Chapter 73
The Canary’s Song

“Sit.”

Even when Layla stared at him in disbelief, Matthias remained perfectly calm.

“We’re not… this kind of relationship.”

Layla’s eyes swept over the food laid out on the table, then up at Matthias seated across from her. The dining table had been placed before the fireplace in the annex’s sitting room—the very place that haunted her with terrible memories.

“You said you’d play your part.”

“And I have. I am.”

“Thin body. Not much fun. Hurts when I pound into you.”

Her eyes flew wide. The vulgar words coming from that composed face were jarring to the point of horror, and yet Matthias stared at her without a twitch.

What does he take me for? How can he say that?

It felt like a slap across the face. Layla glared at him furiously. He only smiled faintly, pouring wine into his glass—his movements graceful, at odds with his crude remark.

“If you’re not planning to starve to death, then eat.”

“…”

“Or do you want to die?”

“…”

“If that’s really your choice, so be it.”

Watching Layla stand stubbornly, determined never to sit opposite him, Matthias smiled as if amused.

“At least I’ll see to your grave marker.”

He unfolded his napkin with leisure.

“Mistress of the Duke of Herhardt—she lies here.”

“What did you just say?”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be carved from the finest marble. Enormous and grand, for everyone to see.”

The casual, dry tone made the mockery sting all the sharper.

Layla bowed her head, fighting down her fury. But that was no escape—the carpet might be different, yet the memories it evoked were the same.

She had to admit it now: time heals wounds, but deep wounds leave deep scars. No matter how bravely she rose and walked again, the scar he left would never fade.

Clenching her fists, Layla glared across at Matthias. He ate slowly, serenely, looking perfectly at ease.

“I’ll live well.”

Her words burst out with force, and she sat down opposite him.

She would not cower, not flinch, not scurry to entertain his cruel amusement.

The vow gave her reckless courage. Maybe it was resignation, maybe defiance—but either way, she refused to collapse before him again. Even if, in the end, it all went his way.

“I won’t die because of you. I won’t break because of you.”

She snatched a piece of bread and chewed it fiercely.

“I’ll live on—long, and well.”

She grabbed another, slathered it with butter, and bit in hard. She didn’t care if crumbs stuck to her mouth. If her messy devouring disgusted him, so much the better.

“Is that so?”

He set down his fork and knife.

“Good girl.”

As though rewarding a child, he filled her glass with wine. Layla lifted it in both crumb-dusted hands and drank in gulps.

“Tch.”

Clicking his tongue, Matthias refilled the glass without hesitation. She drained that one too. The more unladylike she appeared, the more pleased she felt.

He watched, fascinated, as she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and then shoveled food into her mouth with her fork. Oddly enough, it wasn’t unpleasant. Better this—better a little barbarian—than to see her wasting away to skin and bones.

“Turn that music off.”

It was Layla who snapped first, glaring toward the phonograph as the waltz swelled.

“Listen. It’s beautiful.”

The piano reached its most ornate passage—the melody Matthias and his canary liked best. Layla scowled, muttering again.

“It grates on me.”

She jabbed her fork like a tool, spearing the last piece of meat and stuffing it into her mouth.

Matthias laughed aloud, watching her puffed cheeks and working lips.

“Your taste is cruder than a bird’s.”

“…Bird?”

She choked down the meat with the last of her wine, flushed red from drinking as if it were water.

He only chuckled and said nothing. She stared at him, then lowered her eyes to her empty plate.

“When will you throw me away?”

The words were quiet, spent. No bravado left—only exhaustion.

Matthias set down his glass and studied her. The cool clarity in her eyes showed this was no tantrum.

“You’ve had me. You’ll discard me.”

“Yes.”

He answered without hesitation. He was neither sentimental nor foolish enough to promise eternity to a mistress.

“Then do it quickly.”

“And if I do?”

“…Then I’ll live. I’ll live well.”

She wiped her lips with her napkin.

“A life that has nothing to do with you.”

“Sounds like you’re saying you can’t live well by my side.”

“Yes.”

She met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Of course not.”

The crumpled napkin fell to the table. Layla lowered her head, staring at her hands. Pale lashes cast dark shadows on her cheeks.

Matthias leaned back in his chair, eyes still locked on her.

It was no outrageous answer. Desire burns hot, but it always cools. Nothing lasts forever. If she could leave cleanly when the end came, that was preferable. If she could live on bravely, all the better.

So why—?

Why did her words sting? Why did they grate?

As he wrestled with the irritation he couldn’t explain, Layla rose.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

Her casual tone curved his lips into a smile. At the same time, his hand shot out, rough and fast, clamping around her arm.

“Ah!”

She gasped, struggling, but he ignored her.

He dragged her down, pulling her into his lap as he lounged back against the sofa. She writhed, then stilled. His arm locked tight around her waist, pulling her against his chest. He buried his face against her neck, inhaling the soft, sweet scent of her skin.

His tongue traced the beat of her pulse. She flinched, and he chuckled, teasing her neck, her jaw, her small ear. Her hair rustled like silk as she squirmed.

The night must be deepening.

Layla tried to glance at the window, but sensation dragged at her consciousness, muddling her thoughts.

His hand slipped beneath her blouse. She braced for pain, but his touch was different—slow, warm, unsettling. His palm slid over her stomach, up her ribs, then cupped her breast.

Her eyes flew shut. His hand kneaded, deliberate yet oddly absent. Confused, she cracked them open again. Through the thin fabric, she saw the shape of his hand moving. Too strange. She shut her eyes once more. His lips at her ear, his soft breath, unsettled her further.

She prayed for it to end. But it dragged on, as languid and drawn-out as the waltz in the background. Perhaps dulled by wine and fullness, the pain wasn’t as sharp as before.

“Turn it off! Please—the music—it’s giving me a headache.”

His hand swept lower, lifting her skirt.

“Music is beautiful, Layla.”

He ignored her, baring her thighs.

“If your head aches, it’s from drinking like a guttersnipe.”

Anger burned, but she had no words left.

His hand slid beneath her underwear, touching her most private place. She tried to push him away, then clamped her hands over her mouth instead. But even that he pried away, leaving her exposed, humiliated.

Her muffled cries broke free, high and breathless, louder than the music could cover. Only when her trembling body went limp against his chest did he withdraw his hand.

“You may not live well at my side, but you do soak and cry so sweetly.”

He cupped her flushed cheek with his damp hand. She shuddered, trying to knock it away. His strength only grew firmer. Their gazes clashed—her glare trembling with rage and shame, his mocking smile cutting sharp.

“I’ve had my turn. Now it’s yours.”

He pressed her onto the sofa, climbing over her.

“My turn is leaving you.”

“Liar.”

With the same hand, he brushed her lips, slow and wet, then began unbuttoning her blouse. Her eyes burned with rage, with self-loathing.

“If this was what you wanted, you should have forced it from the start.”

The hope she had once dared to hold now made her feel all the more wretched.

“It bored me.”

He stripped off her blouse, then her skirt.

“This way—you suffer more.”

Bending low, he plucked off her glasses and kissed her wet cheek with a soft, birdlike peck. Affectionate, like a canary nuzzling its mate—yet Layla no longer had the strength to feel anything.

“You suffer, and I rejoice.”

In the end, there was only pain. The pain of shame, tearing at her heart.