After He Killed My Kin, I Rejected Him

Chapter 8

Brando trailed right behind Olivia, his figure slowly coming into view at the entrance of the mourning hall.

The conversation between the two sisters that he'd accidentally overheard just moments earlier played on loop in his head.

A cold, mocking smirk tugged unconsciously at the corner of his lips. Not long ago, Solenne had told him to his face that she didn't have much time left to live. Turns out it was just a run-of-the-mill lung condition, nothing more.

He sauntered over to the coffin, his face blank and unreadable. His tone carried that innate, lofty detachment only born of royal blood. "I heard the old lord had passed away. I had come especially to pay his respects."

The second he reached for a stick of white incense to perform the funeral rites, Solenne shot to her feet and clamped down hard on his wrist.

Brando's eyes darkened to icy slits instantly. He glowered down at her, his voice sharp with irritation. "What are you throwing a fit about now?"

Solenne lifted her head, her dark, hollow eyes staring straight at him, completely devoid of emotion.

"Don't bother. Your Highness is far too distinguished. My grandfather cannot bear the honor of your tribute."

Rage flared hot and fast in Brando's chest, and the air around him turned frigid enough to freeze solid. But when he caught sight of Solenne's deathly pale, gaunt, fragile face, that surging anger faded for no reason he could name, leaving only a gnawing, petty irritation in its place.

He snorted coldly and wrenched his hand out of her grip, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "At least you have a shred of self-awareness."

He tossed the incense back onto the table carelessly, turned on his heel and made to leave with Olivia at his side. Right as he was about to step out of the mourning hall, he paused and tossed out a cold, offhand remark over his shoulder. "Death cancels all debts. Now that the old lord is gone, I will let all past grudges rest."

That one flippant line wiped out every last bit of the old lord's lifelong achievements and the injustice he'd suffered, and trampled all over every grievance the Rivington family had ever endured.

Solenne's eyes burned red instantly, a bitter, blazing fury surging through every inch of her body.

A sharp, stabbing pain flared in her throat, and the coppery tang of blood suddenly rose thick in her mouth. She pressed her lips into a tight, unyielding line and forced the blood back down with a hard swallow.

She turned her head slowly, meeting Marcella's worried gaze. She pushed down every roiling emotion churning inside her and spoke in a soft, soothing voice, "Sis, you're pregnant. Your body can't handle this kind of stress. Go back to your room and rest. I can keep watch here alone."

Marcella looked at her younger sister's stiff, falsely calm face, and her chest ached so badly she could barely breathe. She stepped forward and pulled Solenne into a tight hug, tears pouring down her cheeks unbidden.

The day of the funeral was bone-chillingly quiet. Barely any of the nobles the old lord had lifted up over the years, or his former colleagues from the royal court, bothered to show up to pay their final respects. The handful of mourners that did come made the whole scene feel gut-wrenchingly empty.

As it turned out, Solenne learned the brutal truth from an old former student of her grandfather's: two days prior, Brando had wielded his power to reinstate Viscount Calder, the very man the old lord had impeached and removed from office years ago, sending him right back to the royal court.

A faint, fragile glimmer of light pierced through the endless darkness of despair that had wrapped around Solenne's heart for so long. She turned to look at her older sister beside her, the first genuine smile spreading across her face since their grandfather had passed.

Marcella tugged the corner of her mouth up in a faint smile of her own, but it was so thin, heavy with a thick, unshakable bitterness and helplessness that hung in the air so thick you could barely breathe.

One by one, the funeral guests trickled away, until only the two sisters remained, standing silently before the cold tombstone, neither willing to leave for the longest time.

It wasn't until dusk melted into deep, inky night that they finally leaned on each other for support, stumbled step by step along the road back to the capital.

Clutching her sister's warm hand, Solenne hesitated for a long while before speaking softly, "Sis, Viscount Calder has his position back. It won't be long before he comes to take you back to the viscount's manor."

Marcella's body went rigid. She didn't answer, just stood there silent, her eyes dark with a jumble of unreadable emotions.

When they arrived at the gates of the duke's estate, an ornate gilded four-wheeled carriage was parked right in front, glaringly out of place.

Viscount Osric Calder, who had been waiting by the carriage, saw Marcella walking over, and his face immediately darkened.

His tone was sharp with unbridled scorn. "Wow, you've really mastered the whole pouting, holier-than-thou act, huh? If I didn't come fetch you, were you gonna stay away from your own house forever?"

Solenne bit back the anger boiling in her chest, stepping forward at half a pace to speak calmly, "Brother-in-law, let's talk this through properly. There's no need to speak to Sis so harshly."

