AWLITEB Chapter 11

Sob, sob.

The muffled crying seeping through the crack in the door made Rosalie's brow crease with irritation.

'I knew this would happen.'

No matter how many times you told him to behave himself—a hundred times, a thousand—it never sank in. The words just slid right off.

"Brother!"

Rosalie flung the door open. Ethan turned toward her, leather whip in hand.

Emma knelt on the floor before him, wrists bound, looking like a collapsed marionette with cut strings.

"What a spectacle. Really."

Rosalie sighed and pulled the door shut behind her with the finality of closing a coffin lid.

Ethan's face had gone flat with boredom. He tossed the whip onto the bed with a casual flick. Thwack.

"Rosalie. Even if we share blood, do you think it's acceptable to burst into someone's room like this?"

"Then you should have gagged her with something. She's making so much noise I couldn't possibly walk past."

Rosalie pointed at Emma with the casual disdain of someone identifying garbage.

Emma flinched visibly, her gaze skittering away like a frightened animal. Her entire body trembled.

Ethan sighed and opened the box on the nightstand, pulling out a handkerchief with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this before.

"Y-Young Master. Please."

"Just stay still. Her Highness, the future Grand Duchess, says you're too loud."

Ethan forced Emma's mouth open and shoved the handkerchief in. The fabric muffled whatever sounds might have escaped.

Tears streamed down Emma's cheeks as she swallowed convulsively, trying to breathe around the gag.

"There. Satisfied? Now get out."

Ethan was still speaking when Rosalie strode forward, her footsteps heavy with purpose—thud, thud—and yanked the handkerchief from Emma's mouth.

"Rosalie. You know you're crossing a line here, right?"

Ethan's voice went cold as winter stone, but Rosalie ignored him completely. She even unlocked the restraints.

"Th-thank y—"

Crack!

Before Emma could finish her gratitude, Rosalie's palm connected with her cheek. The sound was sharp enough to echo.

Emma's weakened body crumpled. Thump.

"You should have avoided him yourself. I know you heard me tell him to watch his behavior. Didn't you?"

"I-I'm s-sorry..."

"Get out. Now."

At Rosalie's razor-sharp command, Emma scrambled from the room without looking back.

"Now you're interfering with your dear brother's every move?"

"Brother. Please just stay quiet for a while. What are we going to do if bad rumors start leaking out?"

"You think our servants would dare say anything elsewhere?"

Ethan laughed—a sound like cracking ice. Brittle. Sharp.

"Unless they've decided to die, who would spread such stories?"

"Even so, you need to be careful. I'm about to—"

"Yes, yes. You're destined to become the illustrious Grand Duchess."

"Don't be sarcastic. I'm serious!"

"But if you're so terrified of tainting your grand and beautiful wedding, shouldn't you be tracking down Isabella, that b*tch, as soon as possible? Instead of policing my hobbies?"

At the mention of Isabella's name, Rosalie's face twisted like she'd bitten into something rotten.

"I know. She's like a thorn lodged in my throat."

"If someone discovers the scars on her body, we'll have a real problem."

"No need to worry about that. Who could prove those scars came from our hands? We'll just say she left the house in her unstable mental state and got beaten by thugs. Though we should still find her body, just to be safe."

"What did Mother say? Has she given up on using the girl for a marriage deal?"

"No."

Baroness Martha's voice cut through the room like a blade.

The siblings turned to find Martha standing in the doorway, dressed in elegant going-out attire that cost more than most families earned in a year.

"Ethan."

She surveyed the various implements scattered about with a low, warning tone.

Her eldest son understood. He spread his hands and shook them in mock surrender. Pat, pat.

"I know, I know. I'll exercise restraint."

Martha fixed her son with a stern look before speaking.

"In any case, we're going to find Isabella quickly and sell her off for the original purpose. That widower offered us the diamond mine extraction rights for cheap as the marriage price. How could we possibly give that up?"

"Exactly. Lucky for us, he fell for Isabella at first sight at that social gathering. Of course we should use that. We've kept that stinking thing alive all this time, letting her play at being nobility."

Rosalie shuddered as if she could smell the basement stench clinging to her.

"Anyway, enough of this. Let's go, Rosalie. We're supposed to look at dresses for the imperial ball."

"Yes, Mother."

Rosalie's face lit up instantly. She bounced over to Martha and clung to her arm. The mood shift was instantaneous—like watching a mask slide into place.

"While you're out, could you have a dress coat made for me? Evelyn should know my measurements."

"Ethan. That won't do."

