Chapter 3

The mansion that Cecilio Bonifacio had arrived at was a building devoid of any elegance.

"This is quite something, isn't it, Miss?"

"It looks more like a..."

She refrained from saying it was a fortress. Since this was to be her home, she thought it best not to criticize it.

A young man approached from the main entrance. No one else was around. Bertine wondered if this was Lord Cecilio as she stepped out of the carriage, but no servants lined up to welcome the bride.

The young man stood before Bertine and introduced himself.

"I am Ignacio, the Chief Secretary of the Allied Nations. Are you Lady Bertine de Juan, the Marquise's daughter?"

"Yes, that's me."

"I have prepared a room for you. Please follow me."

Bertine nodded and started walking, but she felt something off about Ignacio's manner. There was no welcoming atmosphere at all.

"Lord Cecilio isn't here to greet the bride, is he?"

"I will explain that."

Ignacio answered without turning his head, maintaining his pace. The room he led her to seemed more like a guest room than a room for the master's wife. A maid with a blank expression brought tea and pastries and quickly left the room, leaving the three of them alone.

"I have two things to tell you. First, Lord Cecilio is not currently in this mansion. He is at the site of a flood that occurred in a provincial area. It is not yet clear when he will return."

"I see."

Bertine thought, "If it's an emergency, it can't be helped," but Ignacio continued.

"Second, I need to correct a misunderstanding. The Allied Nations did not desire a bride from the Empire. What we demanded as the victors in this war was reparations, not a bride."

"Reparations..."

"Thus, we would like you, Lady Marquise, to return to your country as soon as you have recovered from your journey."

Bertine was speechless, unable to respond.

The people of the Kingdom of Sanlouan had a thin awareness of being a party to the war. They thought, "We provided military funds because we usually receive support from the Empire," and there was a significant gap between their understanding and that of the Allied Nations.

According to her father and brother, the King of Sanlouan had said, "Since we received financial support from the Empire, we should help clean up the mess if they lose the war." In exchange for reducing the reparations, they decided to send Bertine.

The idea seemed to be, "We'll give our noble daughter to a barbaric country, and in return, reduce the reparations."

Whether the Allied Nations' rejection of this arrangement had reached her before she left was unclear.

But as soon as she thought about it, she bitterly realized, "That's meaningless now."

"I came here with the intention of dedicating my life to the development of this country alongside Lord Cecilio. But you're saying that such a presence is not needed?"

"Unfortunately, that is correct."

(There's no way I can go back.)

If she returned now, she would be criticized as "useless to the country," "rejected as a bride," and "returning as a damaged good." Not only would her own position be compromised, but her father's and brother's positions would also suffer. Returning was out of the question. What punishment would the King, who arranged this marriage, impose on her?

"I understand. Then I will relinquish my position as a bride. However, I cannot simply return because the Allied Nations deems me unnecessary. I came here by the King's command. Please give me some time to consider my next steps."

Bertine, whose hands were trembling, clenched them tightly, straightened her back, and even managed a smile. The only thing keeping her from breaking down was her pride. If not for her strict etiquette training, she might have fainted on the spot.

"I understand. Please stay in this guest room until Lord Cecilio returns, and we will seek his judgment on what to do next."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

Bertine maintained her composure until Ignacio left the room, then slumped into the back of the sofa, drained of energy. She had used up all her strength in a short time. Dorothea rushed to her side and held her hand.

"Miss!"

"I'm surprised, Dorothea. Did our Kingdom of Sanlouan know that Lord Cecilio would refuse a bride? The Empire, which mediated, must have known, but did they pass that information to us?"

"I don't know anything about it. But I can see that this is unfair!"

"Now I have nowhere to turn."

For a while, she could survive by selling the gold coins and jewels her parents had given her. She could live for quite some time if she only ate and breathed. But her life was now in ruins.

Sold by the Empire and her own country, and deemed unnecessary by the Allied Nations. The people of this country would likely look at her, a former enemy, with harsh eyes.

"What should I do?"

The strict etiquette of the nobility, which had been drilled into her from a young age.

The history, culture, and foreign language knowledge she had learned as a marquise's daughter.

The numerous dances she had learned, enduring the pain in her feet.

The knowledge of trade she had studied so hard.

All of it seemed useless now. Her entire life, her very existence, felt negated.

"How did it come to this..."

Just as Bertine was sinking into despair, the corridor became noisy, and voices of argument could be heard. The door was rudely opened, and a young woman stomped in.

"Who are you? Isn't it rude to enter without knocking?"

Ignoring Dorothea's stern reprimand, the woman approached Bertine. Bertine, still slumped in the sofa, lifted her head to look at the woman.

"Hey, you! Are you the woman from the Empire?"

"What if I am?"

"I hear you came from a defeated country and are demanding to marry Lord Cecilio. How presumptuous!"

"What I'm doing here is none of your business. Leave now."

Bertine, still slumped in the sofa, said this lazily. The black-haired woman stomped her foot and placed her hands on her hips, raising her voice.

"It is my business. I am Lord Cecilio's fiancée. We are about to get married. I have the right to speak to a middle-aged woman from a defeated country, and I don't have to leave just because you say so!"

Bertine, still slumped, boldly examined the woman from head to toe.

"So, you are Lord Cecilio's fiancée. How interesting. If Lord Cecilio prefers vulgar children, then I can see why I wasn't invited. But my stay has been approved by Ignacio. If you have any complaints, take them up with him. As a fiancée, you are not yet a member of this household. Now, leave the room."

As she said this, Bertine slowly stood up and stood chest to chest with the woman, their faces almost touching. The woman looked to be about sixteen or seventeen, with shiny skin and hair, radiating vitality.

"Now, leave. If you don't listen, I'll slap your cheek until you understand."

"Wh-what? You'll do it?"

Bertine picked up the fan she had left on the table, and the girl lunged at her. The guards, who had been standing by, quickly moved to surround the girl and escort her out of the room. Dorothea hurriedly locked the door, and Bertine collapsed back onto the sofa. The high-pitched screams from the other side of the door could still be heard.

(There was already a fiancée. A proud lady should have taken her own life with a dagger in such a situation.)

While feeling drained, she also remembered the girl's harsh words. It was the first time in her life she had been spoken to so cruelly. She realized her value in this country, but anger was also rising within her.

(Should I die after being insulted by such a girl? If I die here, that girl will dance a victory dance on my grave.)

Bertine closed her eyes and sat on the sofa, deep in thought.

How long she remained like that, Dorothea, worried, clasped her hands in front of her chest and watched silently. When the light from the window had shifted significantly, a door in Bertine's heart closed with a "click." There was no place for her in the bright world beyond that door.

"I've made my decision."

"Miss?"

She could no longer rely on her family or status. But she wouldn't die. She would live and grow strong in this country.

And she would become so strong that no one—her own country that sold her, the impolite girl, or the fiancé who didn't even offer a word of comfort—could hurt her again.

Bertine reached out and drank the cold tea from the table.