Home/How a Terminally Ill Woman Distances Herself from Death/ch 7

Chapter 7

It was late morning, nearly noon. Yelena, the mistress of the manor, had just risen. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she stepped out of her chambers.

Her waking hour—and the time for what passed as her breakfast, a midday meal—was when the household was at its least bustling.

Today, however, felt slightly different. A strangely unsettled atmosphere hung in the air, awkward and tense.

Tilting her head in mild curiosity, Yelena turned the corner.

Just then, a servant carrying a chair passed by, offering a bow as he brushed past her.

Has something gone wrong? she wondered, unconcerned. Pushing open the closed door, she stepped inside—and stopped short.

There, seated at the table before her, already cutting into a piece of bread, was Astier.

Her green eyes, always cold, widened in utter disbelief at a sight she had never once imagined.

"Why are you here...?"

Astier—the daughter of her husband by another woman. It had been years since she last dined in this room. What could possibly have brought her here now?

Flustered, Yelena could barely form words. Astier, having taken a spoonful of soup that had cooled to just the right temperature, met her gaze.

"Good morning, Mother. Did you sleep well?"

That bright, smiling face made Yelena let out a laugh of sheer disbelief—a laugh more like a sigh. Her expression icy, she took her seat.

As if it had been waiting for her, a simple meal was laid out on the table. But Yelena showed no intention of eating. Arms crossed, she sat still for a moment before finally speaking.

"Mother? Drop that laughable address. What are you doing here?"

Her green eyes were filled with wariness—though Astier had never once failed to call her "Mother."

Yelena loathed Astier. Even though the girl bore no resemblance to her husband's first wife, Lusnia—with her delicate features, slightly upturned eyes, and reddish-gold hair, all of which she inherited from her father—still, Yelena could not stand her.

Truth be told, she knew why. Because Astier, by taking after the Duke, also took after the Grand Duchess—her grandmother. And the Grand Duchess was the very person Yelena hated most in the world. She could never bring herself to cherish a stepdaughter who mirrored that detested woman—especially one who stood as an obstacle to her own son's bright future.

"Is there some reason I shouldn't be here?" Astier asked, chewing the last stalk of asparagus before swallowing.

"Stop playing games."

"I'm not playing. I simply have something to tell you. And it happened to be mealtime."

Astier dabbed the corner of her mouth with a folded napkin. The air between them had grown so cold that even the warm food might as well have gone frigid.

The tension reached its peak when Duke Hugo Brünhelt entered the hall. Their gazes turned toward him in unison, as if by some prior agreement.

The middle-aged man, past forty, took his seat and glanced between his wife and daughter. His look at Astier, in particular, held no hostility—but it carried the same unspoken question as Yelena's: Why are you here?

"Good timing," Astier said calmly. "Now that Father is here, there's no need to wait any longer. I'll speak plainly."

She set her napkin on the table and folded her hands neatly over her knees. Her steady, unwavering gaze fixed upon them both.

"I have no intention of marrying Count Vanier."

"……Who?"

"Count Vanier. The very man you know, Father."

"Are you saying you thought there was a possibility—that you might marry Count Vanier?"

Hugo Brünhelt replied with an expression of complete ignorance. Whether it was genuine or feigned mattered little to Astier. In fact, his not knowing was the greater issue.

Her eyes, sharp with barely concealed fury, locked onto his.

"It seems you haven't been told. Mother has been considering Count Vanier as a marriage prospect for me."

"Astier Brünhelt! How dare you—"

"Yes, Mother seems to have been troubled, so I thought I'd speak on her behalf."

It was a secret she had never shared with anyone—not even written in her diary. And yet Astier knew!

It was a thought I never uttered aloud—so I can deny it. I'll just say Astier is guessing, jumping to conclusions.

But Yelena failed to control her expression. Her fair face turned pale as chalk.

Hugo Brünhelt adored Yelena, loved her—evident from how he granted nearly every request she made.

