Chapter 7-handkerchief

The wound on her forehead could easily be healed with magical potions. The skin could be restored to its smoothness, leaving no trace of any ugly scars.

Margaret, with blood smeared across her face, returned to her bedroom. The maids she encountered on the way avoided eye contact, pretending they hadn't seen anything. This kind of incident had happened too many times; no one was surprised anymore.

She sat in front of the vanity, staring at the disheveled girl in the mirror for a long time before opening a bottle of healing potion.

The next morning, Margaret, as usual, greeted her father and mother on time. Duke Russell was sound asleep, too engrossed to pay her any attention. As for Lady White, she flatly refused a meeting request.

With her older brother not at home and no other suitable candidate for discussing marriage proposals, Margaret took a carriage to the palace to find Douglas.

The Crown Prince was very busy. Since returning from the border, he had been dealing with a pile of official documents and actively discussing diplomatic issues with the cabinet ministers regarding the Dermat attack. The attack at the border was seen by the ministers as a serious provocation, prompting them to come up with more threatening decisions to counter Dermat.

Margaret sat in the waiting room, enduring from day to evening, until she finally had a chance to meet her fiancé.

"You have five minutes," a tired Douglas, sitting behind his desk, ran his fingers through his messy black hair and glanced casually at the delicate-faced girl. "Speak, what is it?"

Margaret repeated her decision to annul the engagement. Her words were tactful, carefully expressing it as a personal choice rather than a disrespect from the White family towards the royal family. She mentioned that her mental state wasn't suitable for marriage, and she didn't share deep feelings with him. She hoped he could find someone to marry who genuinely loved him.

At first, Douglas listened, but then he displayed an expression of "are you joking?" and furrowed his brow, asking, "Is there something unsatisfactory about our marriage conditions? If you want to add terms, you can discuss it with my adjutant."

Margaret shook her head, "I just want to cancel the engagement."

Then she was politely escorted out.

Douglas didn't take her words seriously at all. As he saw her off, he reminded her not to do anything irrational. Whether before or after marriage, she should maintain a good image.

"I know many people like to talk about love to mask their improper behavior. But you and I both know our marriage isn't built on such ridiculous things. After marriage, I won't seek mistresses, and I ask you not to abandon your past virtues." He tried to appear gentler, reaching up to tuck her disheveled hair behind her ear. The soft leather gloves brushed against her cheek, devoid of any warmth.

Douglas had a strong aversion to germs and always wore gloves. In the past, to show courtesy and friendliness, he would take them off in front of Margaret.

"I shouldn't have to worry about you, after all, you're a woman of the White family, right?"

What should a woman of the White family be like?

Margaret looked back at him, but in her mind were vague images of docile and gentle faces. They might be her cousins, her nieces, but ultimately, these images merged into the lonely and antiquated figure of her mother in the glass conservatory.

Those who married into the White family, those who left the White family—all were gentle, conservative, beautiful, and obedient. Even if their husbands were absurd, they would only blame the women around their husbands and their own imperfections.

This wasn't normal.

These were domesticated lambs, trimmed wallflowers hanging on the wall. They were decorations gradually withering away.

Margaret couldn't remember how she got back.

She was tired. After getting off the carriage, she looked up for a long time, feeling that the once luxurious and magnificent Duke's mansion had become bleak and eerie. The reddish-purple sunset pressed heavily overhead, and one or two crows circled the castle's spires.

The world is a book, and she is the joke within its pages.

The nearby servant cautiously called out to her, "Miss, what's wrong?"

Margaret said nothing, taking steps towards the entrance of the mansion. Her residence was on the east side of the castle, a white Rococo-style building with a small garden filled with white roses.

The white roses were planted before. It was said that the first time she met Douglas as a child, he used these flowers to describe her. Russell was delighted, so he directly replaced all the plants in the garden with this sweet and precious variety.

Thinking of this, Margaret suddenly felt an uncontrollable urge to destroy.

She took a bunch of corrosive potions from the laboratory, dismissed all the servants, and marched into the garden with large strides. The sky was getting darker, and as she contemplated what she was about to do, a subtle sense of satisfaction bubbled up in her heart.

However, before reaching the wall of the most blooming flowers, Margaret spies a familiar back.

It was Damon.

Damon was wearing a dark red squire's jacket and slightly baggy black pants. He was facing the wall of flowers, his spine slightly arched, his right hand fiddling with something.

Margaret heard a thin whimper. The whimpers were interspersed with gasps.

She thought he was crying.

Margaret eased her footsteps over to him, and from some distance she got a good view of the light on the other man's lower abdomen. The belt and buttons had long since been undone and hung barely over his crotch bone, and sharp claws with sharp nails held a long, thick, reddish rod, jerking it fiercely back and forth. He seemed to be using a great deal of force, as if this was not a matter of pleasure, but some kind of punishment and torture.

Margaret noticed that Damon was holding something else in his palm.

A dull white, tattered... handkerchief.

It was hidden in his palm, wrapped around the horribly exaggerated column, and rubbed in a particularly miserable way.

Between movements, his fingernails brushed against the tip of the grotesquely shaped sex, and Damon gasped low, squeezing a muffled moan from between his teeth.

"Ms. Margaret..."