A Butterfly Through the Mist - Chapter 49
She gritted her teeth, her bloodshot eyes turning to glare at George beside her.
“What are you glaring at? What?!”
Seemingly startled by her stare, George raised his voice in defiance.
“Hey, you aren’t actually dreaming of becoming Davenport’s wife, are you? Wake up. I’m being kind and telling you this out of concern—there’s no way he’d ever consider you as a lover or a fiancée. Not a chance. Someone like you? Davenport wouldn’t even consider it.”
He let out a scoff as if the very thought was laughable, then continued in a patronizing tone, looking down at Tilia.
“Still, being Davenport’s mistress would be huge. I mean, look at him sending you all those flowers after just one night. Imagine how well he’d treat you if you actually became his mistress. Damn it, all these women just have to spread their legs and get all that money. Ugh, I should’ve been born a woman. I could’ve had it easy.”
Muttering curses to himself, George looked at Tilia with jealousy, then suddenly grinned and lightly punched her shoulder.
“If you do become Davenport’s mistress, don’t forget about your brother, okay? I’m the one who helped you get that far, after all. What, you think you got there on your own?”
The force of his punches, as he nudged her shoulder, pushed Tilia’s already exhausted body. Looking down with her head bowed, Tilia closed her eyes for a moment, feeling nauseated.
When she opened them again, her green eyes were filled with a different kind of anger—one far deeper.
“…Maybe I should ask him to kill you.”
“What?”
“If I become his mistress, maybe I’ll ask him to kill you first.”
George, who had been pushing on her shoulder with some force, froze at her words, which didn’t sound like a joke.
His eyes, looking increasingly cautious like their father, were sickening to her. Tilia spoke each word deliberately, like she was spitting them out, her bloodshot eyes glaring at George.
“George Ambrose. Do you want to reap the benefits of me becoming Lord Davenport’s mistress?”
“Well, I mean, we’re family, so of course…”
“Then stop treating me like this and start trying to win my favor. Got it?”
“What? You…”
George’s expression twisted in rage, his eyes glaring menacingly at her. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to throw a punch, only letting out an angry sound and stamping his foot.
Tilia scoffed. This was George Ambrose’s true nature—
He was endlessly cruel to those weaker than him but tucked his tail between his legs when faced with someone stronger, just like his father.
George had always acted like a predator, but now, hearing that his sister might become the mistress of someone powerful, he was angrily stamping his feet, yet still cautious of her.
“So? What is it? Do you want something? Should I get lost for you?”
Mistress. How convenient that title was. Even a mistress seemed to have it easier than her. How easy must life be for Ilex Davenport, then?
Feeling her emotions spiral, Tilia replied in a mocking voice, “No, that’s not enough.”
“Then what?!”
“Kill yourself. Throw yourself down the stairs and break your neck.”
“What…? You little…!”
George seemed like he couldn’t take it anymore and raised his hand, but Tilia just laughed at him and turned away.
“Damn it, you…! Hey, if you don’t become his mistress, you’ll be dead by my hands, got it?!”
But even as he shouted, George only spoke of hypothetical futures and didn’t follow her.
Ignoring his barrage of curses, Tilia walked to her room.
Click. Only after she locked the door behind her did her body sway, as if it were collapsing.
Tilia knelt on the cold floor, unable to even make it to her bed, suppressing the urge to vomit.
The contraceptive might not have fully digested yet. She couldn’t throw up. Not now, not yet.
Struggling for breath, bent over, Tilia closed her eyes.
Why had Ilex Davenport sent those flowers? Did he really intend to make her his mistress? She didn’t care in the slightest.
All she wanted was to sleep. A deep sleep, like the dead—a sleep so profound that she could forget everything.
Crawling to her bed, Tilia finally managed to get under the worn-out blanket, pulling it over her head and taking slow, deep breaths.
Real life. Repeating those words, which she had muttered countless times today, the horrific reality seemed to vanish, replaced by her dreams.
In the castle she painstakingly built out of imaginary bricks, there were no fathers, no brothers, and no flowers sent by a man who wanted her as his mistress.
There was only herself, serving as a foreign diplomat in Ontaroa.
In the hazy window of her imagined castle, Tilia glimpsed herself.
It was a leisurely holiday, and she saw herself busy cleaning her small, private home.
