The Villainess's Secret Bedroom Service
Chapter 126: Coming Home

Chapter 126: Coming Home

The dark small, humble Temple bedroom was ominously silent, only faint, occasional grunts and exhales would travel through the cold, still air and shake the space like distant thunderstrikes.

Altair was standing on his knees on the cold wooden floor, his tightly clenched fists pressed against his thighs, dark blood dripping from the long, thick wounds carving the skin of his naked back.

Slowly, as if led by a string attached to his right wrist, he moved his arm up and pressed his open palm against the hot skin on the back of his back, slightly moving it up and down, smearing more blood over it, as if in an attempt to feel something with his fingers.

At last, he raised his head once more, confronted by the sinister, almost demonic voice emanating from the darkness around him.

"Pathetic fool. Your heart wavers yet again. I bestowed upon you immense power, and you squander it to shield a miserable girl whose life dangles by a fragile thread. Pitiful. Loathsome."

As though stung by the chilling words, Altair’s gaze descended to the floor, now tainted with his own blood. He sealed his eyes shut, tiny creases of worry tracing around them, while the voice persisted in its discourse,

"You sense it too, don’t you? The turmoil within your people, the frenzied tempest of your own thoughts. Do not let your sacrifice be for naught. She shall never embrace your true self anyway."

Altair slowly lifted his body, swaying unsteadily as he grappled to regain his balance. With deliberate steps, he approached the wall before him, fixing his gaze upon the gleaming surface of a modest hanging mirror.

In that reflective pane, he beheld a visage marred by atrocity — cascading white locks drenched in dark crimson, clinging to his body in clumps. His pallid skin, almost translucent, exuded an eerie radiance, while his platinum eyes now flickered with tiny red sparks.

His scrutiny lingered upon his own reflection, as if attempting to commit it to memory or to simply grow accustomed to this altered self. Then, he sealed his eyes once more, and his voice, cold and tinged with a hint of sorrow, whispered softly,

"The real me... I scarcely recognize who the real me has become."

***

"Well, Rosalie, I must say you look considerably improved now. The rejuvenating spring air seems to be working wonders on you. It is such a relief that Revered Altair has granted you permission to venture outdoors. You must have been terribly bored, cooped up all alone in that mansion!"

With a theatrical flourish, Princess Angelica inhaled deeply, her chest swelling as she filled her lungs with air. She then emptied her lungs with a jubilant exhale, gracing Rosalie with a warm, heartfelt smile. In response, the duchess could not help but suppress a small chuckle at the dramatic display and reciprocated with a gracious smile of her own.

Spring had undoubtedly arrived, marking the onset of a new and invigorating season.

Almost a full month had elapsed since the dreadful incident that engulfed Lord Theodore Xarden’s grand mansion in flames, claiming the lives of nearly all its occupants.

Rosalie remained ensnared in a web of uncertainty regarding the events that transpired that fateful night at Lord Xarden’s estate. When she eventually regained consciousness, following her mysterious return home with Altair’s assistance, her memories had undergone a profound distortion. She found herself grappling with fragmented recollections of that harrowing evening, like pieces of a shattered mirror reflecting only partial truths.

"You must have been so profoundly shaken that it affected your memory," became a mantra, echoing ceaselessly from the lips of those surrounding Lady Ashter. Over time, she reluctantly embraced this explanation, finding herself with no alternative but to believe it.

Deeply concerned for her well-being, Altair, who had devoted himself exclusively to Rosalie’s care during this period, imposed strict limitations on the duchess. He forbade her from venturing beyond the confines of her home and from entertaining guests unless it was an absolute necessity. Altair firmly believed that tranquility, paired with his continuous regimen of healing therapies, constituted the sole path to mending Rosalie’s shattered emotional state.

Once more, albeit with a lingering reluctance, Rosalie chose to comply with his directives. It was as if she were navigating through a fog of confusion, her decisions influenced by a perplexing haze. In truth, a part of her yearned for emotional detachment, and within the secure and serene walls of the Dio estate, she discovered precisely that.

Thanks to Altair’s unwavering commitment to safeguarding the Grand Duchess’s well-being, Rosalie was spared from involvement in the investigation into Lord Xarden’s case. Instead, her role was confined to that of a witness, or more accurately, as one of the only two individuals who emerged alive from the devastating conflagration.

The second survivor hailed from the ranks of Lord Theodore’s household staff, a young butler whose tenure with the household had spanned less than a month. He maintained that the fire had indeed been a tragic accident, ignited by the fall of an old crystal chandelier from the ceiling within one of the rooms.

