PHATFO 12

[Chapter 12]

Bella looked at him sharply, clearly tired of his repetition.

“Stop it! You’re going to wear my name out!”

“Fine, I’ll just call you ‘Master’ then.”

She immediately looked disgusted. For the first time, he let out a real laugh.

Everyone else he had met had been eager to crush him, yet Bella clearly disliked even the idea of doing so. That was amusing.

“Okay, Bella.”

Bella just stared at him silently—angrily, for the first time.

As he continued to laugh, she packed up her basket and stood up.

“You’re leaving already?”

She was leaving just because he teased her a little? She must be more sensitive than she looked.

“I won’t tease you anymore, so stay a bit longer.”

“No. I have something I need to do today.”

Her firm expression showed she had already made up her mind.

“And I assume… you’re not going to tell me what that is.”

“What I can say is… I think I might be able to get you out of here sooner than I thought.”

Sooner?

He tilted his head in confusion.

Bella had mentioned before that she’d help him escape, but he never believed it was truly possible.

Then his eyes fell again on the bruise on her cheek.

Her words about helping him escape and that bruise… they didn’t feel unrelated.

“What are you doing out there—?”

He stepped forward to follow her—

Clank.

The chains pulled at his neck, and he sank back down.

“Ha…”

Before coming to the Rohilton mansion, he had seen many slaves.

Some had been cheerful and strong—but when hope and trust were shattered, they broke easily.

He had always wanted to escape slavery while staying mentally stable. So, he made three rules for himself:

Don’t trust. Don’t rely. Don’t expect.

These were his final defense mechanisms—his way to stay sane.

But now, Bella was breaking down those walls.

She made him feel like maybe… just maybe, he could trust her. Maybe she would help him escape.

“No. That’s still a reckless assumption.”

He shook off the emotion gnawing at his chest.

But the unease stayed with him, and he couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.

On the day of the charity auction, Madam Hilton stopping Bella wasn’t just an act of kindness.

“It was a planned performance.”

Before the auction started, Bella had deliberately tripped and fallen in front of her—to pass her a note.

“I’ll return the Tear of the Moon.”

A phrase Madam Hilton could never ignore.

Just as Bella expected, after Charlotte went home alone, Madam Hilton insisted Bella looked pale and brought her to a resting room—where she went straight to the point.

“This note. Why did you give it to me?”

“Just as it says. I can return the item you were looking for.”

The Tear of the Moon was a moonstone necklace Madam Hilton had when she first moved from the countryside.

It wasn’t especially valuable, but it had deep sentimental meaning—her mother had sacrificed greatly to gift it to her.

When she finally entered Eastern high society, she let Charlotte borrow the necklace once—back when they were still on good terms.

But that friendship shattered after Charlotte rose to fame as a “genius painter.”

She had asked for the necklace back, but Charlotte refused.

[“A moonstone necklace? Hmm, did I have something like that? I think I got a cheap one before and threw it out. Or maybe not? I don’t really remember.”]

Madam Hilton had regretted her naivety ever since—but had no way to retrieve her lost memory.

Until now.

“I know where the necklace is.”

“Th-that can’t be… Charlotte said she threw it out. That she didn’t even remember it!”

“She didn’t throw it away.”

Bella had seen the teardrop-shaped moonstone still hanging in Charlotte’s jewelry box. Clearly, she hadn’t sold or trashed it—just forgot it even existed.

“I can return the necklace. I can help you reclaim your past.”

But what Madam Hilton truly wanted wasn’t just the necklace.

It was revenge. Revenge for the betrayal of trust and the guilt she carried.

“So please, use me as your pawn. Leave the dirty and unpleasant work to me—you can stay graceful and refined.”

After listening quietly for a while, Madam Hilton crossed her arms.

“And what do you gain from this?”

“My life.”

“……”

She stared at Bella, at a loss for words—then suddenly changed her expression.

“How can I trust you? You have no power. Isn’t that why you’re here asking me for help?”

“Do you really think that?”

Bella tilted her head slightly and showed her hand, which she had kept hidden.

Her hand was stained and messy with dried paint.

“You’re a smart woman. I’m sure you’ve already figured out why Charlotte’s painting was ruined.”

It was, in essence, a confession.

And the note that lured Hilton into this private conversation? Bella did that too.

In short, the entire situation had been in the palm of Bella’s hand from the start.

“Why go that far?”

“I’ll explain more later, but here’s one thing: that painting wasn’t drawn by Charlotte. To present a forged painting at a charity auction is beyond shameless, isn’t it?”

Madam Hilton looked like she’d just been slapped.

“Are you sure?”

“Within one month, I’ll bring you the real artist.”

Trust comes from conviction.

And if Bella’s plans went smoothly, it wasn’t an impossible promise.

Madam Hilton paced around the lounge, hesitating—until she finally stopped.

“If what you said is true, then I trust you even less.”

“……”

“You know what people call you in high society, right?”

Of course Bella did.

The pitiful victim of Rohilton. The shadow lady of Rohilton.

People saw her as a powerless, clueless noble girl.

“How… how did you hide your claws all this time? How did you fool everyone?”

Bella hadn’t fooled anyone—she had just changed after crossing the brink of death once.

But she couldn’t say that, so she simply smiled calmly.

“Desperation can turn the impossible into possible.”

“……”

Her surprise was understandable. Knowing someone’s potential is one thing; trusting them is another.

“You must be unsure. So how about a trial period? For the next 10 days, I’ll work for you—for free.”

Well?

Watching Bella’s sly smile, Madam Hilton finally nodded.

“Fine. That much won’t be hard.”

After leaving the lounge, they carried on their conversation as prearranged.

Hilton asked questions, Bella answered them.

Just like she told Charlotte: “I only answered what was asked.” It wasn’t technically a lie.

She just didn’t mention how loaded her answers were with subtle hints.

When Madam Hilton asked about Charlotte:

“Does Charlotte mistreat me? N-no way! She’s always been so kind to me!”

Bella looked startled, glanced around, and then denied it too strongly—to the point it seemed unnatural.

When asked about Charlotte’s art:

“Charlotte is such a talented artist. People say her work shows maturity and skill, like someone who’s practiced for years. For someone so young… well, she must be a genius, right?”

She gave Hilton just enough breadcrumbs to start imagining things herself.

“Nothing seemed strange? Well… now that you mention it, I’ve never actually seen her paint. One time I walked near her studio, and she got really mad. I guess painting requires focus, so she was just being sensitive.”

Bella never said she saw a ghost artist. Never said Charlotte couldn’t paint. Because obvious traps are easy to dodge.

Now, people were whispering.

Just as Bella had planned—they had started to doubt Charlotte.