"I’m not looking for shortcuts," Bianca said. "I just want comfort. And surely because of you I could have a better position."
Valerie looked at her calmly. Too calmly, to the point that it felt cold.
"I am not the lady of this house," she replied softly. "I am not the Duke’s wife. Nor am I a favored woman who can bend everything to her will."
She paused, making sure every word landed where it should. "You should understand that."
Bianca pressed her lips together, then finally spoke the sentence she had been holding back like a final card laid on the table. "But you’re carrying the Duke’s child."
Silence.
Valerie did not react at once. Her expression did not change, but sothing hardened in her gaze.
"Precisely because of that," she said at last, her voice low and controlled, "I will not abuse a position that is not even mine yet."
She stepped half a pace closer, close enough that Bianca could not avoid her eyes. "This pregnancy is not a currency. Not a tool to pressure others. And not a ticket to twist the rules."
Bianca opened her mouth, then closed it again.
"I am helping you," Valerie continued, "because I choose to. Not because I owe you anything, and not because of whose child I am carrying."
Her tone remained gentle, but a clear boundary had been drawn neat, firm, and impossible to cross.
"If what you seek in comfort is power," Valerie said, "then you have co to the wrong person."
Bianca fell silent for a long mont. The smile that had briefly appeared earlier vanished completely.
"I will work under Dorote," she said at last, more quietly. "As you said."
Valerie gave a brief nod. "That is a wise choice."
As Bianca walked away once more, Valerie stood straight, her hand slowly resting on her abdon not as a display of power, but as a reminder.
That whatever others believed she possessed now, she would not allow it to be used to pressure anyone including herself.
Bianca was taken to the servants’ wing that afternoon, to the room where Dorote usually assigned duties. The woman was already waiting her posture straight, her hair neatly pinned up, her sharp eyes accustod to seeing people arrive with lofty expectations and leave with reality instead.
"You’re Bianca," Dorote said bluntly. "Co with ."
She set off first, her steps brisk. Bianca followed, her eyes darting around fabric shelves, buckets of water, baskets of linen. The air slled of soap and damp wood.
"These are your duties," Dorote said, stopping. "Cleaning the guest rooms on the second floor, helping in the kitchen during al hours, and handling the laundry in the afternoon. No exceptions."
Bianca stared at the list. Her expression hardened.
"Those are... ordinary servant’s tasks," she said, clearly displeased.
Dorote raised an eyebrow. "Because you are a servant."
"I won’t accept this," Bianca cut in. "I ca here at Lady Valerie’s request. I should—"
"Should what?" Dorote interrupted, her tone rising. "Under this roof, every servant starts in the sa place. No one gets to choose their duties."
Bianca lifted her chin, trying to cling to the dignity she thought she still possessed. "I am the Duke’s woman’s sister."
For a mont, the room seed to freeze.
Then Dorote laughed short, sharp, utterly humorless.
"Are you trying to impress with your lineage?" she said coldly. "Listen carefully. Here, blood does not lift buckets, and connections do not fold sheets."
She stepped closer, close enough that Bianca had no choice but to et her gaze. "Lady Valerie did not ask to pamper you. She asked to teach you how to work."
Bianca clenched her fists. "You speak as if I have no worth."
"Your worth is determined by your work," Dorote replied flatly. "Not by who you know."
Silence fell again. A few other servants lowered their heads, pretending to be busy, though it was clear they heard every word.
Dorote turned away. "Start now. The bucket and cloth are over there. If you think this is too much there’s always the door."
Bianca stood rigid, her breath tight in her chest. There was anger, there was the bitter sting of humiliation and beneath it, a realization slowly taking hold: Valerie’s protection did not an privilege.
At last, she picked up the bucket. Her hands trembled not from its weight, but from the collapse of the hopes she had carried with her since morning.
Dorote glanced back once. "One more thing," she said without turning around. "Here, we judge people by how they finish their work. Not by how they make demands."
Bianca gave a small nod.
And as she walked away, for the first ti since entering the castle, she understood the path she had chosen truly demanded its price.
In the midst of her work, Bianca found herself lifting her head more than once accidentally, or perhaps without realizing it.
The castle was vast, its corridors long, yet there were small monts that could not be avoided. On the main staircase. In the inner garden. Along the corridor near the dining hall. And there she saw them.
Demian and Valerie.
Not grand scenes. Not overt displays of affection. It was precisely the small things that cut the deepest.
Demian walked a little slower when Valerie was beside him. His hand moved instinctively holding a door, pulling out a chair, draping a cloak over Valerie’s shoulders without being asked. Those red eyes always returned to her, as if the world itself could wait a few seconds longer.
Valerie, usually composed and reserved, looked... different. Softer. More alive. Her smile appeared without effort, her hand often brushing Demian’s arm as she spoke small gestures, heavy with trust.
Bianca froze at the end of the corridor, the mop cloth in her hand suddenly feeling unbearably heavy.
She quickly lowered her gaze when Demian glanced in her direction, then pretended to focus on her work. Yet her chest tightened with sothing she refused to na.
That kind of attention not rely power, not rely wealth.
It was being chosen.
Bianca bit her lip. The bucket in her hand trembled as she wrung the cloth too hard.
"Why..." she murmured under her breath, almost lost beneath the sounds of footsteps and servants’ chatter. "Why does she always get everything good?"
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