Chapter 1
"You're no daughter of ours!"
The sharp cry pierced her heart like a spear. But to Catherine now, it was no more stirring than being told to grab some food. It was just the kind of abuse that spilled from a woman's mouth as casually as chewing rice.
Catherine blinked slowly before sinking into one of the chairs set out in the drawing room.
Here we go again. Wonder how big a scene she'll make today.
Soon enough, her stepmother, Laura, marched in with the sharp click of her heels, gearing up for a full-blown tirade.
"Good heavens... The guest is still standing, and the family's precious eldest daughter plops down first like it's nothing? Catherine, is that how I raised you?"
Laura's pale fingertips trembled right in front of Catherine's nose—a stark contrast to her apple-red face.
Raised me? Might as well say a passing dung beetle was my tutor.
Catherine shot a sidelong glance at the mansion's visitor: Charles Kilholder, sub-viscount.
Charles Kilholder. Her one and only fiancé—or what was left of him, now worth less than an enemy.
They were dressed up in the fancy wrapping of an "engagement," but strip it away layer by layer, and their bond was worse than strangers'.
Their eyes met. His shoulders hunched sharply. His gaze flicked around the room before dropping to the floor.
Catherine fixed him with a stare at his timid antics, then turned back to Laura. "So, what exactly do you want me to do?"
A shrill voice erupted, as if she'd been waiting for the cue.
"I told you! The Orleans family has no use for a girl like you! Not only do you refuse to be ashamed of the scandal you're tangled in—you go and act so recklessly right in front of Sub-Viscount Kilholder...!"
Catherine swallowed a sigh and rubbed her forehead.
It had been ten years since her stepmother Laura had become the new Viscountess Orleans. The moment she'd planted her flag, she'd made a show of shunning Catherine.
The Orleans Viscount, who'd once tried to play peacemaker—or rather, had been the one getting trampled—now saw Catherine as a nuisance too.
With the viscount tuning her out, Laura's bullying ramped up, and the absurdities piled on.
But the most laughable part? Sub-Viscount Charles's mistress was none other than Catherine's half-sister, Anne Orleans.
"So you're saying you want me out of the castle, Mother?"
At Catherine's question, Anne—who'd been fidgeting anxiously—clutched Laura's arm.
"D-don't say that! Those rumors can't be true. Right, Sister? Those ridiculous stories have to be lies. I-I believe you, Sister!"
Catherine's face soured as she let out a quiet sigh.
Tears soon plopped from Anne's quivering eyes—a fragile lily of a girl, pitiful to the core.
At the sight of Lady Anne's tears, Charles hurried over and wrapped her slender shoulders in his arms.
"Don't cry, Anne. Tears like yours are too precious for a place like this...!"
"Ch-Charles! But Mother...!"
They're really hamming it up.
Catherine's expression chilled from mere indifference to outright frost.
Part of her wanted to hurl a white handkerchief scrawled with "Get lost" onto their little stage. Even a street puppet show would pack more punch.
Two years. She'd gritted her teeth through this nauseating farce for two whole years.
Has it really been that long?
Two years was more than enough time for anyone's patience to scrape bottom.
"Haa, sweet Anne. How is our little girl so kindhearted?"
Laura fussed over her with a pitying look, then whipped around, eyes narrowing venomously as she jabbed a finger at Catherine.
"Catherine! Your sister bawling her eyes out, and you don't even blink...!"
"Fine. I'll go."
Her matter-of-fact tone left Laura, Anne, and Charles all slack-jawed.
But their stunned faces didn't amuse Catherine—they just irritated her more.
"Why the long faces? This is what you wanted. I'll own up to the rumors—'mistress who gave her body and soul to lecherous Lord John,' or 'the slut messing around with her brother-in-law.' Whatever."
Even the trashiest romance novels floating around lately weren't this contrived.
Catherine, ground zero for the nonsense, almost wanted to applaud Anne for blanketing the place with it.
She'd clenched her jaw and borne it for her late mother's sake. But no more.
In those two years, Catherine had scraped together exactly ten outfits. One per season, barely.
Anne? Catherine could count fifty off the top of her head—at least eighty stuffed in that wardrobe, easy.
She hadn't even dreamed of luxuries like necklaces.
When Laura chucked her an outdated wristwatch from Anne's room as a "birthday gift," she'd shrugged it off.
The bedroom curtains in tatters? Fine.
Heels worn to uneven stubs? Whatever.
"What the sudden—"
"Sudden? You're the one who told me to get out, Mother."
But even Catherine had her limits.