After putting away the dust-covered pottery figurines she’d impulsively bought, her chores were finally done.
Letting out a sigh of satisfaction, she watched herself pour sparkling water into a clear glass and take a refreshing drink.
She then placed an apple pie, prepared in advance, onto a plate, her face showing nothing but peace and happiness.
As she imagined the furniture and the scent of apple pie in great detail, the pain in her stomach gradually subsided.
With vacant eyes, Tilia stared at the cobwebbed corner of her room before she stood up.
Clap. She lightly slapped her still-pale cheek and walked towards her desk, not to the bathroom.
‘Study. I need to study.’
She knew exactly what she needed to do to reach her real life. She also knew what her best escape was for now.
‘I must pass the exam. I have to…’
Repeating her goal, Tilia steadied herself, quickly opening the books for the second exam and starting to memorize.
Her gaze was steadier now than it had been at any point that day.
***
Every Sunday morning, the Davenport family adhered to a longstanding tradition of gathering for breakfast—one that Ilex’s father never broke.
Using the academy as an excuse, Ilex had been able to avoid it, but now that he was home for the holidays, he had to return to his designated seat at the table.
Why bother upholding such a pointless tradition that no one cared for?
Scoffing at his father’s superficial sense of propriety, Ilex picked up his cutlery.
“Ilex.”
He heard his name called just as breakfast was nearing its end, the silence of the table finally broken.
Turning his head, he saw his brother Gilbert, seated beside their father.
“The servants say you’ve taken an interest in a young lady recently,” Gilbert said, smiling warmly as always.
“They say you’ve been sending flowers to her every week? Rumor has it you’re quite smitten.”
Ilex looked blankly at his brother’s cheerful face.
Gilbert, who bore a striking resemblance to their father, was known for his kindness but was also criticized for being overly good-natured.
With his noble blond hair and blue eyes, matching those of their father, Duke Edmund Davenport, it was often said that the son lacked the Duke’s cold decisiveness.
But Ilex, who knew what lurked behind that gentle exterior, was certain.
Gilbert wasn’t just a man who resembled the Duke on the surface.
The deep-rooted inferiority complex Gilbert harbored was unmistakably inherited from his father.
“Well.”
Gilbert acted as if he were just trying to make conversation, but Ilex wasn’t foolish enough to think that the topic had been chosen without calculation.
Keeping his expression composed, Ilex moved his utensils nonchalantly, ensuring Gilbert couldn’t read his emotions.
“A coin found on the street turning into treasure—it’s hardly worth a response.”
“Is the young lady you brought to Essentine House the same one?”
But it seemed this topic wasn’t just Gilbert’s doing; it was a plan concocted together with their father.
As soon as Ilex tried to deflect, Edmund spoke up, staring sternly at his son, “I heard you dismissed the maids for speaking out of turn to that young lady. Even the head maid I personally appointed.”
Should’ve killed them all. Ilex cursed his own misplaced mercy, meeting his father’s gaze.
With a stern expression befitting a father reprimanding a wayward son, Edmund Davenport scolded him, “Have your fun, but keep it within reason. Don’t let it tarnish your reputation.”
Ilex knew exactly why his father had bought off even the maids at Essentine House, a property gifted to him by his grandfather.
He feared that his precious chess piece might start getting ideas of its own. The fact that Ilex hadn’t dropped out of the academy, as expected, must’ve made him suspicious.
He must have investigated Tilia Ambrose’s background, as well as her father’s actions.
It had been a mistake. That day, he should have gone to a hotel instead of the annex. A single moment of carelessness had put his long-hidden, grand plans at risk of being exposed.
“Having fun won’t harm my reputation.”
“The Clayton family is rather displeased.”
The moment Ilex responded with a feigned indifference, Edmund sternly reprimanded him.
“They don’t understand why you’ve postponed the engagement until after the academy—if it were for marriage, fine, but for an engagement? The Claytons have always been steadfast allies of our family. Do not disappoint them.”
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Maya Loureiro
“Se ela se recusasse a reconhecê-los, eles não poderiam entrar em seu coração.
Se não pudessem entrar em seu coração, não poderiam feri-la.
Nesse sentido, as palavras do Barão Ambrose eram completamente insignificantes.”
– método de fato resiliente de proteção, porém tb a aprisiona TT_TT vonte de abraça-la