But Marcella gently pressed a hand to her arm, stepping forward alone. The woman, who had always been so gentle and soft-spoken, had lost every trace of warmth in her eyes, replaced by a cold, unapproachable distance.

"Osric, I told you already. I'm never coming back with you."

Solenne froze, staring blankly at her sister's resolute back.

Just then, a soft, seductive female voice drifted from inside the carriage, sharp with clear provocation. "Hmm? Viscountess, noble etiquette has always held that a wife owes loyalty to her husband's household. Now that you're married into the viscount's family, of course your husband and his manor should come first."

A woman in flashy, over-the-top makeup, with sharp, flirtatious eyes, stepped slowly down from the carriage. She swayed her hips as she walked, exuding an aggressive, self-assured energy.

Marcella's face drained of color in an instant, a flicker of suppressed agony cutting through her eyes.

Solenne's stomach dropped. She stepped forward sharply, her voice icy as she demanded, "Who are you?"

The woman tittered, raking her gaze over them with obvious mockery. "Everyone out there gushes about how close you two sisters are, how you've always had each other's backs. But from where I'm standing, that's nothing but empty gossip. If you were really that tight, why would she never have told you your brother-in-law already took me as his equal wife?"

Solenne jolted as if she'd been struck, frozen to the spot, eyes wide with utter disbelief. She whipped her head toward Marcella, and in her sister's downcast, tightly controlled gaze, she saw bone-deep helplessness and pain.

At that moment, ice-cold dread seeped into every last inch of her body, leaving her hands and feet ice-cold.

She'd never once guessed that her gentle, soft-spoken, even-tempered older sister had been trapped in the same living hell as her for years, forced to swallow every last bit of humiliation and heartbreak alone.

A tidal wave of rage and despair crashed over her, squeezing her chest so tight she could barely breathe.

But the woman wasn't done yet. She sauntered forward a few steps, every inch of her oozing smug provocation. "Don't be so stubborn, madam. Come home with us. Viscount Calder says once your baby is born, it will be legally registered under my name, and I'll be the one raising it."

Solenne's pupils blew wide. Before she could even process what the woman had just said, a sharp, resounding slap split the air.

Marcella didn't even spare the woman, now clutching her cheek in stunned shock, a single glance. Her voice was cold and sharp, devoid of any warmth. "Osric, get your people off my estate. Now."

The woman's eyes darted to the side, and immediately she clamped a hand to her stomach, swaying unsteadily as she shrieked at the top of her lungs, "Husband! My stomach hurts so bad, our baby..."

Osric's face turned livid with rage. He stormed over and shoved Marcella hard, roaring, "Are you insane? She's pregnant! How dare you lay a hand on her!"

Marcella stumbled, her balance gone, and crashed hard onto the frigid ground.

But Osric didn't spare his fallen wife a single thought. His entire world narrowed down to the other woman, and he rushed to scoop her up in his arms, hurrying back toward the carriage.

"Sister! Are you okay?!" Solenne dropped to her knees in a panic to help her sister up, and the next second, her blood ran cold in an instant.

A bright, gory pool of red was slowly spreading beneath Marcella, shockingly bright against the ground.

"Solenne... my stomach hurts so bad..."

Marcella's face was as white as a sheet, her breath weak and faint, and her entire body was shaking uncontrollably.

Solenne's heart plummeted straight into an icy, bottomless pit. She scrambled to hoist her sister onto her back, her voice shaking so hard she could barely get the words out. "Don't be scared, sister. I'll get you to a healer right now. You're gonna be okay, I promise."

The sky had gone completely dark. The long, empty street was dead silent, save for the whoosh and howl of frigid wind that whipped through the air.

Solenne staggered forward on the snow-covered road, plodding through the snow step by wobbly step, her fading sister's weight heavy on her shoulders.

"We're almost there, sister... just hold on a little longer. The healer's place is just up ahead..." She gasped for breath, the biting cold searing down her throat and into her chest. It felt like a thousand tiny blades were slashing at her insides, sharp enough to steal the air right out of her lungs.

She'd never thought the walk to the healer's could feel so long, so torturous. She tried with every ounce of strength she had to pick up the pace, but her already sick, frail body was pushed far past its limits. Each step felt like she was wading through mud, slow and heavy.

Her sister's breath on her neck grew weaker and fainter with every passing second. After what felt like an eternity of dead silence, Solenne finally caught a faint, almost imperceptible reply from behind her.

That small sound eased the worst of her gut-churning terror, if only a little. But what she couldn't see was that Marcella, slumped against her back, was already as pale as a corpse.

Her lower lip was bitten through so hard it was raw and bleeding, and her life was draining away by the second.