Still, this was a matter of the family head's authority.

Marrying a direct-line offspring to a vassal—that was, by all norms, unthinkable. And what he, the head of Brünhelt, loved even more than Yelena was his position as the Duke. How he would respond was anyone's guess.

"Yelena. Is Astier telling the truth?"

"Well, that is…"

"I'd advise you not to lie."

She had known her husband for over twenty years. She knew well that when his expression turned like this, she must yield. Biting her lip, Yelena gave a reluctant, twisted nod.

It would have been a lie to say he had never considered the succession himself. A daughter with a death sentence hanging over her, despite her nobler lineage. A son born of the woman he loved, yet lacking in some ways, requiring all the more care and protection.

If he had to choose one as his heir, he supposed it would be Rowin—better a somewhat lacking but healthy son than a daughter who might die at any moment.

And marrying his daughter into a house that could help the family re-enter the political arena was clearly beneficial.

But not to a vassal count. After a brief pause, the Duke reached for his wife's hand.

"Very well. You must have had your reasons. But that is a decision I will make."

Hugo Brünhelt turned his gaze to Astier.

"Hmm……"

He let out a small hum as he studied his daughter. Count Vanier was the young head of a long-serving vassal house, about thirty years old—considerably older than Astier. His wife had died early, leaving him without an heir.

Marrying a direct-line daughter to a vassal did give him some pause. Yet, considering that the Count had recently earned a fair reputation in political circles, it was not an entirely unfavorable option for the house.

Astier let out a hollow laugh at the increasingly clear intent in his eyes.

"Ha, haha……"

Just from that look, she could read her father's mind. Since she won't live long, let her marry a wealthy man and live comfortably—and why not gain some political advantage in the process.

"Father."

"Hm?"

"You are ever consistent."

How could he remain so utterly unchanged? The last trace of a smile vanished from Astier's face.

"Very well. You needn't say more—I understand your thoughts perfectly. Thanks to that, I've reaffirmed my resolve."

I must leave this wretched house. That was the only way, she was certain, to live even a fraction more happily.

Astier rose from her seat. There was no need to stay any longer, nor did she care how her father had taken her words.

"Enjoy your meal."

With a lifted corner of her lips, she offered an elegant farewell.

---

"……!"

The person standing just outside the hall hurriedly concealed herself at the sound of Astier's voice. Pressing herself flat against the wall after rounding the corner, she heard the door open and close, followed by the soft sound of footsteps—Astier moving farther away.

For a long while, Isilla stood motionless. Only when no sound remained did she finally let out a relieved sigh and push herself off the wall.

"Count Vanier……"

She had come alone for her meal and had inadvertently overheard the three of them speaking. The part about Yelena planning to marry Astier off to a vassal—and realizing that the Duke, her father-in-law, showed no sign of opposing it—set her heart pounding wildly.

If Astier were gone, Rowin would be the sole direct-line heir. That thought wouldn't leave her mind.

Isilla, the second daughter of the Margrave of the Border, had married Rowin for one reason only: he was the Duke's son.

The other direct-line child, Astier, was frail, so if the Duke and his vassals had their way, Rowin would surely be named the next Duke. And if that happened, she would become the future Duchess.

For someone who, as a second daughter, had never had any choices, it was the highest position she could ever attain. Just imagining that future becoming reality made her chest swell so tight she could barely breathe. Taking deep breaths to calm her excitement, Isilla stroked her belly, still not showing.

The easiest way to blend into a group of strangers was to turn your back on a common enemy. So, from the moment she entered this household, Isilla had distanced herself from Astier. She couldn't miss how isolated Astier had become.

And now, that very existence might soon leave the family!

From what she had overheard, the Duke seemed nearly resolved to marry his daughter off. But that alone wasn't enough to seal the deal.

"Perhaps there's a better way," she murmured, her voice overflowing with a different, rawer ambition than Yelena's—one still green but growing.

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