Humiliation

The sea wind battered the windowpanes as Eileen stood in the kitchen, simmering herbs over the fire. The fragrant steam curled into the warm air, filling the small space with a soothing scent. Suddenly, the distant sound of galloping hooves broke the evening's quiet. Her hand froze mid-stir, her heartbeat quickening. Léon was back.

She set down the wooden ladle, excitement rising within her as she hurried to the heavy castle doors. But as she pushed them open, the lively chatter outside made her pause. The sounds were unfamiliar—accompanied by laughter that did not belong to Léon alone.

Confusion crept into her as she watched Léon dismount. Beside him stood a woman—dressed in a flowing crimson gown, her golden curls swept into an elaborate coiffure. Her lips, painted a deep shade of red, curved into a self-assured smile.

Who was she?

Léon's voice was oddly stiff as he introduced her. "Elaina, this is Lady Marguerite de Valois, daughter of the Count of the southern provinces."

His hand rested lightly on Marguerite's fingers—his touch careful, almost reverent, as if handling the most delicate porcelain. Marguerite smiled faintly, her emerald-green gown brushing the stone steps as she pulled away from his grasp, allowing his hand to linger against the pearl belt at her waist.

"Léon is truly a warrior of the hunt!" she exclaimed, her voice like the chime of silver bells, though it sent a slow chill through Eileen's heart.

Eileen forced a stiff smile. "Welcome to our castle, Lady Valois."

Marguerite's gaze swept over Eileen's plain dress, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "So, you're the steward's daughter? No wonder Léon has been content hiding away in this seaside retreat."

She reached out carelessly, and her gold bracelet clinked against the windowsill, knocking over a clay vase. The wildflowers tumbled out, their petals scattering onto Eileen's dress.

Eileen's fingers clenched around the edge of the vase, her knuckles turning white. She lowered her head, quietly gathering the fallen petals.

—Why had she come here?

That night, the study smelled of strong liquor.

Eileen knocked softly before stepping inside. Léon stood by the hearth, idly prodding the ashes with the tip of his sword, his face unreadable in the flickering firelight.

"She said…" His voice was low, distant. "Her father could help me reclaim my lands."

Eileen's heart clenched.

Léon met her gaze, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "All I have to do is agree to marry her."

She steadied her breath, though something inside her twisted painfully. She understood why he would consider it. She understood his desire to reclaim his title and home.

But understanding did not make it hurt any less.

Tears burned behind her eyes, yet she stubbornly refused to let them fall.

The next evening, the scent of roses filled the great hall.

Marguerite hosted a small gathering, inviting nearby noblemen and merchants. The candlelight flickered over her scarlet off-shoulder gown, a dazzling diamond brooch pinned at her chest. She was a vision of elegance, the center of attention wherever she moved.

Midway through the gathering, she stood gracefully and took a goblet of wine before walking toward Eileen.

"I hear you're quite skilled at arranging flowers, Elaina?" Her tone was light, yet there was an unmistakable edge to it.

Eileen silently took the vase and began arranging a fresh bouquet of wildflowers. Before she could finish, Marguerite abruptly reached out and yanked the flowers free, scattering them across the floor.

"Seems the steward's daughter doesn't even know how to arrange flowers properly," she said with a delicate laugh.

Soft chuckles rippled through the room.

Eileen's face burned, but she kept her head bowed, biting her tongue as she bent down to gather the fallen petals.

—It wasn't about the flowers.

It was about the mocking gazes, the deliberate humiliation.

Days later, the Count himself arrived.

A stout man with sharp, calculating eyes, he ceremoniously unrolled a heavy ledger before the gathered crowd. Inside, row after row of numbers gleamed under the candlelight—gold bars, lands, and even slaves listed as part of the dowry.

"If Léon agrees to marry my daughter, all of this will be his." His voice boomed through the hall, as if announcing an irresistible triumph.

Eileen stood in the shadows, watching Léon. His expression was unreadable as he stared at the ledger, his silence stretching unbearably long.

Her heart gave the faintest tremor.

That night, the garden was quiet, save for the whisper of the sea breeze rustling through the vines.

Eileen stood among the flowers, staring into the endless night sky, a storm of emotions churning inside her.

The scent of roses drifted toward her.

"Poor little Elaina," Marguerite's voice cooed from behind. She stepped closer, holding a goblet of red wine, her smile as polished as ever. "How does it feel to be cast aside?"

Eileen inhaled deeply, steadying herself before meeting her gaze. "Léon wouldn't do that."

Marguerite chuckled. Then, without warning, she lifted the goblet and flung the wine at Eileen.

The crimson liquid splattered across Eileen's face, streaking down her pale skin like spilled blood.

"Wait and see, little mouse." Marguerite turned away, her heels clicking sharply against the stone path as she disappeared into the night.

Eileen stood frozen, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

For the first time, the ache in her heart twisted into something new—something fierce, something unyielding.

At dawn, the castle was eerily silent.

On the dining table, a letter lay waiting.

With trembling fingers, Eileen unfolded the parchment, her breath catching as she recognized Léon's handwriting.

"I need time to decide."

"Stay at the castle and wait for me."

She stared at the words, emotions surging within her.

Léon was not heartless. He was torn between duty and love, struggling to choose between the power he had lost and the woman he had found.

She gently folded the letter, looking out toward the horizon.

She would wait. But not forever.