A moment later, a soft knock snapped me from my thoughts.
"Enter," I state.
Margot slipped inside, her voice barely above a whisper. "My lady… the bell for luncheon has sounded. Her Ladyship requests your presence in the dining hall."
I smoothed the wrinkles from my gown and rose, forcing a pleasant curve to my lips. "Very well," I said evenly. "Let us not keep the family waiting."
A few moments later, I stepped into the corridor, the soft rustle of my gown brushing against the marble floor echoing faintly through the hall.
As I walked through the corridor, I remembered what the novel had said about this family. It was vaguely explained in the novel their treatment on her, but it was not kind. Even in the trial, they were clear as the sky at their feelings towards her.
The book hadn't wasted many words—just a few cold lines buried between chapters.
"The Count looked upon his daughter with a restrained contempt, as though her existence itself was a fault yet to be corrected."
And later, during the trial, "Not one D'Aubigny spoke in her defense even tried to save her from the impending cruel punishment, though she bore their name."
That was all the author wrote, but it said everything.
Those few sentences said everything. They hadn't loved her. They hadn't even tried to tolerate her.
And like what the novel said, during the trial they just heartlessly watch as I tried to save myself from burning.
The Count—Lord Armand D'Aubigny—had only kept her for appearance's sake. Lady Geneviève despised her because of her mother's blood—common, foreign, a stain she could never wash out.
No name. No portrait. Not even a proper mention in the family records. Just "her shameful mother," whispered with distaste by the others..
Laetitia, to them, was the living proof of disgrace.
And the rest of the family? Céleste, the sweet-faced younger half sister who smiled while twisting the knife—had tormented the original Laetitia with "pranks" that always went too far back, both in their childhood and their teens.
And then there was the nanny. The novel had never described her in detail, but it didn't need to. The fear the original Laetitia carried told enough of the story. That kind of fear doesn't fade easily.
How ironic, I thought. To be born in silk and raised in chains. She truly lived a pitiful life.
Margot opened the dining room doors.
Afternoon light spilled in through tall windows, glinting off silver and crystal. The table was long, too elegant for the warmth it lacked.
Every seat was filled.
Lord Armand sat at the head — tall, grim, and silent. His dark hair was already streaked with gray. When his eyes met mine, they were cold and sharp, and he looked away just as quickly, as if the sight of me offended him.
Exactly as the novel described.
Beside him, Lady Geneviève sat straight-backed, flawless as ever. Chestnut curls, pale skin, her blue-gray eyes sharp as she glance up to me. Watchful as it followed me with quiet disdain.
As I walked closer, my steps echoing softly against the stone floor, my eyes flicked to
Céleste. She's pretty, yes, but not dazzling
And then, at the far end, is Elias.
All eyes watched me as sat down in my seat.
"Lady Laetitia," Geneviève said, her voice smooth and cold. "How good of you to join us. We were beginning to think you might refuse supper altogether. Prison food must have spoiled your appetite."
Did she just—?
Oh, she did.
The audacity of that woman. If this had been my old world, I would've laughed in her face and said something like, Well, at least prison food doesn't come seasoned with bitterness and envy.
Also, I wasn't even that late. I came as soon as Margot came.
My fingers itched to say exactly that. God, I wanted to.
But I caught myself. I couldn't afford to slip. Not here, not now. The old Laetitia wouldn't react like a modern woman ready to drop the bomb.
Laetitia D'Aubigny was not some sarcastic twenty-first-century woman with caffeine for blood and deadlines for morals. She was a noblewoman—an accused one, yes, evil? of course, but still a lady bound by the suffocating rules of courtesy.
I held her gaze and just smiled politely my ass out. "My apologies, Madame. I was… delayed."
"Of course you were," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes.
Servants moved around us, setting plates on the table. The smell of roasted pheasant filled the room, warm, rich, mouthwatering—until I looked down at mine.
It was… bare. A small cut of meat, some wilted greens, and the sauce already cold.
I glanced at the others. Their plates were full, steaming, seasoned to perfection. The difference was obvious. Too obvious.
It was the kind of insult that pretended to be an oversight.
My fingers tightened around my fork, but I said nothing, keeping my expression smooth. I wasn't foolish enough to break character.
"Do forgive the kitchen," Geneviève said slicing her food. "They must have assumed your appetite was still… recovering."