Martha shook her head, the movement measured and deliberate.

Ethan's face soured. The expression would have been comical if it wasn't so petulant.

"Why not?"

"Rosalie will become the Grand Duchess, so she must maintain appropriate dignity. But as the Grand Duchess's brother, wouldn't it look better to the public if you showed frugality?"

"What?"

"So wear the same outfit you wore to the last social gathering. There's already gossip that this marriage is about money—why would you add fuel to the fire by flaunting expensive clothes?"

"Sorry, Brother. But there's nothing we can do about it, is there?"

Rosalie's expression was about as apologetic as a cat with cream on its whiskers. She lowered her eyebrows in a mockery of sympathy.

"Oh. I'll tell the butler to keep watch, so don't think about calling any more maids for your entertainment, Ethan."

"Have a good trip, Brother. If you get too bored, maybe go hunting or something."

Rosalie smiled sweetly and took Martha's hand, sweeping from the room like a queen leaving an audience.

Ethan stared at the closed door. Then he smiled—the kind of smile that never reached the eyes—and murmured in the most affectionate tone imaginable:

"What delightful b*tches they are. Truly."

"What do you think?"

Genos wore an expression of such grave seriousness, you'd think he was deciding the fate of nations. He turned to Paile.

Paile matched his lord's intensity, stroking his chin with the solemnity of a man facing life's greatest crossroads.

"I'm not sure, Your Grace. It seems appropriate, but also perhaps too elaborate, and yet somehow too plain. I cannot make heads or tails of it, Your Grace."

"That's exactly what I think."

Genos shook his head and hung the dress back on the rack with a defeated sigh.

This was the private room of the most renowned salon in the empire—the kind of place where money talked and everyone else shut up and listened.

By now, the White family would be searching for Isabella with the desperation of drowning men grasping for driftwood. Until the marriage announcement, Isabella's outings had to be kept to an absolute minimum.

Which meant Genos had to handle every trivial detail himself.

Of course, he could have sent the maids, but what if they went around chattering that the Grand Duke finally had a woman, and her name was Isabella? The thought made his jaw tighten.

It didn't matter if word spread that he had a woman. In fact, that was necessary—it would support the later claim that his marriage to Isabella was a love match.

That's precisely why he'd deliberately let the knight catch a glimpse of Isabella's figure on the Night of the Witches.

But until the official marriage announcement, Isabella's identity had to remain secret.

If the White family learned Isabella was with him, there would be chaos. The kind that ended with bodies and broken alliances.

So the Grand Duke had even restricted the maids' outings until after the imperial ball.

"Perhaps it was too ambitious to think we could choose a dress on our own, Your Grace. Why not take a catalog back and let the young lady choose for herself?"

"We should at least narrow down the options first. That catalog is practically an encyclopedia."

"Then perhaps we should ask the salon owner for assistance?"

"She runs this place alone and has to attend to outside customers too. We can't keep her tied up here. What if an impatient customer pokes their head into the room? Stop making excuses and help me look at more dresses, Paile."

Paile followed Genos's commands without question as a rule, but even he looked exhausted this time.

The two men forced themselves to pick up yet another dress for inspection when the salon door opened.

Lifting the brim of her luxurious velvet hat to reveal her face was Martha, with Rosalie beside her.

"Welcome."

Evelyn, the salon owner, approached to greet the pair with professional warmth.

"I'd like to use the private room. My daughter needs a suitable dress."

Martha spoke with elegant refinement, her smile calculated to perfection.

Evelyn clasped her hands together apologetically.

"I'm terribly sorry, Madam. The private room is currently occupied by another customer."

"Just have them leave. We're in a bit of a hurry."

Martha took Rosalie's hand and moved to brush past Evelyn as if the matter were settled.

Evelyn blanched and quickly stepped in front of them, blocking their path.

"I truly apologize. But the person currently using the room is of such high station that I simply cannot interrupt. Please forgive me, Madam."

Evelyn bowed so low she nearly dropped to her knees.

The mother and daughter were starting to simmer with anger. The words "How dare you block the path of the future Grand Duchess" nearly exploded from their lips.

They'd agreed to keep quiet until the marriage announcement, so they had to swallow the words. But the fury? That was harder to contain.

"Fine. I understand. There's an order to things, and we should respect it. I'll consider it our fault for not making a reservation."

Martha forced a smile that looked like it hurt. Evelyn bowed, practically radiating relief.

Rosalie wanted to argue until she got that private room, but Martha forcibly dragged her away.

