TINOT 2

Chapter: 2

It had been exactly ten days since the female protagonist, Lillian Rose, had appeared at the forefront of this world.

And that also meant ten days had passed since an unmarried woman had begun staying at the Spencer Ducal House under the pretext of being an “恩人”—a benefactor.

For ten days, Lisithea’s entirely reasonable request had been ignored: that appropriate compensation be given, and that separate living quarters be prepared.

Lillian Rose was neither a relative nor someone engaged to be married into the family. There was no imperial decree, nor any political reason that required her protection.

They hadn’t even offered her an empty villa or a spare estate.

Instead, Lillian Rose was staying in the Spencer Ducal House’s residence in the capital.

The very place where Joel Spencer—the Duke of Spencer’s grandson and Lisithea’s fiancé—lived.

There was no way the Spencer family could be unaware of how it would look to the public to house an unmarried noblewoman together with an unmarried heir.

And yet, the only response Lisithea received from the Spencer Ducal House was the same repeated excuse: It would be difficult for now.

Has Joel lost his mind? Or has the entire Spencer family gone mad?

Judging by the way things had been allowed to reach this point, none of them could be in their right mind.

As for which of them was the most insane—that would become clear once she went there herself.

After giving brief instructions to prepare, Lisithea leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

With death not far off, she had no desire to spend time carefully adorning herself.

Especially not for something as ridiculous as going to see a cheating fiancé.

Besides, her features were sharp enough that elaborate decoration made little difference.

The hands moving busily over her face gradually slowed.

It seemed they were nearly finished.

“If you’re done—”

She was about to dismiss the maids when a loud crash echoed through the room, accompanied by hurried footsteps.

Lisithea opened her eyes.

Standing there, smiling brightly like a painting brought to life, was a girl with luxuriant golden hair that shimmered as though woven with gold thread, and clear, watery blue eyes.

Celia Aster—the beloved youngest daughter of the Marquis of Aster, and Lisithea’s half-sister.

“Sister, where are you going?”

As Celia tried to step into the room, Marie moved to block her path.

“What? You’re really blocking me right now? I was just about to—”

“Everyone, leave.”

Lisithea cut Celia off with a light wave of her hand.

The attendants, who had been standing awkwardly at the sudden appearance of the Aster family’s precious daughter, fled the room as if relieved.

Marie glanced at Lisithea before closing the door with an unwilling expression.

Smiling faintly, Celia walked inside and leaned against a chair behind the vanity.

Her face was filled with the satisfaction of someone who had gotten exactly what she wanted.

Lisithea was well aware that Celia’s earlier outburst at Marie had been nothing more than a shallow ploy.

But since Marie was the one who had fallen victim to it, Lisithea could not simply let it slide.

Marie was a precious existence—one of the few things in this wretched house that truly belonged to Lisithea alone.

And Lisithea was not the kind of person who could tolerate what was hers falling into someone else’s hands, not even for a moment.

If humoring her troublesome half-sister was what it took to prevent that, then so be it.

With a few gestures, Lisithea finished the remaining touches to her appearance, then regarded Celia through the mirror with a cold, indifferent gaze.

“The custom of treating the toilette room as a place for spectators ended before you were even born. And so did the notion that seeing someone mid-preparation wasn’t rude.”

Once, the toilette room had been considered an open social space.

But those days were long past. It had become one of the most private spaces of all.

Displaying one’s grooming to others—or allowing interference in such personal matters—was now considered unsophisticated.

Forcing one’s way into someone else’s toilette room was, therefore, an act of extreme rudeness.

“Oh, don’t be like that. That’s the kind of thing people only nitpick with outsiders.”

Celia smiled thinly, softening her eyes in response to Lisithea’s rebuke.

Though the toilette room had lost its status as a public social space, it had gained a new one: a place for intimate companionship.

Inviting close friends to one’s toilette room to dress together was seen as a sign of special closeness.

Sometimes, even family members of the same sex shared the space.

But to Lisithea, all of that was as distant as the stars in the night sky.

Family, to her, was like a mirage in the desert—something that vanished the moment she tried to approach it.

