Chapter 1: The second sister wants to be a stranger.

The marriage between Olde Roa Varhan of the Varhan Duchy and his late wife, Bellrose, was a political arrangement.
It was a union Bellrose fiercely desired, secured through near-coercive means.
Even so, Duke Olde strove to love his wife.
Political or forced, they were to become family, after all.

But that sentiment didn’t last long.
The reason lay in Bellrose’s arrogance and overwhelming possessiveness.

With his soft, light-gray hair and striking, unforgettable eyes, Olde’s tall, well-trained physique embodied a flawless beauty that captivated all who saw him.
It was only natural that such a man would draw countless women in high society, Bellrose among them.
Using every ounce of her influence, she claimed the position of his wife, her heart stolen by Olde at a social gathering.
To marry the one you love—a rare outcome in the aristocracy, where loveless marriages were commonplace—should have been an enviable triumph.

Yet Bellrose was not satisfied with that alone.

She wanted Olde to love her back.
That much was understandable; anyone in love might wish for the same.
The problem was the actions she took.
She refused to tolerate any woman near Olde, be they servants or business associates, showing no mercy.
Her behavior escalated, unable to trust Olde despite his fidelity and diligent work, interrogating him daily.

– Who were you with?
– It was work.
– Liar! You were with another woman, weren’t you?

I know everything.
Why? Why isn’t it me? Why won’t you love me?
Look only at me, not at other women. I won’t forgive you if you leave me, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!
I won’t forgive you for thinking of anyone but me.

It was inevitable that Olde grew exhausted by such a life.
The faint familial affection he once held vanished, and his heart was naturally drawn to a woman who offered him solace and support.
In aristocratic circles, keeping a mistress was neither rare nor problematic.
Some sought heirs from mistresses when their lawful wives bore none.
Others, bound by political marriages, took mistresses to love truly.
Some couldn’t be satisfied with one woman, while others loved multiple simultaneously.
The reasons varied, but as long as one could afford to maintain them, it was a matter for each household to resolve.

In the Varhan household, however, it was arguably the worst-case scenario.

Bellrose, whose obsession with Olde grew daily, could not tolerate the existence of a mistress.
She relentlessly berated her husband, driving him to seek refuge with his mistress.
In a cruel twist of fate, Bellrose conceived a child at the worst possible moment.

That child was Violette Rem Varhan.

With light-gray hair and round, kitten-like eyes, she was an adorable girl unmistakably Olde’s daughter.
Bellrose rejoiced wholeheartedly at Violette’s birth.
Everyone agreed the child resembled her beloved husband.
This daughter, she believed, would bring Olde back to her.
Through Violette’s connection to Olde, Bellrose thought she could reclaim him.
Distorted though it was, she genuinely cherished her daughter, seeing her as her hope.

In the end, none of her plans came to fruition.

Olde’s affection for Bellrose had long since crumbled to nothing.
Though he knew the child was blameless, the dread of facing Bellrose outweighed his sense of duty.
Excusing himself with thoughts that Violette would be cared for by her mother or servants, he fathered a child with his mistress.
His frequent visits to her turned into permanent residence—a natural progression, though undeniably deplorable from Violette’s perspective.

Bellrose’s jealousy, fueled by her husband’s actions, twisted further over the years until her final breath.

At first, she simply doted on Violette’s face, keeping her close.
She forbade anything that might mar her daughter’s appearance—no scars, no sunburn.
She treasured Violette as proof of her bond with Olde, believing he would one day return.

But as Olde never came back, Bellrose’s patience wore thin.
Her gaze upon Violette changed.
She stripped away the ornate dresses, cut her long hair, and transformed the young girl, whose gender was still indistinct, into a boyish figure.
She styled Violette after childhood images of Olde from old albums.

Bellrose began to see her beloved husband in her beautiful daughter, demanding not just the same appearance but also masculine behavior.
Instead of teaching her the etiquette of a noble lady, she instructed Violette in weaponry and self-defense.
She demanded the same knowledge Olde possessed—no less, no more, as if anything else was unforgivable.

This abnormal behavior ceased when Violette’s femininity could no longer be concealed.
No matter how much she resembled Olde, the differences in gender became undeniable as her body matured.
She was no longer the Violette Bellrose desired.

