The Wounds Revealed

Clarissa’s gaze raked over Rosalind, her brow creasing in sharp displeasure. She scanned the girl from head to toe, wondering why the fine, expensive robe looked so dreadfully oversized on her thin frame. The rich silk hung off her shoulders like a lifeless sack, a stark contrast to the opulent setting of the grand estate.

Before Rosalind could even utter a word of greeting, Benedict shattered the room's tense atmosphere. He stepped forward. A tall shadow blocked her path to the rest of the family. He carried the stern, unforgiving authority of a Justice Ministry official. His eyes narrowed, stripping away any trace of familial warmth. He stood tall and rigid, treating her like a criminal standing on trial.

"Are you doing this on purpose?" he snapped. His deep voice bounced off the polished mahogany walls of the grand room. "Three years wasn't enough to teach you some manners? Are you still playing your pathetic little games?"

Rosalind stood silent, her face a blank mask. She did not shrink back from his imposing figure.

Benedict pointed an accusing finger at her draped clothes. "I told you to present yourself properly. Why are you putting on a pathetic show in front of Grandmother? Are you trying to make her feel sorry for you? Do you want to upset her so badly she falls ill?"

Rosalind met his hostility with a cool, detached smile. She raised a singular eyebrow, letting his baseless accusations hang in the stale air. She did not raise her voice. She did not defend her character.

"The Duchess picked out the clothes," Rosalind deflected smoothly. "What did you expect me to arrive wearing? Did you want me to show up in the filthy rags I brought back from the penal garrison?"

The sharp retort silenced him. Benedict parted his lips, but no sound came out. The air vanished from his lungs. Her words hit him like a physical blow. The Duchess. Since stepping foot inside the estate, Rosalind used formal titles. She called Clarissa the Duchess rather than Mother. She refused to address him as her brother.

The realization struck a raw nerve. Benedict frowned, swallowing hard. The harsh reprimands died on his tongue. He realized she had stripped him of his title as her brother, severing the bond with a few words.

Clarissa intervened to smooth over the awkwardness. She plastered on a fake smile. "That was my oversight," she said, waving her hand. "Step aside, Benedict. Let her through."

Benedict stepped aside. Rosalind approached the head of the room.

The moment Eleanor's eyes landed on Rosalind, they lit up with profound, trembling emotion. The frail old woman pushed herself forward in her seat, her hands shaking as she reached out.

"Come here. Come to me," Eleanor rasped.

She pulled Rosalind into a tight, desperate hug. The Dowager Duchess possessed little physical strength, but she locked her frail arms around Rosalind as if holding onto a lifeline. Tears spilled down Eleanor's wrinkled cheeks, soaking into the fabric of Rosalind's oversized robe. She choked back her sobs, burying her face against Rosalind’s bony shoulder.

"My sweet girl," Eleanor cried, her voice wrecked with grief and guilt. "You suffered. It is my fault. I am too old. Too useless. I couldn't protect my own grandchild from this nightmare."

Rosalind closed her eyes. She remembered the past. When the world turned against her, Eleanor was the only one who alienated the rest of the family to stand by her side. That fierce loyalty was the only genuine affection Rosalind had ever known in this cold estate.

A sharp sting flared in Rosalind’s nose. She lifted her arms and wrapped them around the frail old woman.

"Grandmother," she whispered.

Watching this genuine display of affection, Clarissa felt a bitter pang of jealousy tightening her chest. Rosalind stood in her own home, yet she refused to call her mother. Clarissa pressed a silk handkerchief against her dry eyes, playing the part of a grieving parent shut out by an ungrateful child. She found solace only when a soft hand grasped her arm.

Her obedient, beloved Ophelia stepped up. "Do not be sad, Mother," Ophelia murmured, her tone dripping with fake sweetness. "Rosalind is home now."

Clarissa looked down at Ophelia and breathed a sigh of relief. She found immense comfort in the girl's presence. At least Ophelia understood her pain.

The fragile, tearful peace shattered a moment later.

Eleanor pulled back from the hug to look at Rosalind’s face. In doing so, the old woman caught sight of Rosalind’s hands.

Eleanor gasped. Horror paralyzed her. She stared down at the mangled flesh.

