The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 10: And the Duchess

Her husband had brought home a child from another woman.

At first, she accused him of infidelity, asking if he wasn’t ashamed to invoke the name of God while behaving so. But he claimed the child had been conceived before their marriage.

That meant it had to be that damnable commoner he had dallied with before their union. Lisa? Liza? Lize? She couldn’t quite remember.

Why would a commoner’s name even matter?

So, for the first time in a while, she sent someone to investigate the child and that woman again. If possible, she wanted to ensure her husband couldn’t meet with that woman. And if they insisted on trying, she was prepared to resort to some dirty tactics.

No matter that their marriage was political—marriage was still marriage.

It was a sacred promise under heaven, a commitment between a man and woman to love each other and build a home together.

She would not allow some prostitute who had sold her soul to a devil from hell to steal her husband’s affection.

Not that he’d ever really been hers.

But that woman had died long ago—years ago, in fact.

The woman she had driven out had tried to find work in nearby villages but eventually ended up in the slums due to the duchess’ interference. And in the slums, there was really only one kind of work for women like her.

She spread her legs for anyone, earning her living as befitted her status.

She had worked at a brothel until illness consumed her, and she died.

It was an ending that didn’t suit someone who had once worked in a noble household, even as a commoner.

Though she wanted to mock the woman endlessly for her pitiful fate, the duchess couldn’t shake a nagging truth:

She had never experienced the love that woman had won, even if it was through a wretched life of debasement.

To her husband, she was just “the duchess.”

He had called her by her name so few times she could count them on one hand—at their engagement and wedding ceremonies.

Her father had needed honor, and her father-in-law had needed money to stave off bankruptcy. She, personally, had never mattered much.

She was like a trinket sold alongside an expensive jewel—a noble in name, but not truly noble.

Beautiful, but not as beautiful as the commoner her husband had loved.

Wealthy, but not wealthy enough to buy his love.

Whenever she thought of it, she bit her lips to keep from crying, gazing at the mirror to practice a calm expression. But she always felt as if she wore a fragile mask that might crack at any moment.

And then, for the first time, she met the daughter of the woman her husband had loved.

Of all times, it had to be during dinner.

A cursedly uncomfortable moment—as if to say, “You’d be better off choking on your meal.”

The child avoided meeting anyone’s eyes, instead scanning the room with quick glances.

Her gaze reminded the duchess of experienced merchants sizing up customers.

Even the duchess’ sweet, lovable children seemed to dislike the girl. Her daughter stuck out her tongue mockingly at her.

It wasn’t a pleasant sight, so the duchess scolded her daughter before focusing her attention on the child.

The girl was fascinating.

If she had been living in the slums, she shouldn’t have known proper dining etiquette. Yet she used a fork and knife with surprising skill.

Could it be that she had lived better than expected in those slums?

Perhaps the duchess could reduce her donations to the orphanage.

Thoughts like that—practical and transactional—came easily.

She should have married someone from a more ambitious, money-minded family.

A man who spent his days drinking and beating his wife would have been better than this life bound by archaic rules, traditions, and etiquette.

If she were lucky, she might have even found a kind husband.

As they ate, the duchess reiterated facts she already knew aloud, ostensibly speaking to her husband but really addressing the child.

You are not part of my family.

Why are you here now?

Your mother is dead; why come to this place?

Don’t nod your head like some insolent fool.

Are you truly my husband’s blood?

Why did my husband bring you here?

Such petty, cutting remarks spilled from her lips through her husband’s mouth.

The child likely didn’t understand much. Or so the duchess thought.

But she couldn’t understand why her husband still harbored feelings—or hatred—for that wretched commoner.

Even though the woman had fallen to such a lowly end, he still seemed to carry her in his heart.

And now, the duchess had to raise this child as her own. It was the duty of the family matron to educate and rear children until they reached a certain age.

She should never have married into this household.

She had arrived with a smile, overjoyed at becoming the duchess of such a prestigious house.

Yet here she was, bound by duty to carry out an unpleasant obligation.

If she didn’t, she might be relegated to a side building or outright discarded.

It might seem petty for an adult, but the duchess decided she would torment the girl.

Love wasn’t rational, after all.

If only her husband had whispered love to her in the quiet of their bedroom,

spent idle hours talking in the garden,

or taken her into town to shop and explore together…

Maybe she wouldn’t have harbored such malicious thoughts.

But now, until the girl begged to leave this house, she would use “education” as an excuse to torment her.

