The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 62: Arrogantly

I sat at the desk and wrote a letter.

I carefully phrased it in an elegant tone, explaining that I would soon visit the family mansion and asking them not to be alarmed by my arrival.

There was plenty they could find fault with if they wanted to.

I hoped they wouldn’t take the phrase, “I deeply regret not having seen the Duchess and the head of the household for so long”, at face value.

After all, I had muttered, “I honestly hate the idea of seeing your faces,” while writing those words.

Running away forever and living in hiding might have been an option, but this was a matter I needed to face eventually.

Especially if I wanted to build a family, share genuine love, and give someone my full affection.

If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be Marie—I’d forever remain Marisela, the ignorant daughter of a prostitute who ran away from that mansion without knowing her place.

I couldn’t spend my life crying over nightmares.

Leaving aside the dreadful thought of going to that mansion, my journey with Raphael was delightful.

Each village had its own unique charm, and tasting different foods while experiencing new things was always enjoyable.

Maybe that was because I had the resources to indulge.

Without money, it would have been difficult to afford lodging and consistently order delicious meals.

Today, like most days, we stopped at an inn by the roadside. After unpacking and settling in the room, I gazed out the window before going to bed.

“Raphael, how many days are left?”

“Three, I think.”

“The closer we get, the more I want to run away.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“That just means you wouldn’t say anything, haha.”

“Would you be fine if we turned back now?”

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I took out a small bag of coffee beans from my bag and handed it to Raphael.

“No, I wouldn’t be fine. But I’m anxious.”

Raphael, practiced as ever, pulled out a small knife from his coat and infused it with energy.

With a swift motion, he finely ground the beans.

Even compared to the grinder we had at home, his precision was unmatched.

After carefully brewing the coffee, he poured it into cups and began sipping it.

As I watched, I remembered a time when I tried to toss away a cigar, worried I might be pregnant.

The memory was sharp—an overwhelming nausea, a racing heart, and an unexpected wave of melancholy.

Even when I managed to eat, nausea overtook me.

I recalled how they’d once placed insects on my food and beaten me if I refused to eat.

When I threw up everything I’d eaten, they beat me even harder until I learned to keep it down.

I wasn’t sure if I should call it a “lesson” or a traumatic memory that made my body shudder.

One thing was clear—I didn’t feel any gratitude.

Just anger.

I had once asked Raphael, “Do you think I’m capable of loving a child?”

Even if I couldn’t truly love them, I vowed never to let them realize it. Not until the day I died.

My mother, a prostitute, loved me.

Though she sometimes lost herself, she tried her best to love me as a parent. I couldn’t hate her for that.

And the proxy manager of the brothel? He loved me too.

Though I wasn’t his real daughter, he treated me as if I were, doing his best to care for me.

Without them, I might not be alive today.

If not for their love, I’d have succumbed to the thought that life was too cruel to be worth living.

Who would have imagined that little Raphael would grow up to be who he is now?

Children should be loved—not just by their parents but by adults in general.

To ensure they don’t grow up like me, they must experience as much happiness and joy as possible.

Sadness is inevitable, but it can wait.

As I thought about this, I felt a sudden urge to retrieve the cigar I had crumpled and thrown away. But I shook my head, trying to push the thought aside.

The more I tried, the stronger the temptation grew.

Maybe that’s why people say dependency is a bad habit.

It was just an old memory resurfacing, but it always left me unsettled.

My hands trembled slightly, and my head throbbed, but I could endure it.

“If you’re anxious, it’s okay to sit still and hide.

The first to charge in is often the first to die. It’s better to be a little scared.”

“…If that was meant to be comforting, you kind of failed.”

“I was just telling you my story.”

“Is it about the war you fought in?”

“…Yeah.”

Raphael rarely spoke of it, but the experience had clearly left him with deep wounds—especially in his heart.

As a child, he’d idolized knights as righteous and noble. Seeing their true nature must have been devastating.

Olivia—what should I call her now? Calling her “the prince’s consort” feels a bit clunky.

In any case, if it were her, she might have tended to the wounds festering in Raphael’s heart.

She might even have healed them entirely.

I wanted to do that too.

I wanted to bring happiness to others and offer solace to someone’s heart.

Everyone wants the person they love to feel joy when they look at them.

The reason I was going to see Libian was simple.

