No One Ever Loved Me - Chapter 93

“It would be better to finish things before the debutante ball.”

The Queen’s declaration came without warning. I froze, still in the posture of pouring her tea, only realizing belatedly that the teacup had overflowed. I quickly set down the teapot.

“A person’s tongue is such a fickle thing. They’ll chatter endlessly about one scandal as if it’s the most important topic in the world, and then the moment something new happens, they’ll swarm to it like bees to honey.”

I had already accepted that my divorce would be the subject of gossip.

That was why I’d become the Queen’s lady-in-waiting. I had made the decision to wait out the storm under the protection of the most powerful woman in the kingdom.

“You must be busy with the debutante ball preparations…”

“Me?” the Queen repeated, raising an eyebrow, as if amused I could even think such a thing.

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t good at lying.

The truth was, the Queen had hardly given the debutante ball a second thought—aside from bringing Penelope into the palace.

Ever since she’d seen the King with his mistress, it was as if she had realized just how small, pathetic, and foolish he really was.

She had spent years worrying—fearing the King’s growing paranoia, wondering if he might suspect her family of disloyalty and strip away what little power she still had.

But it had all been in her head.

The King was painfully ordinary. The Queen, on the other hand, had been born with both ambition and an innate talent for performance—as if she had always been destined to be a queen.

Though she hadn’t grown up among royals, she had become more royal than royalty itself.

She had assumed the King, being royal by blood, would be the same. So she had anxiously measured her actions, afraid of upsetting him.

But in the end, it had all been meaningless fear and worry. She had been fighting shadows.

“I don’t think it will be resolved that quickly, Your Majesty.”

Countess Rosette had likely whispered everything into Edgar’s ear after receiving her revelation about his impending downfall. She had come hoping to rescue Isla but had only been met with the vision of Edgar’s ruin.

Countess Rosette knew better than anyone that Edgar wouldn’t go down alone.

Their alliance was calculated, but not stable.

They were always watching each other—one ready to cut ties after getting what they wanted, the other clinging like ivy, desperate to prove they were inseparable.

“Countess Rosette will try to persuade Count Linton, and during the trial, they’ll grab onto anything they can to delay the process.”

“You may call her ‘the widow of House Rosette,’ if you like,” the Queen said with amused generosity, refusing to let even a small slip go unnoticed.

“If we’re being precise, that widow has nothing to do with you anymore. Count Rosette is dead. She’s just a stepmother, no blood relation at all. You’re well past adulthood and married into another house. What right does she have to claim any role in your life?”

Perhaps even Countess Rosette knew this. Perhaps that’s why she clung so tightly to her reputation as the gentle, devoted stepmother.

It must have felt like a stroke of luck to her that Cecilia’s birth mother had died during childbirth.

Dangling affection like bait on a fishing line—just enough to make the child think they were loved, just enough to control her.

But children grow up. And even if their world remains small, they eventually realize what they never truly had.

Cecilia had clung so desperately to Edgar because, to her, he looked like the family she had never known.

“Is a trial really necessary?” the Queen asked, tapping her armrest, clearly displeased.

“If I tell His Majesty I witnessed it myself, that’ll be the end of it. Count Linton is nothing. The King doesn’t even consider him worth acknowledging.”

If I wanted everything wrapped up before the debutante ball, accepting the Queen’s offer would be the fastest way. But I couldn’t abandon something I had already set in motion—especially not when I hadn’t expected the Queen to care this much.

“I think I should be allowed a chance at revenge.”

“On whom?”

“Count Linton has a mistress, Your Majesty. She truly loved him. And she once carried something that could have been the fruit of that love.”

The Queen looked at me as if I were the fool.

“And you just let that happen?”

“By the time I found out, it was too late to do anything. She was past the point of being able to terminate the pregnancy.”

“How revolting,” the Queen muttered.

She had a reputation for handling such things before they went too far—quietly, efficiently, and early.

What struck me was how strictly she drew the line.

She never waited until a fetus had eyes or ears or tiny fingers and toes.

What she dealt with were not people, but seeds. There was no guilt in it—no room for it. That was why the Queen could be so unapologetically confident.

“She must have kept it from you on purpose. You’re bright, but far too naïve. Everyone knew Count Linton had a mistress. It was an open secret. You should’ve at least pretended to know, kept her under watch.”

I remembered the expression Karola—the King’s mistress—had made when she looked at the Queen. Strangely enough, she didn’t seem to fear her.

