Bitter Homecoming

Lowering her gaze to the dirt, Rosalind clamped her jaw shut and forced her battered body upright. She swallowed the copper taste of blood pooling in her mouth and dragged her feet toward the waiting carriage. Every movement sent sharp spikes of agony shooting up her ruined legs. Her knees trembled under her meager weight, threatening to buckle again, but she caught herself against the wooden frame. Clumsily, using both bruised hands and her scraped knees, she hauled herself into the cabin. The raw skin of her palms stung as they rubbed against the polished floorboards, a stark contrast to the mud and filth she carried with her.

Alistair turned his head, staring out the opposite window. He let out an audible scoff. Three years in the penal camp should have broken her stubborn pride. Yet here she was, moments after their reunion, putting on a theatrical display. He saw right through the trembling limbs and the ragged breathing. It was just another pathetic act designed to manipulate his sympathy. He refused to give her even a sliver of his attention.

He leaned back against the plush velvet seat, his expression carved from stone. He felt no personal affection for the wretched girl sitting across from him. If it were up to him, she would have rotted in the garrison until her dying breath. He only retrieved her because of a baffling, non-negotiable order from a high-ranking official back in Valcrest City. A man of such immense power had no business concerning himself with a disgraced, exiled daughter of the Ashbourne household. The mystery irritated Alistair. Why would someone so untouchable demand her immediate return the second he arrived in the city? It made no sense, but an order was an order.

The ride back to the estate passed in suffocating silence. Rosalind kept her eyes fixed on her frayed, mud-caked hem. She felt the heavy throb of her infected wounds pulsing in time with the carriage wheels rattling over the cobblestones. The pain was blinding, but she did not dare make a sound.

When the carriage finally rolled to a halt, Alistair pushed the door open before the footman could even reach for the handle. He stepped down onto the pristine pavement and shot a cold look at his subordinates.

"I have business back at camp," he instructed. He pointed a gloved finger back at the wooden cabin. "Once she is out, dispose of this carriage. Burn it to ash. I never want to see it again. It is filthy."

The cruel word struck Rosalind’s chest like a physical blow. Filthy. The dull, sinking ache radiated through her ribs, squeezing the remaining breath from her lungs. She looked down at her stained hands and dirty clothes. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Swallowing the sharp sting of humiliation, she maintained a flat expression and stepped down from the cabin.

The towering red gates of the Duke’s estate loomed over her, casting long shadows across the stone path. Waiting just beyond the grand entrance was her biological mother, Clarissa.

The moment Clarissa spotted Rosalind, she rushed forward, her expensive skirts rustling in the crisp breeze. Her eyes searched Rosalind’s emaciated frame, taking in the hollow cheeks and the lifeless stare. But instead of an embrace, her welcome was laced with rigid conditionality.

"My sweet daughter. It has been three years," Clarissa said, stopping just a foot away. Her voice carried a mix of relief and strict judgment. "Have you finally realized your mistake?"

"I have," Rosalind replied. Her voice held a flat, emotionless cadence.

Internally, the bitter truth settled over her. Her true mistake was not the fake poisoning that ruined her reputation. Her mistake was ever craving this family’s love. She had bled herself dry trying to earn a place that was never hers. Now, she resolved to sever those emotional ties for good. She would only stay within these imposing walls for as long as her grandmother, Eleanor, required her care. The moment that obligation ended, Rosalind would vanish from their lives forever.

Clarissa reached out to take Rosalind’s arm, an attempt at maternal comfort. Rosalind immediately stepped back. She deliberately maintained a cold physical distance, keeping her guard up against the woman who had cast her aside.

Clarissa’s hands froze in the air. Her expression twisted into deep sorrow. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over her powdered cheeks. She pulled a silk handkerchief from her embroidered sleeve and dabbed at her face, playing the wounded victim for the surrounding servants to see.

"You blame me for being harsh?" Clarissa wept, her voice trembling with manufactured grief. "I did it for your own good. To fix your character! What mother does not want the best for her child? Please, Rosalind... do not hold my past decisions against me. I have suffered too."

Before Rosalind could even process the sheer hypocrisy of a woman crying over the daughter she had abandoned to a brutal penal camp, a slender figure stepped gracefully out from the manor’s courtyard.

"Mother," a soft, melodious voice called out. "Rosalind has just come home. She is likely overwhelmed by the journey. Do not be upset if she needs time."

