The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 423: Failed Currency

The doors to the private dining room had barely clicked shut behind Eris when the temperature in the room seemed to plummet, leaving Caelen and Ophelia in a vacuum of suffocating silence. The remnants of the meal... a half-eaten quail, a stain of red wine on the linen... looked like the ruins of a battlefield.

Ophelia sat perfectly still. To any observer, she looked like a portrait of serene womanhood, her hands resting on the gentle curve of her stomach. But beneath the pale skin of her knuckles, the blood was humming with a cold, electric fury. She could still taste the iron of Eris’s final retort.

"Hearts choose poorly." The words were a brand, a reminder that Eris considered Caelen’s love an error, while Ophelia considered it her entire world.

Caelen watched her, his own heart heavy with a leaden, useless guilt. He could see the tension in the set of her jaw, the way she refused to look at the space Eris had occupied. He wanted to fix it. He wanted to reach across the distance he had created and pull her back from the ledge.

"Ophelia..." Caelen reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he covered hers. His touch was gentle, filled with a desperate, hovering concern. "Are you alright? That was...."

He wanted to apologize. He wanted to say he was sorry for the way he had looked at Eris, sorry for the ring, sorry for the fact that his wife felt the need to claw for her dignity at their own table.

Ophelia didn’t flinch. She simply slid her hand out from under his, the movement fluid and firm. She turned to him, and for a terrifying second, the mask was gone... replaced by something sharp and hollow. Then, as quickly as it had vanished, the "Saint" returned. She offered him a sweet, airy smile that was as fake as a winter bloom made of wax.

"I’m fine, Caelen," she said, her voice light, almost melodic. "Truly."

"You don’t seem fine," Caelen pressed, his brow furrowed. "The things you said to her... and what she said back... we should talk about it."

"Really, I’m just tired," Ophelia interrupted, her voice gaining a soft, fluttering edge. She stood gracefully, one hand moving instinctively to her belly, cradling the four-month life within. It was the perfect shield. "The baby, you know. He’s been quite active today. I think the excitement of the evening was just a bit much for both of us."

She offered him another vacuous smile, one that acted as a wall rather than an invitation. "I think I’ll retire early. Don’t worry about me, Caelen. I just need sleep."

She walked away before he could offer an arm to escort her, her movements regal and untouchable. Caelen was left alone with the dirty dishes and the Echo of Eris’s laughter.

The moment the heavy oak doors closed behind her, Ophelia’s smile vanished like a candle blown out in a gale. Her jaw clenched so hard the muscles ached. She didn’t head toward the bedchambers she shared with Caelen. She began to pace the darkened corridor, her breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.

I lost, she thought, the realization stinging worse than any insult. She won again. Even when I strike, she parries with that effortless, bored grace. Even her comeback was better.

The anger was no longer a simmer; it was a boil. For years, Ophelia had played the role of the merciful healer, the kind noblewoman of Solmire, the soft alternative to Eris’s jagged fire.

And what had it gotten her? A husband who used her as a replacement. A court that respected her but feared her rival. A life spent in the shadow of a "villainess" who seemed to get everything she wanted without even lifting a finger.

Being sweet isn’t working, she realized, her eyes narrowing as she stared at a frost-covered window.

Being kind gets me nothing but pity and second place. While she... she burns the world down and they worship her for the heat. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

If kindness was a failed currency, Ophelia decided it was time to change the mint. Her mind began to race, weaving through the players on the board. Caelen was useless... he was too far gone, too broken by his own shame. But there was another man. A man who was currently being frozen out by the same woman who had ruined Ophelia’s peace.

Soren.

She knew the rumors. She knew Soren was sleeping in his study.

If I can’t win my husband back from her memory, Ophelia thought, a dark, manipulative spark igniting in her chest, perhaps I can show the Emperor what he’s missing. I can remind him that there is a woman in this palace who understands duty, who understands soft words, and who doesn’t come with the scent of smoke and betrayal.

She wouldn’t go to him now. No, that was too impulsive. She needed the right atmosphere. She needed the silence of the late hours, when the mind was tired and the heart was lonely.

She returned to her chambers briefly, dismissing her maids with a soft-spoken lie about a headache. "I need rest," she told them, watching them flutter away like nervous birds.

Once alone, she began to prepare. This wasn’t about seduction... not exactly. Soren was a man of honor; a direct assault would only repulse him. This was about vulnerability.

She shed her stiff, embroidered dinner gown, choosing instead a nightgown of fine, cream-colored silk that draped softly over her pregnant form.

She pulled a heavy velvet robe over it, one that she could pull tight to seem small and fragile. She sat before her mirror and unpinned her hair, letting the bright ginger waves fall over her shoulders in a messy, "just-out-of-bed" cascade. Finally, she kicked off her slippers.

Barefoot. Helpless. A lost girl in a cold castle.

She waited. She watched the hourglass on her mantle, the sand slipping away as the palace settled into the deep, indigo silence of midnight.