Bellrose lost interest in her daughter with startling ease.

From there, it was a steady descent.
Having molded Violette to resemble Olde, Bellrose ceased interacting with servants and ignored her daughter entirely.
Violette couldn’t recall when her mother’s feigned illnesses became real.
Until her final moment, Bellrose’s heart belonged solely to Olde.
She loved Violette only as a means to tether Olde’s heart, to make her a replica of him.
When that failed, she discarded her daughter without hesitation—a memory that still haunted Violette’s dreams.

Ignoring Violette’s unhealed heart, her father nonchalantly gave the mistress the seat of the lawful wife.

The events that followed were too painful to recall.
The new stepmother, the half-sister, and even her father—Violette despised them all, leading her to commit a crime and face imprisonment.
The guilt toward Maryjune, whom she hurt the most, made her want to die.
Perhaps she should prostrate herself in apology, even now, though she’d likely be dismissed as mad.
There was no excuse for her crimes, but reflecting on her life, Violette realized it was heavier than she’d thought.
Back then, she saw it as mere family drama, common enough not to dwell on.
Yet her heart had been deeply scarred, her subconscious in constant pain.
That pain drove her to lash out at her half-sister, the one person she should never have targeted.
It was, undeniably, misdirected anger.

“Lady Violette… are you alright?”

“I’m fine… just a bit tired.”

“I’ll bring you some hot milk. It’ll help you relax.”

Marin, Violette’s personal maid, felt an indescribable unease at her mistress’s weary expression.
Not toward Violette, but toward the meeting with her father, Olde, who had arranged it.

The meeting, resumed with feigned composure, had concluded… presumably without issue.
Violette’s sociability was slightly concerning, but given her striking resemblance to her father, who was hardly one to judge, allowances could be made.

“Sigh…”

Once Marin left to prepare the hot milk, Violette let out a heavy sigh, as if expelling her exhaustion.
The cause of her predicament was unclear and likely unknowable, so she resolved not to dwell on it.
The real question was what to do next.
This second chance was, without exaggeration, an opportunity to avoid becoming a criminal.
Other benefits were irrelevant; the fact that her罪was erased was paramount.
Though no one else knew of her crime, it was etched deeply in her heart, never to fade.
That’s why she was determined not to err again.

Her path was already decided.

After graduating from the academy, she would cut ties, become a nun, and live in gratitude to the god who granted her this chance.
That was the future Violette, given a new path, desired.
She didn’t need to be loved or cherished.
She knew from experience that clinging to such things led to ruin.
Her past self taught her a lesson she’d never forget.
She would live quietly, simply, alone, and die the same way.

To that end, she needed a plan for Maryjune, who would soon join the same academy.
Her past self had been aggressively destructive; this time, Violette would do the opposite.
No involvement—that was her only choice.

In prison, she had repented.
She genuinely regretted what she did to Maryjune and admired her half-sister’s compassionate nature for showing mercy to her aggressor.
She didn’t want to interfere with Maryjune’s life or cast a shadow over it.
She sincerely wished for her happiness.

But did that mean she could love Maryjune?
No.

Her feelings stemmed entirely from guilt, not love.
She hoped Maryjune would find happiness far from her, in a life untouched by their shared past.

“Lady Violette, I’ve brought it.”

“Thank you, Marin… oh, it’s warm.”

The mug she clasped in both hands radiated gentle warmth from the milk within.
Her tense shoulders relaxed, and only then did Violette realize how tightly wound she’d been.

‘So much has happened so suddenly…’

Imprisoned one moment, then time rewound to shortly after her mother’s death.
Then, abruptly introduced to a stepmother and half-sister.
Life had its peaks and valleys, but to experience both in a single day was overwhelming.
It wasn’t quite a cursed day, but it was close.

“…I’m definitely tired. I’ll rest for today.”

“Shall I assist with your change of clothes?”

“I’ll manage… I’m sorry, I want to be alone.”

“…Understood.”

She needed solitude to process her situation and plan her next steps.
Even if she avoided involvement, they were sisters sharing the same name.
Finishing the hot milk Marin prepared, Violette bowed her head slightly and retreated to her bedroom.