Ophelia floated down the front stone steps, wearing a pristine silk gown that caught the afternoon light. Her porcelain skin glowed with health, her delicate features arranged into a sweet, flawless smile. She moved to Clarissa’s side, gently supporting the weeping woman’s arm, playing the perfect role of the dutiful, loving daughter.

Then, Ophelia turned her wide, sincere eyes to Rosalind. She extended a delicate, unblemished hand.

"Rosalind," Ophelia said, her tone dripping with generous forgiveness. "I do not hold anything against you for what happened. Let us forget the past. We are family. We should love each other, just like before."

Unfiltered disgust flickered in Rosalind’s hollow eyes. She looked at Ophelia’s outstretched hand, then up at the harmless smile. The sheer audacity of the gesture churned Rosalind’s empty stomach. Three years of torture, and Ophelia thought a few sweet words would erase the blood on her hands.

"Love?" Rosalind asked, her voice cracking the heavy tension. She challenged the hollow sentiment head-on, her tone devoid of warmth. "Between you and me?"

"What is wrong with your attitude?" a booming voice snapped from the street behind them.

Rosalind flinched. Benedict, her older brother, strode toward the gates. He still wore his crimson official robes from the royal court, his face flushed with fury. He had swung off his mount moments prior, and the sight of Rosalind’s cold rejection instantly shattered whatever patience he possessed.

"Ophelia goes out of her way to be kind, and you throw it back in her face?" Benedict fiercely berated Rosalind, stopping beside Ophelia like a protective shield. He glared down at his biological sister as if she were a rat pulled from the gutters. "Do you think you are the only one who suffered these past three years? You have no idea what Mother went through. She lost sleep night after night. Her hair is turning white because of your viciousness! You tarnished this family name!"

Rosalind stared at him. The barrage of accusations hammered against her exhausted mind, but she refused to step back.

"If it were not for Ophelia stepping up, fulfilling your duties, and taking care of Mother, who knows what would have happened?" Benedict sneered, elevating Ophelia’s supposed selflessness to saint-like heights. "Ophelia even covered for you! She told everyone in high society that you never poisoned her. She protected the rumors from destroying you further, and you stand there acting like the victim? Show some gratitude!"

Benedict stepped closer, his imposing shadow falling over Rosalind’s bruised face. "Speak! Are you a mute now?"

Rosalind blinked. She struggled to hold back the sudden, sharp sting of tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Looking at the venom twisting Benedict’s features, she vividly remembered a different brother. She remembered the boy who had once cherished her above all else.

When the estate servants had mocked Rosalind's poor manners, Benedict had stepped in and taken the punishing lashes on her behalf to spare her pain. He had stayed by her bedside through blistering winter fevers, holding her hand. He had spent weeks carving a wooden pendant for her birthday, promising to split his love equally between her and Ophelia.

Yet, all that fierce devotion had vanished into thin air the very second Ophelia feigned a stomach ache and spat a mouthful of blood. A love so easily withdrawn was worthless. It was built on sand, ready to collapse at the first drop of rain.

Realizing she had nothing left to say to a man who despised her, Rosalind remained silent. She clamped her lips shut and looked past his shoulder, her face a mask of bitter resignation.

Sensing the palpable, suffocating tension thickening the air, Clarissa hastily stepped forward. She wiped her eyes and plastered on a strained smile to smooth things over before a scene could erupt in the street.

"Enough. What is done is done," Clarissa said, waving her hands in a flustered motion. "Let us go inside. Your father and grandmother are waiting in the main hall."

Benedict scoffed. He gave a dismissive wave of his crimson sleeve toward Rosalind, treating her like an unwanted beggar lingering on their doorstep. Then, he turned his back on her. The moment his gaze landed on Ophelia, his harsh, furious demeanor instantly melted into gentle warmth.

"Come here, Ophelia," he said softly, his voice full of the tender affection he had just ruthlessly denied Rosalind.

"Yes, Benedict," Ophelia chimed.

As Ophelia moved to take Benedict’s arm, she paused. Over her brother’s shoulder, Ophelia cast a silent, triumphant glance straight at Rosalind. The sweet, innocent facade cracked for just a fraction of a second, revealing the smug victory underneath.

Rosalind met that look without flinching. She hardened her resolve right then and there. Ophelia could have them all. The doting brothers, the weeping mother, the strict father, the detached fiancé. Rosalind no longer wanted any part of the illusion.

Yet, even with her mind firmly made up, watching the familial betrayal unfold right in front of her still caused a deep, ragged ache in her chest. Her throat tightened, choking the breath from her lungs, and the sting behind her eyes burned brighter than ever.