I had failed to tend to my wounds, and that failure had burdened Raphael. I needed to fix it.

I didn’t know how, but I thought meeting him might be a start.

Someday. Someday.

As I was lost in thought, a familiar scent of tobacco filled the room.

“Raphael, do you know why I’ve been holding onto that cigar all day but haven’t smoked it?”

“Huh?”

“I’m not quitting. It’s just bad for the baby.”

At my words, Raphael’s mouth fell open. He stared at me with a foolish expression, glancing back and forth between my stomach and face.

“W-wait, are you serious…?”

What expression would he show next?

I hoped he’d smile.

A worried look would be fine too.

But if he looked sad or troubled, I might feel like dying.

“I don’t know what to say. Should I thank you?”

Thankfully, Raphael didn’t seem to fully grasp the situation. He gave me a bright smile and hugged me tightly.

We hugged tightly for a long while before Raphael seemed to remember that we were heading to the mansion. In a low voice, he muttered,

“…Will you be okay seeing those people?”

“Isn’t it better to talk to them once and get it over with, rather than running into them in my nightmares every night?”

At my response, Raphael pulled me into another embrace.

Warmth from another person’s body was far more comforting than any words could be.

If the mood had taken us, maybe we would have shared a slightly awkward kiss and ended up on the bed. But now, we need to be careful.

So, we simply stayed like that, holding each other for a long time. 

Eventually, we laid down on the bed and, quite literally, just held hands as we fell asleep.

After several more days of walking toward the town, a carriage suddenly stopped in front of us. A group of people who appeared to be servants from the mansion poured out.

Through the slightly open door, I glimpsed the interior and recognized it as the carriage I’d ridden back when I left the mansion for the capital.

Among the group, a middle-aged man who seemed to be their leader stepped forward.

Where was the man who had been in charge before? This was a face I didn’t recognize.

Not that it mattered.

The middle-aged man straightened his posture, stroked his mustache with his right hand, and cleared his throat before addressing me.

“Are you Miss Marisela?”

His words were polite enough, but his attitude was rude.

His tone lacked sincerity, and his eyes looked at me as if I were something foreign and distasteful.

Initiating the conversation itself was already presumptuous.

They must have heard about someone like me being connected to the mansion.

And the fact that I had run off to live among commoners—how laughable I must have seemed to them.

To me, a butler was nothing special, but to commoners, they were lofty elites.

Humans are social creatures who instinctively seek to assert dominance when they see an easy target. I could understand this man’s behavior in that sense.

But understanding didn’t mean I could accept it.

If I were alone, I might have let it slide.

But this was in front of Raphael.

If I allowed myself to be treated like trash, Raphael would be dragged down with me.

“Yeah.”

“I’m here under the orders of the head of the household to escort you, Miss.”

I didn’t respond.

Instead, I stared at the man who was supposedly a butler for a long while.

The silence seemed to irritate him. He mumbled something, then opened his mouth again.

“Is there some sort of problem—!”

Smack. There wasn’t even a sound.

I clenched my fist and struck him in the throat.

The man grabbed at his neck, coughing violently, before glaring at me.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing!?”

“…I don’t think I owe you an explanation.”

I spoke softly, evenly, but that seemed to make him think he could still push his luck.

“No matter what, this is—”

I cut him off.

“Raphael, can you cut off his right arm for me?”

Raphael looked at me, his face tense, before nodding. He unsheathed his sword from his waist and, without hesitation, brought it down on the man’s right arm.

The sharp scent of blood hit me—something I hadn’t encountered in a while—and I wrinkled my nose slightly. 

I kicked aside the severed piece of flesh, now in the way, and approached the man as he writhed and screamed in pain.

His shrill cries were grating, and while I felt a twinge of regret for scuffing my shoe, I stomped on his mouth.

“If you knew who you were coming to fetch, you should’ve shown some basic courtesy.

Even if you’re nothing but a filthy, uneducated worm playing at being a butler.”

I pressed my foot down harder, and there was a satisfying crunch as his jaw dislocated.

The other servants stood frozen, too terrified of Raphael to intervene.

“Good thing you came with me, right?”

I smiled at Raphael as I said this, in a surprisingly cheerful mood.

He hesitated, his expression grim, before eventually nodding.

“Yeah,” he replied after a long pause.

Ah, the familiar atmosphere of the mansion.