And when the girl grew up, the duchess would send her off to marry some countryside nobody.

Exactly as she deserved.

She had Eileen bring the girl to her.

Not wanting her children to see her ugly side, the duchess sent them all away before beginning.

Though the girl had been late—likely because of Eileen’s pranks—the duchess punished her harshly.

She hit her with a switch, assigned her piles of books to study, and said all manner of cruel things, hoping to make her cry.

But the girl didn’t react at all. She neither cried nor showed fear.

Perhaps out of spite, the duchess escalated, creating excuses to torment her further.

When a servant dropped a book, the duchess asked the girl how the servant should be punished.

When the girl didn’t answer, the duchess struck her.

The child’s body lifted slightly from the blow, and she fell to the floor.

At first, the duchess felt a pang of guilt, then shame. But she masked it with indifference and ordered the girl to punish the servant in the same way.

And the girl—

Yes, her name was Marisela.

Marisela didn’t cry, didn’t grow angry, didn’t even show fear of the duchess.

She simply did as she was told, hitting the servant exactly as she had been taught.

As if hitting someone was no big deal.

As if it were something that simply had to be done.

Just like her husband.

Was it in her blood?

Or was the girl simply too afraid of her to act otherwise?

The duchess couldn’t tell.

Each time the girl struck the servant’s cheek, the duchess was caught between conflicting emotions.

The guilt of having just hit the girl herself.

The base satisfaction of being able to toy with and torment the child of the woman her husband had loved.

And the faint sense that she was unraveling a little more with each passing moment.

Her eyes trembled, and she discreetly dabbed at them.

It was bizarre.

The way the girl hit the servant without hesitation, as though it was entirely natural.

To banish someone from the estate for tripping while carrying books was absurd.

Even the young servant, despite the injustice, seemed to understand that.

Yet the girl, her hands already raw and bloody, showed no signs of stopping.

As if she would never stop unless explicitly told to.

Marisela glanced at the duchess, perhaps thinking she hadn’t done enough.

And then, with her battered hand, she struck the servant’s cheek even harder.

The duchess had intended to be cruel, to show the child only malice and fear. 

But before she realized it, she had grabbed the girl’s arm and shouted for her to stop hitting the servant.

Like a frightened fool.

Yes.

Though she didn’t want to admit it, the sight had frightened her, and so she had fled the room, ending the lesson for the day.

Despite all the ways she had planned to torment the child, she had run away like a coward.

As she wallowed in self-reproach—ashamed of her fear of the girl and disgusted by her pettiness—she felt someone tug at the hem of her dress.

The girl she had just tormented, the one forced to strike another, had stopped her.

Startled, the duchess’ expression faltered, and she hastily composed herself before asking why the girl had called her back.

The answer was unexpected.

The girl wanted to play the piano.

How?

She’s never learned.

But more than curiosity, the duchess felt an overwhelming desire to escape this place.

So she told the girl she could play if she wanted to. And the girl… smiled.

It was a chilling, unsettling smile.

Like the expression of someone whose face had forgotten how to smile from years of disuse.

Leaving behind the girl and her strange, fearsome smile, the duchess fled the room.

She found herself reflecting that hating someone was harder than she thought.

Perhaps that was why she had turned into such a wretched and petty person—taking out her frustrations on an innocent child while remaining silent toward her husband.

She trudged back to her room, listening to the eerie, unfamiliar piano playing echoing from behind her. Once there, she poured herself a drink.

She instructed her maid to compensate the servant boy generously and give him a few days off, but the bitterness lingering in her mouth didn’t fade.

She had thought tormenting the child born of infidelity would bring her joy.

At the very least, she’d expected to feel some twisted satisfaction.

But all she felt was the acrid taste of self-loathing, paired with the bitter realization that she still blamed the child and her husband.

Sighing, she poured herself another drink.

And then, an idea struck her.

The girl had never lived as a noble.

She had never seen how nobles were supposed to act.

What if she could instill warped values into the girl’s mind, just as easily as she had taught her to hit the servant?

Like a wicked witch or villainess from a fairy tale.

What if she made the girl so despicable that no one could ever love her?

If everyone hated the girl, there would be no need for the duchess to lift a finger or torment her further.

Others would do it for her.

Smiling a crooked smile at the thought, she sipped her drink again.

This wasn’t because she was afraid of the girl.

It wasn’t because she couldn’t bring herself to lay hands on her.

Not at all.

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