IGBD 75

chapter 75

“Wh–What? Did she really ask about poison?”

Anita’s face turned pale as she stared at Lydia. Her whole body was trembling.

Seeing Anita on the verge of tears, Lydia let out a long sigh.

“I went through all that trouble to save you.”

“Please help me, Your Highness. Please, I beg you.”

Tears streamed down Anita’s cheeks. She was terrified—out of her mind. If what she’d done were ever revealed, she wouldn’t escape execution.

“I’m so tired of this.”

Lydia frowned, irritation flickering in her violet eyes. Serret was getting on her nerves again—poking around in matters she should’ve left alone. Lydia had gone to great lengths to make Sophia’s death look like a suicide and Serret’s assault appear to be the work of a vagrant.

Yuan got dragged into this mess because Serret can’t leave things alone. What if Serret whispers to Yuan that I was behind everything? No, I can’t let that happen. I have to drive a wedge between them—make sure Yuan never listens to a word that woman says.

“Your Highness, isn’t there any way? Please… save me just once more.”

Anita clung to Lydia desperately. Right now, Lydia was her only savior. Whatever Lydia commanded, she would obey.

“Anita, I’ll need you to do a little work for me.”

“Anything! I’ll do anything you ask.”

Anita nodded fervently, her eyes glistening.

“It’s nothing dangerous, so don’t worry.”

Lydia smiled sweetly—angelic and composed—as she rose from her chair.

Anita stood as well, her voice trembling with devotion. “Even if it is dangerous, I don’t mind.”

“It’s not. I just need to write a letter. Bring some stationery to my room.”

Lydia gave her order and left the dining room.

Back in her chambers, Lydia sat on the sofa, waiting. Soon Anita entered, clutching paper and pen.

When Lydia gestured, Anita sat quickly across from her.

“Do you remember when I told you to practice the Duchess’s handwriting?” Lydia asked.

Anita nodded eagerly. “Of course. I practiced every day. I can imitate it perfectly now.”

She had already fooled the authorities once—with a forged suicide note in Sophia’s hand. The memory filled her with confidence.

Lydia smiled, clearly pleased. “Good. You’ll write as I dictate—in the Duchess’s handwriting.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Anita took up the pen, poised and ready. Lydia began to speak slowly.

“To Jack.”

At that name, Anita’s eyes flicked nervously toward Lydia. She was starting to understand what this was.

And soon, under Lydia’s calm voice, a love letter began to take shape—a letter where Serret confessed tender feelings to Jack. The words dripping from Lydia’s mouth were those of a woman newly in love—soft, intimate, deceitful.

As Anita wrote, guilt crept into her heart. The Duchess—who had always treated her kindly—flashed before her eyes.

“With love,
Serret.”

Lydia spoke the final line.

Anita looked up. Their gazes met, and Lydia coolly ordered, “Bring me the letter the Duchess sent last time.”

Anita did as told and returned with Serret’s previous letter. Lydia compared the two—her eyes lighting up with satisfaction. They were identical.

“How clever of you, Anita.”

“I’m just happy to be of help to Your Highness.”

Lydia chuckled faintly and handed the forged letter back. “Take care of it. You know what that means, don’t you?”

She didn’t need to explain further. Anita knew.

“Yes, Your Highness. Don’t worry.”

As Lydia expected, Anita understood perfectly—this letter was to find its way into the Duke of Frektuster’s hands.

Though many of the Duke’s servants had been replaced recently, one mail servant still remained—Anita’s cousin, Oliver.

“I’m exhausted. I’ll bathe and rest early tonight. Prepare the water.”

As Lydia rose, her lips curved into a quiet laugh. When Yuan received that letter… what would happen between him and Serret?

“I can’t wait to see how he reacts,” she murmured, smiling—sweet and angelic as ever.

The Duke’s Residence, the next day

The Duke’s estate is hell, Jack. In this hell, I dream of escaping—to live and love beside you.

Reading the letter, Yuan’s expression didn’t change. Then, without a word, he crumpled it.