I glance up and look at her. "My... how very attentive of them, Madame. One must thank them for their constant concern for my health, though I assure you, my appetite is quite intact. Perhaps," I smiled. "They merely forgot that not everyone attacks their dinner with such… vigor."
Her knife paused mid-cut. Just for a heartbeat. Then she smiled again. "From confinement, dear. A difficult experience, no doubt—especially for one with your… temperament."
"Temperament?" I echoed, tilting my head slightly. What is this clown saying?
"Temperament." Lady Geneviève's smile softened with counterfeit warmth. "My dear, you've always been so… sensitive. A delicate nature is hardly a crime — though one must take care. Such temperaments, when untamed, often lead young women astray. Still, you are a D'Aubigny, whatever your blood may whisper. You must be tended properly, even if only to spare the family further misfortune." Her voice smooth and pitched in a tone of gentle concern that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Ah... I see. In short short tempered, ticking bomb with half noble blood woman.
and yeah, I forgot. Scandalous.
"I suppose you would know best, Madame. You did supervise my upbringing along side with a nanny back then."
Her lips curved. "And what a trial that was."
I inclined my head, folding my hands gently over my lap. "Indeed, Madame. Yet I daresay the experience must have refined your patience most admirably. To have endured my presence for so many years and still maintain your peace— it is nothing short of saintly."
"Flattery, my dear, is an art best left to those who mean it."
"Then I shall consider that a lesson well remembered," I replied softly, "from the finest instructor."
Before the next silence could fall, Céleste's lilting voice drifted across the table. "Mother speaks only from affection, I'm sure," she said sweetly, turning her wide eyes toward me. "After all, no one knows how difficult you can be better than she does. Though I imagine your confinement must have been very lonely, sister. Such cruel rumors… I would have written to you, truly, but Father feared it might worsen your spirits."
This bitch, ha! Laetitia was thrown in prison, and you make it sound like it wasn't a cold, lonely place, but rather a warm room with decent food being served.
I gave a soft, graceful laugh, the kind that could be mistaken for amusement if one didn't listen too closely. "How thoughtful of you, Céleste. You always did excel at doing nothing with such excellent justification. I hope it comforted you, at least, to imagine your silence as mercy."
Elias suddenly joined the conversation, chuckling. "Ah, but scandal does have a way of revealing character, doesn't it? And I daresay, sister, hers shines brighter for surviving it."
His tone was easy, even teasing—but his gaze when it met Céleste's was anything but kind.
Her smile held, but the tension in her jaw betrayed her. "You misjudge me. I only wish you could have been spared such scandal. So many whispers… so many people calling your name in connection with—" she paused, "—unsavory things."
"Oh, I am aware," I answered lightly, tracing the rim of my glass. "It's astonishing, isn't it, how swiftly society grows fascinated with wicked women? Why, I suspect if I had truly perished, half the court would have mourned the loss of their favorite subject of conversation."
Lady Geneviève's fan fluttered once, sharply. "Better to be forgotten with dignity than remembered for disgrace."
"Mother, you'll frighten her." Céleste said while feigning her concern, but I swear I could see a smile under her 'concerned face'.
How I wish I could rolled my eyes right now.
"Oh, I doubt anything frightens your sister anymore," Lady Geneviève replied airily. "She has always been… resilient. Like a weed that refuses to die no matter how often it's cut down."
I just give her a smile. "Then perhaps I should thank you for tending the garden so well," I said. "Without such care, I might not have survived."
For a moment, Lady Geneviève's smile faltered, just for a moment but quickly recovered. Lord Armand's gaze lifted briefly from his plate, cool and unreadable.
Elias chuckled. "Ah, our dear big sister hasn't lost her tongue after all."
I looked his way. "Would that disappoint you?"
"On the contrary," he said, swirling his wine. "I rather enjoy watching sparks fly. Family dinners can be so dreadfully dull without a little… spark."
The room settled into an uneasy quiet again, broken only by the clinking of silverware. I forced down a bite of the cold meat, each chew tasting of resentment.
Céleste leaned forward slightly, her tone honeyed. I swear my eyebrows raised when I heard her voice. Can't this girl rest? Or is her tongue really that itchy to pick a fight and insult me?
"Sister, I heard that on the way here, the carriage you were in was showered with rotten food. The townsfolk can be so… expressive, can't they? I hope you were not injured."
I paused, setting down my utensils and wipe my mouth a bit, only to be earned a tiny reaction by Céleste.