Rosalind’s once-delicate fingers were ruined. The skin was a horrific canvas of abuse. Blackened bruises and jagged welts covered her knuckles. Ancient knife wounds crisscrossed over the back of her hands, vanishing under the long sleeves of her robe. Fresh, angry burns dotted her wrists, the scabs still raw and peeling. The brutal reality of her torture was on full display.

Eleanor quivered. She traced a trembling finger in the air above a jagged scar, terrified to actually touch the broken skin. "A labor camp," she whispered, her voice breaking into a horrified sob. "How does a labor camp result in such mangled flesh?"

A mix of feigned and genuine shock rippled through the family. Clarissa lowered her handkerchief, staring at the fresh burns. Benedict’s jaw went slack.

Surrounded by their staring eyes, Rosalind buried the crushing emptiness deep inside her. With an eerie calm, she stated the harsh reality.

"The injuries came from the camp overseers."

Eleanor trembled, her fury rising above her horror. "How dare they? You are a Duke's daughter! That camp operates under your fiancé's command. How could anyone lay a finger on you without consequence?"

Rosalind’s smile grew cold. She stared straight ahead. "Because someone gave the order."

The words dropped like heavy stones. The implication hung thick in the air. Benedict’s face turned red with fury. He stepped forward again, his fists clenched tight at his sides.

"Why didn't you fight back?" Benedict demanded, his voice cracking with misplaced anger. "You let them do that to you? You just stood there and took it?"

Rosalind’s voice remained flat. She sounded like a dead woman recounting a story that did not belong to her. "Do you think a place like that gave me the right to speak? Let alone resist? Being quiet meant fewer beatings. That was the reality of my survival."

She locked eyes with Benedict, refusing to look away. "Isn't this what you wanted? You sent me there to be 'taught a lesson.' You wanted me to behave. Well, I learned my lesson. I am quiet now."

That lifeless smile drove a blade of guilt straight into Benedict's chest. His rigid posture cracked. His expression began to soften, his lips parting as the crushing weight of her suffering started to register in his mind. He saw the horrific consequences of his self-righteous judgment written in the scars on her skin.

Before Benedict could utter a single word of apology, Ophelia hijacked the narrative.

"This is all my fault!" Ophelia wailed. She dissolved into sudden, quivering sobs, throwing her hands over her face.

She cried as if she were the actual victim of the torture. Her chest heaved. Tears flooded her cheeks. She stumbled backward, clutching the fabric over her heart, drawing every pair of eyes in the room toward her trembling frame.

"I should be blamed," Ophelia sobbed, her voice echoing with dramatic despair. "If my body wasn't so weak, if I hadn't reacted to that medicine, Rosalind never would have been punished! It is my existence that caused her pain. I am a burden to everyone. I will exile myself to the countryside. I will go live with my birth parents and leave you all in peace!"

The atmosphere in the room shifted. The attention snapped away from Rosalind's bleeding wounds. Ophelia weaponized her tears with absolute perfection, turning the family's sympathy back to her own fabricated victimhood.

Clarissa abandoned Rosalind without a second thought. She rushed to Ophelia's side, throwing her arms around the weeping girl.

"Do not say that, darling," Clarissa pleaded, stroking Ophelia's hair. "Please do not cry. You are not a burden."

Panic seized Benedict. He abandoned his creeping guilt and rushed forward. He jumped in to scold Ophelia, terrified of her fragile state.

"You know your health is fragile! Why are you risking it with tears?" Benedict hovered over her, his hands reaching out. "If you fall ill again, we will all be worried sick."

Benedict then turned his head. He shot Rosalind a sharp, glaring look of blame. His eyes accused her of upsetting the entire room. He blamed Rosalind for making Ophelia cry. He blamed her for exposing her scars and disrupting their peaceful existence.

The heavy mahogany doors swung open. Maids rushed in. Everyone swarmed Ophelia. They guided her to a velvet chair. They offered her hot water, shoved medicine into her trembling hands, and showered her with soothing words.

Forgotten, Rosalind stood alone in the center of the room. The extravagant crystal chandelier above cast long, mocking shadows across the polished floorboards. She watched them coddle Ophelia over a few fake tears, while her own burned and broken body meant nothing to them. She listened to their panicked voices, their desperate reassurances, and their gentle touches. No one looked back at her. No one asked if her bleeding wrists needed bandages. She realized she was the manufactured cause of all their guilt, worry, and pain. She was the only one to blame.