She'd rather toil as a tenant farmer than put up with this crap.
Or clock factory drone. Anything.
Laura's lips twitched into a smirk at the "declaration." No effort to hide her glee—like a fisherman hauling in a net bursting with prize catches.
"Catherine, you think sullying the Orleans name gets wiped clean just by walking out?"
"Want me to off myself right here, then?"
She crossed her legs, leaning back languidly against the chair, and flashed a sweet smile at her once-fiancé Charles.
He used to blush beet-red at eye contact.
"Charles agrees? Think hanging myself here restores Orleans honor—and yours?"
"Th-that's..."
The sub-viscount gasped, head whipping away. Blue veins throbbed on Anne's hand clutching his shirt.
"I-I respect Miss Catherine..."
"Sister! Please don't say you'll leave. It's all my fault—blame me!"
Before Charles could finish, Anne—decked out in full pitiful mode—sidled up, grabbed Catherine's skirt, and clung like ivy.
Clingy as ever. Thinks she's a cicada or something.
Noisy stepmother. Spineless ex. And the fake-tears half-sister finale.
Catherine flicked Anne's grip off her skirt like lint and rose.
"Silence means you're good with it? I'll go pack, then. Can't exactly leave in my birthday suit."
With bold strides, she shoved past Laura and Charles's shoulders, ascending the stairs.
Back in her room, nothing fancy.
She cracked open the jewelry box first, scooping every old earring, necklace, and ring.
Then ransacked the place for anything sellable, cramming the bag tight.
Mother's hidden relics too—every last scrap.
Barely filled one suitcase.
"What the hell are you doing, Catherine! Wild as you are, you don't steal family property!"
Laura's belated yell hit her back, but after seeing it all, it registered as white noise.
Catherine picked her ear with her pinky. "Since you're tossing me out anyway, cut me some slack? Least you could do as 'Mother.'"
"How dare you sass your mother...!"
"Got it. Shut up. Loud."
Bag in hand, Catherine stormed to the bedroom door.
First time. Truly, the first she'd ever yelled curses at her stepmother.
No shock. Just sweet relief flooding her chest.
These bottled-up truths, endured for "family peace," spilled out so effortlessly!
Stunned by the meek eldest daughter's roar? Laura gawked, mouth agape.
"Want that Viscountess Orleans life peaceful? Let me go quietly. You know my temper. Tiptoed around inside these walls—but outside? Different story."
"Wh-what...!"
"Don't come looking. I won't either. Tell Father whatever. I'm big-hearted, unlike some. Parting forever, can't spare that mercy?"
Yanking the bag, she shouldered Laura aside once more.
The scrawny frame—neck clutched, fingers jabbing—flung back like paper.
Afternoon hallway, bathed in yellow sun. New resolve in her step.
There, embracing like some romance novel cliché: Sub-Viscount Charles and Anne.
They jolted apart. Catherine charged forward.
Slap!
Right across her ex-fiancé Charles's cheek—hard.
"Ugh!"
"Count yourself lucky this is the end, Charles."
"Ch-Charles? You okay? What the—Sis—Ahh!"
Not done, she kneed her half-sister's leg beside him.
Anne crumpled, wailing as she clutched her knee.
How long she'd itched to lay into her.
Catherine beamed down at her—happier than ever.
Perfect.
Sunlight spilling across the hall carpet: divine, brilliant, perfect.
Even amid expulsion, no dragging rage or grief weighed her down.
Just pure, exhilarating freedom.
Who knew a life of speaking her mind could feel this good?
Beaming, Catherine descended the stairs, breezed past the murmuring servants, and quitted the mansion.
She was the disowned one, yet somehow her steps felt lightest.
Bold as brass, she crossed to a passing carriage and hopped in.
The coachman doffed his hat, twisting back.
"Where to, miss?"
"Out of Orleans first. I'll figure the rest en route."
Catherine then unburied the map from the bag's depths.
Iterana Empire, devouring a third of the continent.
And clinging to its eastern fringe: puny Viscountcy Orleans.
A mere handful against the empire's sprawl.
Not even that, next to the heavyweights nearby.
To think I suffocated in this speck all this time.
"Kekeke. Off on a jaunt?"
"...Nah. Kicked out."
"No kiddin'? Pretty, polite thing like you? Spill—what happened!"
Catherine herself wasn't sure.
Half-spit, half-fire, she'd stormed out. Now the Orleans Viscount's mansion dwindled in the distance.
Sorry, Mother. But I toughed it out quiet-like for years. Cut me this slack. Gotta carve my own path now.
A smile clung stubbornly to her lips.