"Sister, I fear that the prison really took you a huge shock as you forgot the basic etiquette when eating." She added while smiling through her insults. I paused, wait, they don't wipe their mouth after eating?
"My dear sister, your concern for my manners is touching. You see, the prison offered few graces, and I have found that a well-placed smear of gravy on the face is a far lesser stain than a bitter heart. It is a lesson learned in the grimmest of academies, that one's company can be far more foul than a little food on the chin." I smiled as well. "And yes, it was quite the welcome. At least the people had the decency to throw ripe produce this time—I was half-expecting stones." I tilted her head, meeting Céleste's gaze directly. "It's almost flattering, really. I seem to have inspired such passion wherever I go."
Céleste's smile didn't falter despite my polite insult. "Oh it must been tough, but of course, dear sister. Passion and hatred often walk hand in hand. You do have a way of making people feel deeply."
"Yes, I do agree with that. People often develop deep feelings for me, like what happened a sennight ago, don't you think so as well, dear little sister?" I smiled at her as I sipped my not-so-sweet wine. My eyes never leaving hers. Well, aside from the immense hate Laetitia received, men in particular would go as far as to worship the ground she walked on, and that didn't exclude the men Céleste liked.
Céleste's smile drop and her hand tightened ever so slightly around the stem of her glass. What a hot headed woman. Then suddenly her smile came back. "It was an eventful day."
I smiled back. Now the original Laetitia would used this moment to intentionally—I guess? to get under her skin. Hmmm, let's see. How would I do it?
"It was the very hour you had chosen to thrust your heart forth like some brave knight," I said, soft as silk. "You, with your embroidery so neatly stitched and your courage all in readiness, had resolved to make the first advance. How admirable. How very… bold."
Céleste's knuckles whitened. I took a measured sip and let the silence settle like a drawn curtain before continuing.
"But fate, or perhaps poor taste, saw otherwise," I went on. "He—whom you had marked with such tender longing—did tell you plainly that you were 'not his sort.' He found your needlework unmarvellous, and—if I recall—your bouquet somewhat ill-chosen." I laughed, the sound light and gilded. "A most blunt dismissal, was it not?"
Her mouth trembled, her eyes flashed.
"And then," I whispered, leaning forward as if sharing a secret with the room itself, "having first refused you, he came to me anon. He laid aside his civility and his certainty alike, and asked me—me, Laetitia—for a dance. He declared himself, midst the music and the candles, as though he had just discovered the very sun. He pledged devotion fit for a madrigal and worshipped the ground I trod upon."
"How dare you." She said, voice trembling while looking at me hatefully. Well, mission success.
"Oh, I dare plenty," I said, my tone calm, cutting through her words like silk over steel.
"After all, I've endured a public trial, accusations of poisoning, and the scrutiny of the entire court—alone. And yet," I tilted my head, gaze sweeping over her flawless gown, "here I sit. Innocent. While the rest of you merely watched from the sidelines." I said.
It was cruel of me to salt her wounded pride, I suppose—but they were crueler, the first to turn their faces away as Laetitia was accused and left to die in the corner. Bitter? Yes. I am Laetitia now. No innocent person should perish for an accusation
The sound that left her was a scoff, brittle and angry. "Innocent? You call standing before the King like a common criminal something to boast about?"
"Boast?" I gave a soft laugh, feigning surprise. "Sweet heavens." I dramatically said. "I merely stated the truth. I triumphed unaided—whilst you would have cowered behind Madame's skirts like the timid little mouse you are. Pray, do not confuse cowardice with modesty, they seldom share a bed."
"Careful now, Laetitia," Lady Geneviève suddenly spoke, she said in that lilting, poisonous tone of hers. "A mannerless woman is unbecoming of a lady."
I smirk, challenging her. "Then I suppose I'll wear it proudly, Madame. After all, it suits me better than hypocrisy does to," I paused. "Anyone."
The table went utterly still. Even the servants froze mid-motion.
Lady Geneviève's hand trembled just slightly before she stilled it again. "You've certainly found your tongue since the trial. I remember a time when you trembled at the mere sound of correction."
"I've learned to distinguish correction from condescension," I replied, resting my chin lightly against my hand. "And I see now that yours has always been the latter."
Her eyes narrowed. "I should have known. That temper of yours could never be tamed, no matter the lessons you were given."
Ah. There it was. The subtle reminder. The punishments. The cruelty the original Laetitia had suffered under the guise of discipline.