With a lack of witnesses and the evident nature of the fire, the case ultimately met its resolution, and Rosalie once again assumed her role as the town’s cherished figure—a young duchess who had teetered on the precipice of a horrific demise, losing one of her most steadfast patrons.

Astonishingly, defying Rosalie’s inner apprehensions, her other investors remained unwaveringly loyal. In fact, their commitment grew even more resolute, exemplified by their increased financial support for her charitable endeavors, serving as both a testament to their unwavering admiration and a comforting bulwark of support.

Only after the case had been definitively closed did Rosalie receive the liberty to step beyond the cozy confines of her mansion. She ventured forth to reunite with a dear friend who now accompanied her as they strolled through the idyllic spring gardens of the Capital’s resort villa, a property belonging to the Imperial family.

The Imperial Resort villa, opulent and majestic in its design, bore a striking resemblance to the Swan Palace, which now served as the residence of Princess Angelica. Nestled to the south of the Capital’s charming outskirts, it perched gracefully upon a cliff, affording a commanding view of the azure vastness that stretched as far as the eye could see—the Great Sea.

With the impending arrival of the princess’s birthday and the imminent arrival of the invigorating warmth of March, nature had already begun its transformation, bursting forth in vibrant bloom. Seizing the opportunity, the Emperor had chosen this lavish locale for a grand celebration, allowing his daughter to bask in the sun’s golden embrace and savor the refreshing caress of the gentle sea breeze.

At the precipice of the wide cliff, two ladies came to a halt, their gaze fixed upon the frothy white crests adorning the playful blue waves of the Great Sea. Angelica inhaled deeply, drawing the invigorating sea air into her lungs, and then continued to speak,

"What are your thoughts, Rosalie? In merely a span of ten days, this place will be teeming with people, feasting and toasting in celebration of me... It’s quite peculiar, wouldn’t you agree? Particularly when I reflect on all the birthdays I’ve endured in solitude within the Temple’s confines."

This time, a faint, bitter smile graced Rosalie’s lips as her mind delved into the labyrinth of her restless soul.

’My heart is once more torn asunder. Rosalie has forsaken Angelica once before, and now, it seems I must do so again..."

She turned her head slightly to the left, her bright gray eyes fixed upon her friend who continued to gaze at the crashing waves with the enchantment of a child. A solemnity overtook her countenance, and she slowly erased the smile that had graced her lips.

’I am sorry, Your Highness. I hold hope that, in some future yet to unfold, our paths will cross once more. I truly do.’

***

The black carriage, a possession of the Dio family, meandered its way through the forest, retracing its path back to the family estate. Rosalie’s gaze remained transfixed upon the scenery beyond the coach window, captivated by the ever-unfolding tapestry of vibrant foliage.

’This world is definitely surreal. As soon as the calendar ushered in March, the snow blankets instantly melted, and now everything is turning fresh and green as if awakened by a magic spell.’

With her eyes still ensnared by the panoramic view outside the carriage, the duchess eased back into her plush seat, releasing a brief yet tinged-with-sadness sigh,

’I do wonder about Damien. Since the incident with the beasts’ attack, not a single word from him... I truly hope he gets to witness spring’s arrival as well.’

Upon her return to the mansion, Rosalie’s attention was immediately seized by the sight of running Illai. The moment the boy noticed the lady, he swiftly altered his course, dashing towards her with an exuberant grin gracing his scar-etched face. Clutched tightly within his right hand was a crumpled envelope, and a sizable, brown messenger hawk loomed overhead, seemingly intent on retrieving the letter from the child.

Gleefully evading the bird’s pursuit, Illai shouted with unabashed enthusiasm, gesturing toward the winged messenger with his free hand,

"Rosalie! Rosalie! Look who I’ve captured! He’s bearing a letter from Damien!"

"From... Damien?!"

Rosalie practically pounced on Illai, swiftly wresting the letter from his grasp. Her hands trembled with a potent mixture of excitement and anxiety as she ruthlessly tore into the envelope. Her eyes raced frenetically across the letter’s contents, her mind struggling to keep pace, each word slipping through her mental grasp despite her determined efforts to focus.

Finally, as if bracing herself against an impending collapse, the lady sought support against the corridor wall. In solemn silence, she grappled with the weight of the news that had just been delivered. When the initial tumult of emotions relinquished its grip on her racing heart, she allowed a subtle smile to grace her lips, and in a soft, almost hushed tone, she finally whispered,

"He is coming back... He is coming home."