When was it that she had stopped hoping in those false illusions?

Was it when she realized the family portrait had been painted by copying her face into a picture where she clearly did not belong?

Or that winter night when an epidemic raged, when she counted her father’s footsteps as he passed by her room without stopping—until she finally lost consciousness?

Or had it been from the moment she was born with black hair, alone among them like an ugly duckling?

But in the end, what did it matter?

She had lived alone all this time. Dying alone would be no different.

“Do you even know who you’re speaking to right now…?”

Lisithea let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

Careless speech might be Celia’s specialty, but the two of them were less than strangers.

The idea of sharing a toilette room with Celia and passing time with idle chatter made Lisithea shudder.

“I’m saying this because you’re not a stranger. If you were, I’d drag you out regardless of appearances. Since I can’t do that, we should at least be mindful of our conduct.”

“Honestly, you’re unbelievable…”

Celia sighed and rubbed her face before breaking into an unnaturally bright smile.

Lisithea’s half-sister always wore that expression when she was being sarcastic.

Who knew what had twisted her mood this time.

“Father says it’s charming that I’m a bit reckless. I suppose I just can’t be as refined as you are, Sister.”

“Your father would say you were charming even if you rolled around in a manure field.”

The Marquis of Aster’s adoration for Celia was so excessive that speaking of it was tiresome.

“Really, you can’t deny blood, can you?”

Celia moved closer, pressing herself against Lisithea’s side as she whispered.

Reflected in the mirror, the two women looked nothing alike—hardly believable as sisters.

Rosy cheeks, soft drooping eyes, flowing golden hair, and pale blue eyes like aquamarine.

Celia bore the Aster family’s traits unmistakably.

Lisithea, by contrast, had inherited the blood of her maternal family, the Rowen dukes.

Jet-black hair, golden eyes, a sharp, intimidating presence, and upturned eyes that cut like blades.

Within the Aster household, the sisters’ standing differed as much as their appearances.

Lisithea, the eldest daughter, was the unwanted product of a political marriage the Marquis of Aster had never desired.

He loathed her as deeply as he had loathed that forced union.

When Julia Rowen—the woman he had married for politics—died of illness, he remarried Emma Dawson, the fallen daughter of a baron and the child of his late mentor, after a flamboyant romance.

The love between a powerful marquis and a penniless baron’s daughter was hailed as a romance of the century.

Even those who couldn’t understand his choice never doubted the sincerity of his passion.

The beautiful twins Emma bore the following year completed their happiness.

The Marquis of Aster’s new family was picture-perfect.

It would have been flawless—if not for the daughter left behind by a failed political marriage.

Though born from the union of two great noble houses, Aster and Rowen, Lisithea’s noble blood served only to remind her that she was an outsider in this household.

“Oh, right. I forgot—you’re the only one who’s different.”

Celia smiled sweetly.

“You’re not seriously angry over something so trivial, are you? After all, you carry the noble blood of House Rowen.”

“Has Duke Rowen forgotten about you, Sister? That would be terribly cruel. To be so indifferent to his only niece.”

“You really can’t deny blood, can you?”

Lisithea had lived too long as the sole blemish in this perfect family to be wounded by such petty mockery.

“Did you stop someone so busy just to say that? If you’re that desperate to talk to yourself, grab anyone you like. There are plenty of idiots inside and outside this estate who’d gladly waste their time on you.”

She stepped away from Celia and rose from her seat.

That was more than enough indulgence.

“Sister, then why won’t you answer me?”

Celia grabbed her wrist.

“You’re dressed up so nicely—where are you going?”

Lisithea was well acquainted with her sister’s fickle temperament, but today Celia was unusually persistent.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to the Spencer Ducal House.”

Celia sneered.

“There are rumors everywhere that the Spencer heir is completely besotted with some lowly woman of unknown origin.”

Ah. So that was it.

For someone like Celia, who delighted in mocking everything Lisithea did, this situation was a feast.

“If people saw you like this, they’d misunderstand. They’d think you were going there to cling to the Spencer heir’s trouser leg.”