Even while pretending to play house with the King right in front of the Queen, she hadn’t flaunted herself or acted smug.

Karola was confident that the Queen didn’t care about such things.

She also seemed completely unaware that the Queen might have harmed the child she carried—something not even human yet.

“Even if I’d known earlier,” I said, “I would’ve let it happen. I was hoping the child would be born safely—so it could become a leash around Count Linton’s neck.”

There was no way the Queen had missed the regret in my voice.

“It wasn’t born safely, then.”

“No. It was stillborn,” I replied. “She overheard him telling me I was his only Countess. That she meant nothing to him—just a way to pass the time.”

I skillfully left Ricardo out of the story. The Queen didn’t know how deeply he was entangled in this. She thought it was just a passing crush—something to use before it burned out.

To her, it was no different than finding something near expiration in the fridge and thinking, I should use this up before it goes bad.

Ricardo was, unfortunately, already halfway rotten.

Love, when it turns sour, gives off a smell you can recognize. But fanaticism… it always smells. You can’t tell if the stench is from rot or just part of its nature.

“Stillborn.”

A trace of sadness flickered in the Queen’s eyes. She truly seemed affected—grieving the death of a baby born with form and shape.

Meanwhile, Ricardo and I had been weighing Elodie and her child as if trying to decide which one would be more useful.

“Yes,” the Queen said. “I suppose revenge is only fair.”

She was something beyond my reach—a pinnacle of human emotion.

The Queen believed I could learn desire. But that was only because she didn’t truly understand what it meant to be broken at the core.

“Let Ricardo handle the accusation. You can just cry a little and play the part of the helpless victim.”

“I have a lawyer.”

I had done far too much behind the scenes to convincingly act like a passive, innocent victim.

Technically, it was all Ricardo’s doing—but I was the one who pushed him into action. So, in the end, it was mine too.

“I believe the estate Count Linton travels to for business is legally mine. I ordered an investigation, but I haven’t received the full report yet. And the house where his mistress lived before, she ran off—it’s also in my name. Before that, it was under Countess Rosette’s.”

I paused, giving the Queen time to piece together the tangled story.

“My old nanny once said Countess Rosette felt ashamed about my small dowry. She wanted to give something—anything—to maintain dignity with Count Linton.”

That was just my assumption. Martha, who had raised me, always accused Countess Rosette of being a wicked stepmother. She firmly believed Edgar had gifted me that house himself.

If that had been true, there would’ve been no reason to put the deed back in Cecilia’s name.

Edgar probably devoured my wealth—including that house—and when he couldn’t legally change the title, he simply left it.

Just like the estate he visited and pretended to own.

“I plan to give that house to his former mistress. Losing a child doesn’t mean she has to lose everything else. If there’s nothing left, she might do something irreversible.”

That house had once been touched by Elodie’s hands. She must’ve believed, even if just for a little while, that she and Edgar were a blessed, married couple.

Returning it to her wouldn’t make up for anything. But selling it or smashing it to pieces wouldn’t ease anything either.

“Sure. How noble,” the Queen said dryly.

But it wasn’t sarcasm aimed at me—it was for Elodie and Edgar.

“If you really want a trial, then have one. Tell your lawyer to schedule a date. Include this: ‘Her Majesty the Queen expects a ruling before the debutante ball and urges the matter be expedited.’”

“That’s going to sound like a threat, Your Majesty.”

“It is a threat. And if your lawyer doesn’t understand that, I’ll have to find someone else. What kind of educated man can’t recognize a royal warning?”

I wrote the letter—no, the threat—right in front of her.

The Queen made me rewrite it three times, unsatisfied until the words hit hard enough.

“It’s still a bit soft,” she said. “But even a stone statue should be able to understand this.”

She looked disappointed that she couldn’t just write it herself.

The letter was sent immediately, and thankfully, my lawyer was no fool. Even though court hours were over, he knocked on the doors until they opened. He invoked the Queen’s name and filed the complaint.

And the well-educated court responded just as quickly.

Count Edgar Linton received an official summons to appear before a judge.

The trial was set exactly one week before the debutante ball.

Typically, noble divorce trials dragged on for months, offering endless entertainment for society.

But this one came with the Queen’s warning: it would be settled in a single session, and if it tarnished the debutante in any way—someone would answer for it.

The court understood that.

The lawyer understood that.

But did Edgar?

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