I met her gaze steadily. "If cruelty was meant to tame me, you should have tried harder, Madame."
Céleste's chair scraped softly as she leaned forward again, her own mask crumbling. "You think you're untouchable now? Because you managed to trick the King into believing your lies?"
"Trick?" I arched a brow, my smile sharpening. "If I'd tricked anyone, you'd have been the first to fall. No, sister, I did something none of you could—I used my mind. Something you ought to try using for more than embroidery patterns and gossip."
Her face flushed scarlet. "You—you vile—"
"—woman?" I finished for her, voice low and even. "Yes. Better vile and victorious than sweet and spineless."
The word was not loud, but it was edged with a finality that made the air itself seem to thin. I turned from Céleste, whose face was a mask of terrified submission,
Then one of the servants stepped forward with a silver decanter to pour the wine. Lady Geneviève waited until the servant filled her goblet before speaking again—this time, switching to French.
"Tu as toujours eu le goût de l'humiliation, n'est-ce pas, ma fille?"(You've always had a taste for humiliation, haven't you, my daughter?)
I stopped a bit. That phrase. It had been mentioned in the novel—an echo from one of Laetitia's bitter memories. Her stepmother's favorite taunt, whispered behind closed doors, carrying a meaning only the two of them understood.
I demurely smiled. "Perhaps, Madame," I replied softly in French, forcing the words past my throat. "But I've learned to savor it differently now."
Lord Armand finally set down his fork. "Enough of this childish exchange," he said, his tone deceptively calm. "Laetitia, you have brought enough disgrace to this house. I will not have it continue at my table."
The patriarch decided to speak huh?
"Disgrace?" I echoed. "I was found innocent, Father."
"By a technicality," he said coldly. "Not by innocence. Do not presume that the court's leniency erases your shame."
Céleste nodded solemnly beside him. "Father only wishes for the house's reputation to be restored," she said. "After all, gossip travels fast. People are saying dreadful things."
I set my fork down gently. "People will always talk, dear sister. The question is whether they speak truth—or simply echo what they've been told."
Her mouth tightened.
Elias sighed, leaning back. "And here I thought supper would be peaceful. My mistake."
"Peaceful," Lady Geneviève repeated with a soft laugh. "Peace requires manners, Elias. And manners are something your sister never quite learned."
"I learned plenty," I said, keeping my tone calm. "Enough to know that courtesy loses its value when used as a weapon."
That earned a collective pause. Then Geneviève tilted her head, smiling faintly again. "You've grown bold, Laetitia. Or perhaps foolish. One can hardly tell the difference."
Lord Armand's voice cut in again, measured and severe. "Mind your words. You stand in my house only because I allow it. Do not mistake tolerance for forgiveness."
I met his gaze head-on. "Nor silence for obedience, Father."
The air stilled.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Even the servants hesitated mid-step, unsure whether to move. The only sound was the faint crackle of the hearth.
Then Lady Geneviève laughed lightly, breaking the tension. "Ah, the fire returns. I was beginning to miss it. Do you hear her, Armand? That temper of hers is precisely why she finds herself in such… unfortunate circumstances."
Lord Armand did not answer. He merely picked up his glass and took a long, deliberate sip.
I sighed inwardly. Every word out of their mouths was dipped in poison and perfume. Every sentence was a dagger sheathed in etiquette.
When the final course arrived, I barely touched it. The food might as well have been ash. I had played my part well enough—smiling, replying in measured tones, hiding every flicker of emotion behind my lashes—but it was draining. I wonder if this is what the real Laetitia feel every single time?
By the time the last fork clinked against porcelain, I had decided I'd had enough.
I pushed back my chair slowly, the sound of wood scraping against marble sharp in the silence.
"Pray excuse me," I said, my voice calm but firm. "It has been a most enlightening evening, but I find myself rather fatigued."
Lady Geneviève slightly, almost unnoticeable arched a brow. "How unlike you to retire early. You usually prefer to make a spectacle of yourself."
I smiled faintly. "Perhaps I'm learning restraint after all."
Without waiting for permission, I stood and inclined my head politely to each of them. "Good evening, Father. Madame. Céleste. Elias."
And then I turned, skirts whispering against the floor as I left the room.
The hall outside felt colder than before. My steps echoed again, but this time they carried purpose.
Let them whisper. Let them sneer. Let them call me disgrace, witch, villainess—whatever pleased them most.
"If they wish to crown me a villain…"Then let them kneel when I ascend.