The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 425: Saint and Sinner

"I’ve been trying so hard to understand," Ophelia continued, leaning forward just enough to bring the scent of lavender and soap into his space. "What makes her so... captivating? What draws people into her orbit, even when it burns them? What draws you to her, Soren?"

The question was soft, curious, almost innocent. But underneath it, Soren saw the hook. She was fishing for a confession, trying to bait him into admitting his own struggles with Eris so they could bond over their mutual "victimhood."

Soren’s response was measured, as cold and precise as a glacier. "Eris is... complicated," he said, giving her absolutely nothing. "Our marriage is one of state and necessity. Her ’effect’ is not something I spend my nights analyzing. I am more concerned with the stability of her health and the security of the North."

Ophelia didn’t miss a beat. When the intellectual probe failed, she pivoted to the emotional. She tilted her head, her eyes filling with tears that finally began to track down her cheeks.

"I just want to understand," she sobbed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I feel so... inadequate compared to her. I try so hard to be good. I try to be the wife Caelen needs, to be the light in his darkness. I’m carrying his child, Soren, and yet... he still thinks of her."

She looked at him with a gaze that was a masterclass in manipulation... helpless, lost, needing guidance. She was presenting herself as the "good girl" who was being punished for her virtue, the saint being trampled by the sinner.

Soren watched her, but he wasn’t charmed. He wasn’t moved to comfort her. In fact, everything about the scene felt fundamentally wrong. The timing, the dress, the barefoot arrival... it was too perfect. It was a performance. He had spent his life surrounded by court vipers; he knew the difference between a woman in pain and a woman using her pain as a weapon.

Ophelia saw the lack of movement in him and felt a surge of genuine desperation. Her tactics were failing. The "damsel" wasn’t working on the Ice Emperor.

"I just feel so alone." she spoke again, her voice finally breaking. She stood up abruptly, the velvet robe falling open slightly to reveal the silk nightgown beneath. She moved around the desk, toward him. "You’re the only one who has been kind to me since we arrived. The only one who sees how hard I’m trying."

She reached him before he could move, her hands coming up to wipe at her eyes. "I’m sorry," she whispered, stepping into his personal space, her breath warm against his chin. "I shouldn’t burden you with this. I’m just so frightened."

She went for the hug. Her arms reached out, her body angling to press against his chest, a move intended to force an intimacy he hadn’t invited.

Soren reacted with the fluid, defensive grace of a soldier. He didn’t push her, but he stepped back smoothly, his hands coming up to catch her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. His grip was firm, unyielding.

"Ophelia," he said, his voice concerned but as distant as the stars. "You are upset. And you are pregnant. The hour is late, and the chill in this wing is not good for you or the child."

He began to steer her toward the door, never letting his hands drop to a more intimate position. "You should rest. You are overextended."

"No, I... I just needed someone to talk to... " she protested, trying to lean back into his space.

"You need rest," Soren repeated, his voice gaining a hard, imperial edge that brook no argument. He was using her own pregnancy card against her. "For the baby’s sake. It is nearly midnight. I will not have it said that the Emperor kept a lady of the court from her bed while she was in such a delicate state."

He reached the door and pulled it open with one hand, his other still keeping the distance between them. "Guard!" he called into the hall.

A soldier appeared instantly.

"Please escort Lady Ophelia back to her chambers," Soren commanded. "See that she arrives safely and notify her maids to prepare her a warm tea. Ensure she has everything she needs."

He turned back to Ophelia, his expression a wall of polite dismissal. "If you find yourself needing further guidance tomorrow, I suggest you speak to Caelen. He is your husband, and your primary concern should be reconciling with him. Good night, Ophelia."

Ophelia stood in the doorway, the cool air of the corridor hitting her bare skin. She had no choice. To linger now would move her from "vulnerable" to "desperate," and she could see in Soren’s eyes that he had already closed the door on her.

"Of course," she said, her voice tight, the sweetness curdling into something sharp. "Thank you, Your Majesty. For your... wisdom."

She turned and followed the servant, her head held high, maintaining her composure until the turn in the hallway took her out of Soren’s sight.

The moment she was alone in the dark of the secondary corridor, the mask dropped. Her face contorted into a snarl of pure, humiliated rage. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms.

Nothing, she thought, her mind replaying the rejection with agonizing clarity. Nothing worked. He didn’t even look at me. Not the way he looks at her. Even when he’s avoiding her, his entire soul is anchored to her. I stood there in my shift, crying for his help, and he treated me like a broken piece of furniture that needed to be moved back to its proper room.

The humiliation burned worse than the cold floor. She had debased herself, played the fool, and he hadn’t even been tempted.

As she walked back to her lonely chambers, the "good girl" within her began to wither and die. She realized that her virtue was a useless shield against a woman like Eris. Kindness had gotten her a husband who didn’t love her and an Emperor who found her a nuisance.

Eris is a villainess, Ophelia thought, her eyes glowing with a new, dark light as she reached her door. She is ruthless. She is cunning. She is dangerous. And she has everything.

She stepped into her room and shut the door, leaning against the wood just as Soren had done hours before. But she wasn’t longing for love. She was longing for control.

Maybe that’s what I need to be, she whispered to the empty room. Maybe kindness is just another word for weakness. If I cannot be the saint they love, I will be the queen they fear.

The seed of resentment had fully sprouted into a dark, thorny vine. The transformation had begun. Tonight, the Saint of Solmire had died in a drafty hallway, and something far more dangerous had taken her place.