Chapter 9

Was there such a thing as a mother who didn't love her daughter?

Most people would say no. But Octavia knew better.

For as long as she could remember, she'd been nothing but a tool—her mother's instrument for pleasing her father. Her grades had to be perfect. Every talent had to win awards. She was meant to be the perfect trophy to show off.

Too bad even her mother's desperate attempts to please that man—her biological father—hadn't stopped him from cheating.

To this day, Octavia couldn't forget the sight of her mother when she'd discovered the affair. Hair wild, screaming hysterically, then collapsing to her knees, begging and pleading—just hoping that man would love her a little more.

That pitiful begging. Utterly pathetic.

Was this fate's cruel joke?

Years ago, her mother had lost to Yvaine's mother. A crushing defeat.

Now, Octavia had lost to Yvaine.

Mother and daughter, both so tragic. Never able to win against that pair of homewreckers.

What made it even sadder was that she and Yvaine were half-sisters—same father, different mothers—yet their lives couldn't have been more different.

Yvaine was the well-known heiress of the Lavien family. Born with a silver spoon, adored wherever she went, doted on by both parents, talented and accomplished. Heaven's favorite.

And her?

Pitiful.

She'd lived with her mother, scraping by. Not only that—they'd both had to grovel to the mistress and her daughter, grovel to that scumbag father, just to get a meager allowance.

How sad.

In her mother's mind, if you were submissive enough, you could earn a place at the table. A sliver of love. But reality had proven otherwise. Some people only took more the more you gave. The more you groveled, the worse they treated you.

Listening to her mother's relentless rambling about apologies on the other end, Octavia felt exhausted like never before.

She'd endured for so many years. She was done. Her husband had been stolen. Her child had been taken. Why should she keep enduring?

"Enough." Unable to take it anymore, Octavia shouted, cutting off the tirade.

Silence on the other end.

Xanthe clearly hadn't expected to be yelled at by her own daughter. For a moment, she didn't know how to respond.

After a beat, she screamed back, "You ungrateful brat! Who do you think I've suffered all these years for? Wasn't it for you? Now that you're grown, you dare yell at me? You unfilial—"

"Enough." That speech again. Octavia had heard it a thousand times. She was sick of it.

Octavia stared at her tear-streaked reflection in the mirror, a bitter smile on her lips. "Whoever you want to grovel to is your business. Leave me out of it. And if you're going to keep demanding I apologize, then don't bother contacting me again."

"You unfilial—"

Before the insult could finish, Octavia hung up.

She leaned against the cold wall, staring at her pale reflection. Taking a deep breath, she went back to treating her wound.

Dizzy and disoriented, it took her a while to finish bandaging herself.

Hand braced against the wall, she was about to leave the bathroom when her phone rang again.

This time, it was Ignatius.

"What do you want?" She answered, her tone laced with unprecedented irritation.

"Dinner at Grimaldi Manor tonight. Come with me." His voice was cold, commanding.

Frustrated, Octavia pressed her hand to her head, trying to massage her temple, but accidentally grazed the wound. She sucked in a sharp breath.

What was with today? One disaster after another.

The thought of going to Grimaldi Manor brought a flood of bitter memories.

Every time she'd accompanied Ignatius there since their marriage, she'd been treated like Mrs. Grimaldi on the surface—but in reality, she was more like a servant.

From the moment she stepped through the door, she not only had to deal with Ignatius's relatives with a fake smile plastered on her face, but she also had to work in the kitchen.

Her mother-in-law, Gemma, was impossibly nitpicky. Every visit, she'd either criticize Octavia for not taking care of her husband and son properly, complain that the food she cooked was terrible, or fault her for not smiling enough.

In short, fault-finding. Nothing was ever good enough.

Octavia stared at her cold reflection in the mirror and didn't hesitate. "I'm busy."

They were about to divorce. She had no obligation to play along anymore. Once the divorce was finalized, there'd be no reason for them to have any contact.

Remembering what was in the box, she forced down her irritation. "Did you open your gift?"

"What gift?"

Hearing the confusion in his voice, Octavia laughed.

A hollow, bitter laugh that echoed in the empty bathroom.

Of course. In his eyes, anything she gave him was worthless. Never worth remembering. Days had passed, and he still hadn't opened it.

"Open the gift first. Then we'll talk." Out of patience, Octavia hung up.

But almost immediately, her phone started buzzing nonstop, like it had been infected with a virus.

Messages from Xanthe. As usual, when she was unhappy, she unleashed a barrage. Every message was full of insults—calling Octavia unfilial, ungrateful.

Then came the requests for money. Ever since Xanthe's divorce, her only income had come from her ex-husband. Later, once Octavia started working, she'd constantly asked her daughter for money. She was like a parasitic vine, unable to survive on her own.

Octavia's finger hovered over the screen. Without a second thought, she deleted every message.

The call had been disconnected.

Ignatius stared at his phone, eyes narrowing.

Octavia had the nerve to hang up on him?

But... what was in that box?

Beside him, Yvaine looked puzzled. "What's wrong? Either way, going to Grimaldi Manor is her duty. Even if she's throwing a tantrum, she shouldn't act like this."

Her soft words dripped with manipulation.

Ignatius rubbed his temple. "Ignore her."

His tone was dismissive, as if he were talking about someone insignificant.

Yvaine lowered her gaze, her lashes fluttering. A smug smile tugged at her lips. "But if you go to Grimaldi Manor alone... how will you explain it? Why don't I come with you?"

Ignatius picked up his coffee and took a sip. He didn't answer.

He threw on his suit jacket and drove home at top speed.

"Where's that box?" The table was empty. He looked around but couldn't find it.

Veda walked over. "Mr. Grimaldi, what are you looking for?"

"The box that was on the table on my birthday."

"Oh, that's in the dressing room. I'll get it for you."

"I'll get it myself."

Before she could respond, Ignatius was already striding upstairs.

Veda watched him go and sighed. This house was growing colder by the day. She just hoped Octavia would come back soon.

Upstairs, Ignatius quickly spotted the box in the corner of the dressing room.

It was plain. Nothing special about it.

He yanked at his tie in frustration, tossed his jacket aside, and sat down on the sofa.

His long fingers opened the box. The moment he saw what was inside, his pupils contracted sharply.