The Villainess's Secret Bedroom Service
Chapter 161: Every Queen Needs A Crown

Chapter 161: Every Queen Needs A Crown

Rosalie drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes in an attempt to reign in her body’s nearly uncontrollable desire to wince as her voice struggled to escape her lips.

Three maids attended to her, each with a specific task to enhance her appearance. One meticulously covered her entire body with a fragrant, transparent ointment, claiming it would shield her skin from the infernal heat. Meanwhile, another maid expertly curled Rosalie’s hair, skillfully adding oils, perfumes, and sparkling powders that left her feeling both dizzy and nauseous.

The third maid, entrusted with the most crucial duty, assisted the duchess in donning the special dress personally selected by Asmodeus himself.

’What in the world is this...’

The moment the maid entered the room, clutching the dress in her hands, fear surged within Rosalie, overpowering her. Contrary to expectations, what she faced was not merely a dress but a metal frame intricately designed to contour her figure from neck to shins. Hanging from this framework were numerous long, metallic strings, which, upon closer inspection, revealed themselves to be thin strands of barbed wire.

’Am I supposed to wear it?’

As if privy to her thoughts, the maid curled her thin, red lips into a devilish grin and nodded, signaling the other two to strip Rosalie naked with a brief tilt of her head.

The anticipation of wearing the horrific barbed wire dress made each passing second feel like an eternity. Standing exposed before the three women, the duchess could not help but notice their simultaneous grins, their long, thin faces contorting as if smiling was an unnatural act for them.

Finally, the third maid took two big steps toward Rosalie and commanded,

"Raise your arms."

Anxiously, Rosalie found herself with no alternative but to comply. Despite her reluctance, she followed the orders, closing her eyes once more, mentally bracing herself for the inevitable.

The pain that ensued proved to be more than she could endure. The tiny barbs of the dress scratched her skin upon contact, leaving behind faint, nearly imperceptible yet excruciatingly painful bloody marks. As the dress was meticulously adjusted to encase her body like a prison, even the act of breathing transformed into nothing short of agony.

’This is torture. I am already prepared to give up, and nothing has even started yet. This is hell. I am truly in hell now."

Unfortunately, the barbed wire dress marked not the culmination of her preparations.

"Jewelry, My Lady."

The first maid approached, presenting a golden box atop a red velvet cushion. Within, an array of golden jewelry awaited — rings, necklaces, bracelets, earrings — all sharing a common feature: tiny, sharp needles concealed inside them.

Without awaiting the lady’s response, the maid selected a wide gold bracelet from the box and quickly closed it around Rosalie’s wrist, the sharp needles penetrating her skin to the very bones.

Holding back became an impossible feat. Though still silent, Rosalie could not suppress the surge of emotions, feeling two warm teardrops run down her pale cheeks, leaving faint pinkish trails was they moved.

"Tsk. Hold it in, My Lady. Or else, we will not provide you with more ointment, and your skin will burn!"

In truth, the duchess no longer cared whether her entire body would burst into flames. Her skin stung from the scratches left by the dress, her wrist bled from the needles inside the bracelet, and yet, the true ordeal had not even begun.

The torment persisted relentlessly as the maid continued adorning the woman’s body with more jewelry. Three gold bracelets around each arm, a ring put on each finger, and two bracelets encircled her shins.

"I can’t... I must endure... I must..." Rosalie repeated these words like a desperate mantra, a plea to numb the pain in some way. However, each attempt proved futile. Deep breaths were unattainable as the dress continued to tear at her flesh, and clenching her fists only intensified the bleeding caused by the rings. Trapped in a cage of pain and suffering, Rosalie felt helpless.

"Shoes, My Lady."

The maids stepped aside, clearing the way for the second maid who approached with another golden box cradled in her hands. Standing directly in front of Rosalie, she presented the contents of the box, unveiling a pair of golden shoes—delicate and aesthetically pleasing in their design, yet marred by a single crucial detail.

The heels of the shoes were sharply pointed on both ends, piercing through the soles with an intent to inflict pain upon anyone daring to wear them.

’Goodness...’

The maid delicately placed the shoes at Rosalie’s feet, extending her hands in a gesture of assistance. Meanwhile, the other two maids crouched beside her, ready to close the shoes around the duchess’s feet.

’Endure it, Rosalie. There is no other way. You have to stay strong.’

With a deep inhale that once again scraped her chest, she summoned her courage and slid her feet into the golden shoes. An instant shudder coursed through her as the spikes inflicted a sharp pain, staining the smooth golden surface of the soles with droplets of fresh blood.

The maids fastened the shining buckles of the shoes around her feet, stepping away one last time, as if to assess the result of their efforts.

However, there was no immediate verdict. Their silence was abruptly disrupted by the loud creak of the opening door, followed by heavy, confident footsteps that resonated through the room like the strides of a giant.

Asmodeus, clad in all black, with thin, golden chains intricately woven into several locks of his long black hair, approached Rosalie with an arrogant smirk on his handsome face. He halted right before her, his hands hidden behind his back, exuding an air of dominance.

Pausing to savor the duchess’s appearance, he engaged her with his sharp black eyes and, at last, uttered,

"You look perfect, Rosalie. The beauty that can kill. Will it, though?"

Rosalie furrowed her eyebrows, the demon’s words seeming to inflict more pain than the needles and barbs had. Yet, Asmodeus remained indifferent to her distress.

Still grinning like a madman, he eventually withdrew his hands from behind his back, revealing what he held.

"You are my queen today, Rosalie. And every queen needs a crown, won’t you agree?"

In his hands, was indeed a crown. A crown made of metal thorns.

Indulging in the lady’s shocked expression, Asmodeus released a chuckle and carefully positioned the crown on Rosalie’s head, pressing it firmly against her skin.

In an instant, sharp, burning pain enveloped the duchess’s head. She shut her eyes, attempting to regain composure, but the searing sensation of her own blood trickling down her face and neck thwarted any efforts to do so.

It was intolerable. It was a nightmare. It was hell.

And now it truly was about to begin.

Asmodeus gracefully extended his hand toward Rosalie and said in a sweet, yet incredibly sickening voice,

"It’s time to go, My Queen."