioness, or their son, Robert.

Assuming this, Lydia tried to ignore the noise. But the commotion only grew louder.

“Is House Amaranth displeased by my visit?”

“Of course not, my lord. It’s only that your arrival was quite sudden, we were unprepared to receive guests…..”

The voices drew closer.

“Ah, think nothing of it. I’m well aware I’ve come unannounced. Now step aside; you’re in the way.”

That voice, icy, indifferent, utterly devoid of warmth—was painfully familiar.

Lydia froze.

‘No… it can’t be.’

Slowly, she turned away from her vanity, confusion flickering in her eyes.

And at that moment, the door swung open.

Beyond it stood a man with cool, amethyst eyes—hard, expressionless, and unmistakable.

Duke Sihon Blair.