A maid had found it in the Duchess’s chambers and brought it to him, claiming it was addressed to a man named Jack.

The words of affection to another man made his blood boil. The moment he tore the letter apart, he stormed out of his study and went straight to Serret’s room.

He burst through the door without knocking. Serret, pen in hand, looked up at him in shock.

Yuan’s gaze dropped to the blank sheet of paper on her desk. It hadn’t yet been written on—but he already knew whom it was meant for.

“Your Grace? What’s wrong?” she asked shyly.

Her innocent expression only enraged him further. That same face—had she shown it to Jack, too?

He seized her arm and dragged her to the bed, throwing her down roughly.

“It’s still bright out, Your Grace…”

Serret blushed in embarrassment. But her flustered face made him freeze. Did she look like this for that man, too?

Yuan crushed his lips against hers. His kiss was harsh, punishing. In his storm-grey eyes, fury burned.

If you see me as your hell, then I’ll gladly become it—Serret Frektuster.

Holding her tightly, he lifted his head and looked down at her trembling form. After a moment, he turned away without hesitation.

The very next day, he caught sight of Serret and Jack embracing in the reception hall.

That night, Yuan summoned his aide, Derrick, to the study.

“Get rid of Jack Clarke. From this land.”

His voice was cold as steel.

“It was a mistake! I was caught up in the moment… the world just looked too beautiful.”

Serret’s voice echoed endlessly in Yuan’s head.

Leaning back in his chair, he exhaled heavily. Yes, they had kissed—beneath the rain-drenched trees, a moment unbearably sweet. But ever since, she’d been avoiding him, keeping her distance.

The instant their lips parted, she had panicked, insisting it was a mistake—a fleeting moment born of beauty, nothing more.

Since returning home, she’d done her best to avoid him completely. When their eyes happened to meet, she would frown, scowl, and turn away. The rejection stung more than he wanted to admit.

“I once loved someone so much it destroyed my heart. I can’t love anyone ever again.”

Was it because of that man? The one she’d loved so much it left her heart in ruins? Was guilt toward that man the reason she kept avoiding her husband?

The thought almost made him laugh.

Who was he? The man who made Serret love so deeply she could never love again?

The question ate at him—consuming his focus, twisting his mood day after day until he could barely think straight.

She must have smiled sweetly at him, too. Whispered love with tender words. Looked at him with those soft, affectionate eyes. Did she… kiss him?

“Damn it.”

The image of Serret with another man drove Yuan into a rage. He swore under his breath, his jaw tight.

He tried to shake it off and return to his paperwork.

Just then, there was a knock. The mail servant stepped in.

“Your Grace, are there any letters to send?”

Oliver bowed respectfully.

Yuan opened a drawer and handed him several envelopes. Oliver took them carefully, placed them in his bag, and left the room.

Yuan was about to return to his work when he noticed something on the floor—a letter that must have fallen.

He stood, bent down, and picked it up. His brows furrowed.

“Jack?”

It was a letter addressed to Jack, written by Serret. Jack—the same insolent man who’d flirted with her during the emperor’s 30th-anniversary celebration.

Knowing he shouldn’t, Yuan broke the seal. He couldn’t help himself.

To Jack,

I received your last letter well.
It was such a beautiful love poem—it kept me awake all night.

The woman in your poem must be truly happy,
to be loved so passionately.

The golden-haired lady sends word
that she spent a blissful night.

Will you send me another poem soon?
I hope we’ll meet again before long.

With affection,
Serret.

Yuan’s face twisted in disgust. He crushed the letter in his fist and hurled it to the floor.

A vile curse slipped from his lips. Fury—cold and absolute—raged through his chest.

A love poem, was it? His mouth curled into a crooked smile.

“So the man you loved until your heart bled… was Jack Clarke?”

He stared down at the crumpled letter, pressing his foot on it, voice low and menacing.

“All this… for a man like that?”

A hollow laugh escaped him. The mockery in his eyes was sharp as ice.

So much for a grand, tragic love—it was nothing but filth.

His storm-gray eyes gleamed coldly.