Chapter 4
“Yvonne!”
Orte threw herself forward and barely managed to catch Yvonne as she collapsed, preventing her from hitting her head.
Her own elbow cracked from the impact, but she had no time to care.
“Call the physician right now! Anna!”
At that moment—
The door opened, but it wasn’t Anna.
Seeing the Duke of Weekend, Clef, and Ellen, Orte felt a wave of relief.
“Father! Brothers! Y-Yvonne suddenly started coughing blood—ah!”
“Take your hands off Yvonne!”
Ellen struck her, sending Orte flying backward.
She was already used to his rough treatment, so she quickly got back up and tried to approach Yvonne again.
But Clef slapped her hand away harshly.
“I’m holding back from tearing you apart right now, so get lost.”
Orte froze in shock.
In that moment, the Duke of Weekend lifted Yvonne into his arms and hurried out of the room.
Ellen and Clef followed him without even sparing Orte another glance, as if they didn’t even have the energy to be angry at her.
Left alone in the room, with only the blood Yvonne had coughed up—
Orte stood there.
She tried to go outside, but the door wouldn’t open. It was said to be Clef’s order.
Even as deep night fell, Orte kept pacing inside the room, worried about Yvonne.
The one who came to see her was her fiancé, Casey.
“Lady Orte.”
“Casey! Is Yvonne alright?”
Orte rushed toward him.
Though he wasn’t exactly warm, Casey had always been considerate toward her.
But now, with a cold hand, he pushed her back.
“Casey?”
“Do not call my name. It’s disgusting.”
“Casey…”
“You’re the one who poisoned Yvonne. Why are you asking? Are you disappointed she didn’t die?”
“What are you saying? I—I tried to poison Yvonne?”
“I came here on behalf of the Duke of Weekend.”
Casey didn’t answer her question.
“…You believe that too?”
His silence was his answer.
He looked down coldly at Orte, who had collapsed to the floor.
With the last of her strength, Orte tried to grab onto his pant leg—
But Casey stepped back faster.
Her hand grasped only empty air.
“Just stay quietly like this… and wait for the day you die.”
The door closed.
“—Hah!”
Orte woke up, gasping for air.
Cold sweat covered her entire body, including her forehead. Her breathing was rough, her chest rising and falling quickly.
That was a terrible dream.
Holding her forehead, Orte slowly sat up.
She looked out the window, where starlight poured in through the open curtains.
Was it a dream?
The silence felt unfamiliar.
Orte raised her hand—and without hesitation, slapped her own cheek.
Smack!
A sharp sound echoed, followed by pain.
“…It hurts.”
So it wasn’t a dream.
She looked down at her body.
It wasn’t the body from the day before Yvonne appeared—
Not the body from the day before her coming-of-age ceremony—
But the small body of a thirteen-year-old child.
For the first time, Orte calmly organized her thoughts.
She had always gone back to the same point in time for unknown reasons.
But this time, she had returned five years earlier.
That means… I have five years before Yvonne appears.
Hugging her knees, Orte tapped her fingers rhythmically.
Tap. Tap.
“…Ah.”
She frowned and looked at her hand.
This wasn’t her habit.
No—more precisely, it was a habit of the Duke of Weekend, one she had unconsciously picked up.
Because she had watched him so closely—enough to notice even the smallest change in his expression.
“…Disgusting.”
Her heart had changed.
But her body still remembered its “master,” as if it had been branded.
Her stomach felt heavy and uncomfortable, like she had eaten too much, even though she hadn’t eaten anything.
She pressed her chest with her fist, then finally stood up.
This time, she didn’t forget to put on her indoor shoes before leaving the room.
It was deep night. The hallway was lit only by candles, and no servants were around.
Orte walked through the familiar, complicated corridors without hesitation and headed toward the garden.
For her, the garden was a forbidden place.
It was the place her biological mother—the Saint—had loved the most.
The plants the Saint cherished were there, so Orte was not allowed to enter.
When she first came to the mansion, bored because no one paid attention to her, she had gone to the garden after hearing from maids that it was full of beautiful flowers.
The Duke of Weekend saw her that day.
And she was locked in the attic for a week.
Only then did she learn—
That it was the place most precious to the mother who had died giving birth to her.
Dozens of servants had seen her going to the garden that day.
But not a single one told her the truth or tried to stop her.
It was the first day Orte realized—
She had no one on her side.
The second time she went to the garden was on the day of her coming-of-age ceremony.
When she heard it would be held in the garden, she had been happy.
She thought her father and brothers had finally acknowledged her.
It was just a misunderstanding.
They only wanted to see if the Saint’s remaining holy power in the garden would react to her.
Orte stopped at the entrance.
If the Saint’s power reacted, it would prove she was truly her child.
But in all three of her past lives—
Not once.
Rustle.
The Saint’s power had never reacted to her.
Why was I so disappointed back then?
Orte stepped into the softly glowing garden without hesitation.
I already knew the truth.
She had suspected it.
That she wasn’t the Saint’s real child.
It was impossible not to know.
She didn’t resemble the Saint or the Duke of Weekend.
And for someone who was supposed to be the Saint’s child, her holy power was ridiculously small.
There was no divine mark either.
“They couldn’t have hated their real child that much.”
Muttering to herself, Orte suddenly stopped walking.
She closed her eyes and took in the clear air of the early dawn.
There were many rumors about this garden.
That the Saint’s lingering power made people feel blessed.
That small wounds would heal.
At that moment—
A soft touch brushed against her cheek.
Startled, Orte stepped back.
“Orte?”
Before she could calm her pounding heart, she heard a voice.
She turned her head.
“…Why are you here?”
It was Clef.
“Young Master.”
Orte lowered her head slightly.
“…Young Master?”
“Oh, I didn’t get to tell you earlier, but I plan to address you and your brother properly from now on.”
Just like she had insisted on calling the Duke “Father,”
Orte had insisted on calling Clef and Ellen “brothers.”
She had been wondering if she should speak to them separately.
It was good that she met him like this.
She didn’t want to go out of her way to see them.
“Please tell your brother as well.”
After saying that, Orte turned around.
The fresh air had eased the discomfort in her chest, so she was about to return to her room—
“Don’t expect anything.”
Orte turned back to look at Clef.
He was dressed lightly in a shirt, unlike his usual formal attire.
A few buttons were undone, but his cold expression was the same as in her memories.
“I didn’t expect you to try a different method, but just because you’ve changed doesn’t mean we will.”
Ah.
Only then did Orte understand.
He thought she was trying a new way to gain their attention.
It was almost laughable.
That was something she should be saying.
“Yes. Please don’t ever change.”
If they changed, it would only make things worse.
I won’t do anything.
At that moment, Orte made her decision for this life.
“Because I won’t do anything.”
She decided—
She would do nothing.
She wouldn’t try to avoid death.
She wouldn’t seek their love.
She wouldn’t try to prove she was the real one.
“But.”
She was about to leave, but stopped and looked at Clef again.
“I don’t expect anything from you anymore, Young Master.”
From the moment he walked toward her to kill her in her third life—
Any expectations she had were already long dead.
