The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 5: When I Was Young

“I’m not sure what to say.”

That was the first thing the middle-aged man said after dismissing the other children in the room.

Oddly enough, I had been thinking the same thing. But unlike him, I wasn’t in a position to voice my thoughts, so I stayed quiet.

As the children left, they glanced at me, their eyes filled with admiration.

But I knew better than to think this was a good place to be.

Why did I only realize it now?

Maybe it was because I was born here, in this world.

The names I’d overheard always felt strangely familiar. The noble titles echoed with a sense of déjà vu.

And then there were the two moons hovering ominously in the sky.

Raphael—a boy from the orphanage in the slums, always proclaiming that he would become a knight someday.

Yes, that boy wouldn’t end up a third-rate thug waving around a tiny dagger in an alley. He would become a knight.

He was talented enough for that.

Maybe I had been unconsciously denying that I was born into a world I already knew.

Or maybe I was just slow to accept it.

As these wild thoughts swirled in my head, the man’s voice snapped me back to reality.

“Steward, what do you say to a daughter you didn’t even know existed?”

He looked at the elderly butler with a mischievous expression, prompting a dry chuckle from the older man.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“Well, I suppose it’s not a proper meeting without alcohol—ah, right, she’s a child.

Bring some appropriate snacks and a sweet tea she might like,” the man instructed.

The steward nodded and left the room with a few maids, leaving me alone with the man.

For a while, he just stared at me, muttering a thoughtful “Hmm” under his breath.

The room fell silent, neither of us speaking first.

His crimson eyes met mine.

They were the same as mine.

His hair, however, was black. Mine was silver.

“…We certainly do look alike,” he murmured, his expression softening as though recalling a memory.

He was probably thinking about my mother.

I hated it when people looked at me and saw someone else.

My mother had seen the duke in me and took her hatred out on me, treating me cruelly.

The brothel manager had looked at me and seen my mother, his melancholy apparent every time.

It disgusted me to think that I made people feel this way just by existing.

And in the end, their stories ended in misery.

“I knew you were in the slums, but… ha.”

He muttered under his breath, probably assuming I couldn’t hear, “To think she had a child—my child, a daughter.”

I found myself silently wishing the steward would hurry back with the snacks.

At least having more people in the room might make this suffocating situation a bit more bearable.

Or perhaps worse.

As I fidgeted nervously with my fingers, the man raised an eyebrow and spoke with a tone that made my skin crawl.

“Little one, what’s your name?”

“…Marie.”

He paused for a moment, seemingly mulling it over, before continuing.

“Marie, huh. Is it short for Marisa, Marianna, or Maria?”

“My mother just called me Marie,” I replied.

At that, he scratched the back of his head.

“Well, I suppose you’ll need a proper name from now on. Starting today, you’ll be Marisa, Marianna, or Marisela.”

He spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Though slightly taken aback, I swallowed my unease and nodded.

The brothel manager used to tell me my name was likely a shortened form of something, though my mother had always called me Marie.

Changing my name wouldn’t change anything about me.

When I didn’t answer immediately, he looked at me expectantly, his sharp gaze urging a response.

“H-Huh, Marisela. I’ll go with Marisela,” I stammered.

My mother’s name was Lize—that much I knew.

Everyone at the brothel had called her Lize.

The name Marisela didn’t even remotely resemble hers, but I blurted it out anyway.

The man nodded and began scribbling something on a piece of paper with a pen. It looked almost like he was drawing.

“Did your mother ever tell you anything about me?” he asked.

I shook my head, but remembering the steward’s advice, I answered aloud, “No.”

After some time, the steward returned, pushing a cart laden with snacks, cakes, and drinks.

“Our little ones call this the ‘snack cart.’

Marisela, I hope you enjoy it too. Starting today, this will be your home.”

I took a slice of cake and devoured it hungrily.

I must’ve looked a little unrefined, but I couldn’t help it—the cake was delicious.

Better than anything I’d eaten in the slums, far beyond comparison.

“Steward, once she’s done with her snack, prepare a suitable room for her.

And make sure to accommodate any requests she has,” the man said before leaving the room, a complicated expression on his face.

After finishing three slices of cake, I finally looked around.

This room was clearly a reception room, designed to impress guests with its ornate paintings, portraits, and decorations.

It was too cluttered for an office and too extravagant for a bedroom.

I patted my now-full belly, feeling a bit rounder than before.

The steward chuckled at my expression and began clearing the table.

“Come, I’ll show you to your room,” he said, helping me to my feet.

“What kind of room would you like, miss?”

The question caught me off guard.

Everything in my life had been so sudden.

Born into this world, raised in a brothel.

My mother’s sudden death.

The brothel manager taking me in and then his sudden death.

Being sent to an orphanage, and now, being brought here.

It felt like I’d been pushed and pulled by forces beyond my control.

At just eleven years old, it was laughable to say I was tired of life, but I couldn’t help the words that slipped out.

“A room where I can be alone, with good sunlight… a place where nothing changes.”

The steward tilted his head, as if he didn’t quite understand, but he nodded nonetheless.

“Very well,” he said, leading the way down a grand corridor.

Through a large window, I saw knights training in the courtyard.

When I stopped to watch, the steward asked, “Are you interested in knights?”

“Not really,” I replied, thinking of Raphael.

The steward shrugged and continued walking.

At one point, I heard hurried footsteps and turned to see a boy about my age chasing another boy with a wooden sword.

Our eyes met briefly, but I paid it no mind and followed the steward.

We climbed a staircase and walked a little further until we reached my room.

“This room gets plenty of sunlight in the morning. It’s cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

If you need anything, you can call for a servant.”

He pulled a lever on the wall, and a distant bell rang out.

“When you pull this, someone will come to assist you. If you need anything or find yourself uncomfortable, don’t hesitate to call.”

With that, the steward excused himself and left.

I took my time exploring the room.

A grand canopy bed with countless plush pillows and blankets.

A pair of teacups and a teapot on the table.

An empty bookshelf, likely meant for me to fill.

Even the texture of the furniture screamed luxury.

“This is where I’ll live…”

The memories in my head painted me as a villain—a cruel woman who tormented her servants, threw tantrums, and found joy in others’ suffering.

How could I turn into that person?

The meals would undoubtedly be exquisite, far better than anything I’d known.

The bed was enormous, large enough for eight adults to sleep comfortably.

The view outside was breathtaking—no filth, no stench, no decay.

Maybe living in such a place could make someone arrogant.

Looking out at the world below, I could almost feel it at my feet.

For now, at least, the unsettling two moons weren’t in the sky.

The sun shone brightly, casting its light over the trees below.

Perhaps this was the life I’d always dreamed of during my time in the slums or the brothel—a life of safety, comfort, and ease.

Perhaps.