Chapter 13: What kind of place is a place to belong?

“Haa…”

Placing her bag on the desk and sinking into her chair, Violette lets out a sigh.
During breakfast, with her parents present, she can blend into the background without issue.
But on the way to school, it’s not so simple.
Even if she tries to leave separately, Maryjune’s insistence on going together takes precedence.
The carriage ride is anything but calming, and she only feels a moment’s peace after parting ways with Maryjune.
The academy feels more serene than home.
If she didn’t want to go to school, she could stay home, but what’s the solution when the reverse is true?
Maybe it’s time to seriously consider moving to a separate residence.

“…I’ll stop somewhere before heading home today.”

Returning home risks getting caught by Maryjune, which is a hassle.
If she must share breakfast and dinner with her, the least she can do is delay her return—an act of petty resistance she hopes is forgivable.

“Good day, Lady Violette.”

“Good day.”

She returns a smile to the greeting from the seat beside her.
The curious glances lingered only on the day the rumors spread, fading as things returned to normal.
Now, greetings are casual, sometimes even sparking small talk.
Her new stepmother is neither blood nor bond to Violette, and whether that shows in her demeanor is unclear, but her indifference to the rumors seems understood.
That said, with her limited social circle, her daily life hasn’t changed much.

‘As long as it’s peaceful, I don’t care.’

She’s not sensitive enough to feel lonely anymore.
If others have sensed her indifference to their pity, she has no further expectations.
Propping her cheek on her hand, her gaze drops to the floor.
The posture might seem unrefined, but on Violette, it exudes a noble allure fit for a painting—such is the power of her beauty.
Ultimately, her father’s striking resemblance is the root of her shadowed life, tracing back to the captivating beauty that ensnared her mother.

Classes end, and lunchtime arrives.
Few bring homemade lunches to this academy.
Some insist their family’s chef is unmatched, but whether at home or school, the food is always top-tier.
With health-conscious options and the ability to cater to preferences, bringing a lunch feels more troublesome than necessary.
Like most students, Violette is content with the cafeteria.
Not because she lacks preferences or doesn’t care about taste, but because she doesn’t want to burden the Varhan household’s staff.
She has no real complaints about the cafeteria food—it’s just as delicious, and choosing it spares her the mental strain of dealing with anyone too close to her father.
Despite her status as the employer, they all feel draining.

For now, the priority is deciding on lunch.
Marin’s breakfast has been fully digested, and her stomach is perfectly timed to demand food.
She needs to eat before it starts growling audibly.
Spurred by her empty stomach, her steps quicken.
Students are already walking with friends, takeout lunches in hand, meaning the cafeteria is likely crowded.

‘If it’s too packed, I’ll grab something and eat outside.’

The academy’s vast grounds don’t feel cramped, but the issue is the number of people.
Her classmates may not care about the rumors—or at least don’t show it—but the gossip hasn’t fully died down.
Given the recent commotion, she can’t be too cautious.
Crowded places breed talk, and rumors are an inaccurate game of telephone.
Even as a party involved, if false stories spread, staying uninvolved is the best defense.

“—Lady Violette!”

Her shoulders flinch at the sudden call.
Overreacting to her name feels excessive, but it’s often tied to trouble.
If it were Yuran, his nickname would make it clear, and there’d be no need for caution.
Turning her head slowly, she sees a man with navy-blue hair raising a hand as he approaches.

“Lord… Mila?”

“Hey, it’s been a while.”

His soft smile through his glasses eases her tension, but she knows she should stay wary.
Navy hair, dark emerald eyes, and black-rimmed glasses lend an intellectual air, though the mole under his right eye sparks whispers of sensuality among the ladies.
His beauty is less mystical and more about carrying any outfit with masculine elegance.
Milania Deor, a third-year, vice president of the student council, and Prince Claudia’s close friend—a litany of titles that make Violette instinctively brace herself.

“Good day… It has been a while.”

Still, she can’t openly show her guard.
As the eldest son of an earl, Milania is someone she’s met countless times as fellow nobles.
In fact, most people at the academy are familiar faces from childhood social events.
The noble community is surprisingly small.
Claudia, naturally, draws attention, and Milania’s charm and approachable nature make him easy to befriend.
Violette, too, attracts eyes due to her appearance and family name, so their acquaintance is unsurprising.
But being approached at this moment feels… less than ideal.

“Getting lunch? Your usual group isn’t with you.”

“Huh…”

It takes a moment to process who he means by “usual group.”
Then it clicks.
In the past—not her rewound life, but just before, from her first year at the academy until her second—she was always surrounded by people.
Back when Maryjune hadn’t yet appeared, when her mother was still alive, albeit barely.
Violette’s mere silence drew countless eyes, and noble girls flocked to her, eager to use her allure for their own gain.

‘Come to think of it… no one’s approached me since the rumors.’

Those girls were never true friends, so she had no intention of reaching out.
But it’s odd that none have approached her either.
Their interest was so shallow it vanished with her stepmother’s rumors—something she hadn’t noticed until now, even finding it a relief.
The absence of those pseudo-friends was a minor upheaval, but she’d forgotten them entirely, which says something about her own detachment.
Perhaps the pitying glances she’s received include sympathy for losing those “friends,” not just the rumors.
In her first life, she dove into that pity, clinging to those false friends—another update to her black history, painfully embarrassing.

“You’re right… I doubt I’ll speak with them again.”

“Huh…?”

“Their interest in me is gone.”

‘Gone’—or perhaps it was never there to begin with.
Back then, starving for love, she’d take any affection, even if it was steeped in calculation.
Compared to being unloved, any attention felt precious.
Looking back, it was mere dust masquerading as love.
Consuming it was bound to break her.
It’s her fault for not understanding that eating dust would make her sick.

“You must know, Lord Mila, about… my family’s rumors.”

“Well…”

“They’re likely just a trigger, though.”

Their interest in her was always about her status and striking beauty—nothing more.
They wanted to bask in her glow, like an accessory.
When a jewel tarnishes, it’s discarded.
It’s not an admirable perspective, but Violette’s view of them wasn’t much different, so it’s a mutual fault.

“Anyway, was there something you needed?”

They’re not close enough for casual small talk.
Despite knowing each other since childhood, there’s no real friendship.
Her cynical nature, shaped by her family circumstances, ensured she was more likely to be disliked than even faintly liked.
Her questioning tone seems to register, as Milania’s expression visibly clouds.

“At the tea party, did something happen with Claudia?”

“…Why not ask him directly?”

“That’s the thing—he’s not saying a word about it.”

Then why target her with questions?
Milania must know the fraught dynamic between her and Claudia.

“But it’s obvious he’s troubled. So… I thought you might know something.”

She wants to ask why he thinks that but dreads the answer.
It’s likely tied to her past misdeeds.
She’d rather not speak about the tea party—better yet, forget it entirely.

“…”

“…Alright, let me rephrase.”

Noticing her silence and troubled expression, he seems to pick up on something.
After a brief pause, as if considering his words, he tilts his head slowly.

“What happened between him and Yuran?”