"We can look at dresses perfectly well outside the room."

"Still, Mother. Do they know who we are?!"

"Patience. Should someone who'll become the Grand Duchess waste energy on such trivial matters? Think of it as the ignorance of lower classes and endure. That's what people of noble birth do."

"..."

"Understood, Rose?"

Rosalie stuck out her lower lip sullenly but eventually nodded.

"Tea brewed from fresh green tea leaves. Your favorites, I believe?"

Evelyn arrived with an elegant tea tray and guided them to a sofa, the picture of attentive service.

The mother and daughter sat down, chins lifted with haughty dignity.

"What kind of dress shall I show you? Just tell me and I'll bring selections while you both relax comfortably."

"Show us the most recent creations first. You're the one who sets the trends in the capital, aren't you, Evelyn?"

"You flatter me, Madam. I'll prepare the selections now. Though I must say, Miss Rosalie looks even more slender than before. We'll need to take the pins in a bit more."

At Evelyn's skilled flattery, Rosalie smiled—genuinely pleased this time.

"I have been feeling like my petticoats were getting too loose lately. You have an excellent eye. Truly."

"You're too kind. Please relax and enjoy yourselves."

Evelyn even backed away with a little curtsy before disappearing from view. She knew exactly how to handle aristocratic ladies—it was what made her a brilliant businesswoman.

Her deferential manner smoothed over Martha and Rosalie's earlier irritation. Their expressions softened.

"See? A moment's patience brings peace, doesn't it?"

"You're right, Mother. As always."

Rosalie smiled and reached for her teacup when the salon door opened again.

"Oh my. Baroness Martha. Rosalie."

"What a delightful surprise to meet you here. How wonderful."

The newcomers were the two daughters of Count Jubelia's family.

A family blessed with both honor and wealth, the sisters were social darlings—which meant Rosalie regarded them as thorns in her side.

"You both grow more beautiful with each passing day, like flowers coming into bloom. How can one possibly compete?"

Martha rose and approached the sisters with practiced warmth.

"You embarrass us, Baroness. I assume you're also here for dresses for the imperial ball?"

Violet, the elder sister, asked.

"Yes, exactly. Oh, Rosalie, don't just sit there. Say hello to the Jubelia sisters."

Martha smoothly drew Rosalie up with an arm around her shoulders.

Rosalie forced herself to stand and greet them with a smile that looked painted on.

"Girls. It's been a while. You've been well?"

"Of course. Rosalie, you get prettier every time we see you."

Bess, the younger sister, approached and took Rosalie's hand with a smile.

'Acting all sweet. Hypocrites.'

Rosalie forced the corners of her mouth upward, thinking exactly that.

"But truly, it's remarkable. The only baronial family invited to the imperial ball. What an honor it must be."

Violet addressed Martha with words that were honey over poison.

Even Martha, usually masterful at maintaining her poker face, felt the barb land.

"Indeed. A baronial family setting foot in the imperial ball. It will surely go down in history as something extraordinary. How many families in all of history can claim such a thing?"

"You won't feel overwhelmed at the ball, will you, Rosalie? I'll look after you. If anyone says anything rude, just come to me for help."

"How thoughtful of you."

Martha stepped smoothly in front of Rosalie as her daughter's face began to twist with barely suppressed rage.

But Rosalie was losing control.

The sisters were subtly humiliating them both, and doing it with surgical precision.

The White family had wealth beyond measure, but they lacked prestige. They had no illustrious ancestors, no historical glory—just a baronial title that had barely survived through the generations, clinging to existence by its fingernails.

Martha's great-grandfather—Rosalie's great-great-grandfather—had gambled everything on mining investments. Against all odds, diamonds had poured from those mountains like tears from heaven. He'd reinvested the profits into more mines, multiplying their wealth exponentially.

As their fortune grew, so did the White family's ambition. They reached into everything, more and more ventures. They didn't flinch from illegality.

That's how they'd accumulated wealth that outstripped even the oldest families.

But traditional aristocratic society still refused to truly acknowledge the Whites. And that became ammunition for mockery.

Until now, Rosalie had swallowed the nobles' sneering condescension. But with the Grand Duchess position within reach—today, she couldn't let it slide.

Rosalie's clenched fists trembled.

"Sorry, girls. But I won't need your help."

Rosalie stepped out from behind Martha, moving forward like a duelist accepting a challenge.

Martha grabbed Rosalie's hand, but Rosalie's mouth had already slipped its leash.

"I'm going to become the Grand Duchess soon."