Chapter 71
Discard Her

As on the night before, Matthias stepped back unhurriedly, and though Layla trembled violently, she crossed the threshold. The difference was that this time, she led the way. Her steps carried her not toward the sitting room but to the bedroom.

Rather than asking why, Matthias simply followed. She always managed to surprise him with some small defiance, and he wondered what she would do this time. Again, she did not disappoint.

Layla paused at the bedroom door, hesitated, then threw it open herself. A few paces behind, Matthias’s brows furrowed.

He had been about to call her name, but changed his mind. In silence, he entered the bedroom. Now he was curious. Just how far would Layla Llewellyn take this little rebellion of hers?

As if telling her go on, show me, Matthias leaned lazily against the closed door, arms folded. In the center of the room, Layla stopped briefly, caught her breath, then moved toward the bed.

First, she removed her glasses and set them on the nightstand. Then her scarf, coat, and gloves followed.

I’ve done my part. Now you must do yours.

That was the single line written in the letter he had sent her that day. Your role. The word itself carried such humiliation that Layla could barely move for a while.

If you’re a mistress, then act like one, Layla.

The memory of his cruel smile—like a cat toying with a trapped mouse—seared through her. Her legs gave out, and she sank to the floor.

She had thought herself half-numb, but the memory came back vividly. How much it hurt. How degrading it was. How despairing it felt when her body no longer obeyed her will.

Even without experience, she knew what he had done to her was no act of love. Not even animalistic, for it wasn’t just blind instinct—it was calculated cruelty.

It amuses me when you cry. It delights me when you beg.

The words he had once spoken on a summer night now rang in her ears.

So cry, Layla. Beg.

Even then, he had smiled. Because it amused him. Because it gave him pleasure. That was all she was to him—sport.

The realization twisted her lips into a bitter laugh that sounded almost like a sob. How she despised herself for ever searching his eyes, hoping for something more.

“Layla!”

Her uncle’s voice called from outside. Layla pulled herself up at last. She shut the window, drew the curtains, and rubbed her reddened eyes against her sleeve before turning back. And she decided.

Never again. I won’t cry. I won’t beg. I won’t give you that pleasure. You’ll tire of me soon enough—so discard me quickly.

With that vow, she stripped away her blouse, her skirt, even her shoes. To remove her undergarments required far more resolve, but she forced herself. After all that he had already done to her, what shame was there in her own choice? Better to choose than to be debased again.

“Ha…”

Matthias let out a disbelieving sigh as he watched her bare herself.

She lowered the arms that had shielded her chest and slipped off the last of her underthings. When even the stockings were gone, she stood before him utterly naked.

Has she lost her mind?

The thought came to him seriously, for what else could explain this?

She gathered her clothes neatly onto a chair, then pulled the pins from her hair. Golden waves tumbled down over her pale shoulders and back.

Matthias’s gaze was calm, but his breath was not. Layla smoothed her hair back from her brow and sat primly at the edge of the bed, trembling despite her show of defiance.

He approached slowly. She dropped her eyes to her feet, unable to bear his stare.

“What are you doing?”

His mocking tone accompanied the hand that gripped her chin, forcing her gaze upward.

“…My role.”

Her voice trembled too much to sound sharp, though she tried.

“And what role is that?”

Amusement narrowed his eyes. Even terrified, she dared to answer.

“You know very well.”

Her shoulders drew in slightly, but she did not look away.

“Because you decided it, Your Grace.”

His eyes dropped to her clasped hands resting neatly on her knees.

Sitting naked, pretending at modesty.

Even as he scoffed inwardly, his gaze roamed over her. When their eyes met again, a dry, hollow laugh escaped him.

So this is what it feels like to buy a woman.

The smile faded. His eyes turned cold, glittering. He stroked her hair gently, like one might praise an obedient child. His touch was soft, almost languid. His smile, too.

But the next instant, his hand closed around her throat. He shoved her onto the bed and pinned her beneath him.

For a fleeting moment, Matthias smiled again. The mirror above the white marble mantel reflected his image—not the perfect Duke of Herhardt who lived in peace, but a man twisted because he could not have what he desired.

Only when her ragged breathing quieted did he rise. Layla, collapsed and exhausted, knew only from the shifting air that he had left the bed.

Thank God.

That was her first thought.

It’s over. At last, it’s over.

She dared not move. She curled small beneath the twisted sheets, praying he would leave. His footsteps retreated, and she let out a thin sigh of relief. One more time and she would have broken.

But perhaps she relaxed too soon. The footsteps returned. Her grip on the sheets turned her knuckles white. She would not look. She would not meet his eyes.

And then, fully dressed, he reached down and stroked her hair. He tugged it playfully, combed it with his fingers, chuckled softly.

“Well done, Layla.”

His whisper sank like poison. His hand patted her head again, as if she were nothing but a whore. Shame seared through her, and her hands trembled.

Don’t cry.

She clung to that vow. Even as the long, brutal night dragged on, she did not weep. She would not give him that satisfaction.

At last, the bedroom door closed. The front door of the annex opened and shut. He was gone.

Layla sat up, touching her swollen lips. A smear of blood. Painful, but shallow. She stood, dazed, then caught sight of her reflection in the mirror above the mantel.

It took her a moment to realize it was herself. She stared.

It’s nothing. He’s nothing. This is nothing.

Her body disagreed. The aches refused to vanish.

Unable to dress, she wiped herself down with the handkerchief from her coat pocket. She had to stop again and again to steady her breath, but she did not cry. That, at least, gave her comfort.

Leaving the annex, she walked home by the shadows, avoiding the moonlight. Sometimes she kicked at a stone or an empty shell, as if to say: See? It’s nothing.

My dearest Layla.

The letter came to mind again as she slipped into her room. She took out the one letter she could never burn, sat on her bed, and read it once more.

My dearest Layla.
Will you marry me?

Another proposal. Foolish, maybe. But the truest of all his words. He wrote of the inheritance his grandfather had left him, which he could claim in spring. Enough for a small house near the university, enough for both of them to study, enough for a life together. If she wanted to wait until graduation, he would wait. If she went with him, she would be his wife, his partner, the mother of his children.

He wrote of leaving Latz together, of studying side by side, of the dreams they had shared since childhood—he a doctor, she a scholar of birds.

He admitted his love for his parents, but he would not walk the path of vanity his mother chose for him.

So be my happiness, Layla.

He promised nothing grand, but one thing he swore: to cherish her, to never hurt her.

She read it again and again until dawn broke pale outside. With every imagined future, the nightmare the Duke had given her returned.

When she heard Uncle Bill stirring awake, she rose. Stroking the letter one last time, she fed it to the stove.

It turned to ash.

The cake Hessen had prepared in the annex remained untouched.

It seemed absurd to ask his master about such a trivial matter, but Hessen couldn’t bring himself to discard it without permission. He had a guess why the Duke had ordered a cake from a hotel tearoom, rather than Arvis’s own kitchens. Matthias never ate sweets. He hadn’t ordered it for himself.

Taking a steadying breath, Hessen entered the Duke’s room. Matthias sat as usual, newspaper in hand.

“Shall I have another cake sent over, my lord?”

Matthias lifted his gaze slowly.

“No. That won’t be necessary.”

His eyes lingered briefly on nothing, then dropped back to the paper.

“Then… the cake that remains…?”

A foolish question, Hessen knew. Still, he asked.

Matthias turned a page, answering offhandedly.

“Discard it.”