Chapter 47 Her Death Is Not Your Fault
Caroline's face was cold before she even realized it. When she lifted a hand to touch it, her fingertips slid across a thin film of dampness—tears that had dried and left a trace.
She rarely slept like this. It hadn't been restful, but it had been long, and her dreams had been strangely calm. In those dreams, she had seen a past that was warm and quiet... a past that had never truly belonged to her.
She had only been a silent figure in the background, a shadow watching Alexander from a distance, never able to step into his line of sight. Just like in the dream, Alexander had never loved her. His gentleness, his rare smiles, the moments when his anger could be soothed—those had all been for Edith.
If she had seen that truth earlier...
If, on the day she heard Alexander was going to propose to Edith, she hadn't let her pathetic jealousy and grief drive her to run away from home...
If she had not gone to that dock, Edith would never have gone to look for her.
Then maybe everything that followed—the endless pain, the humiliation, the years of torment—would never have happened.
But there were no ifs.
Her tears slid down again, silent, soaking into the pillow. Her throat tightened, blocking everything inside her. The suffocating silence left her unable to even sob. She lay there for a long time, until the pillow beneath her was chilled, before she pulled herself free from the clutches of regret.
She sat up. Outside the window, daylight had already broken. A new day had begun.
For her, it was just another repetition of the same agony. But habit—drilled into her over years—pushed her to move. She stepped out of bed, her motions were mechanical.
The burn on her leg had eased slightly overnight, leaving only a faint sting. Compared to the pain she had known before, this was nothing—barely worth a wince.
She moved to the small bathroom, washed her face with cold water, changed into clean clothes, and opened the door. Holding onto the wall for balance, she made her way slowly down the stairs.
She moved toward the kitchen without thinking.
For five years, whenever Alexander was present, preparing breakfast had been her set routine. It had nothing to do with love or pleasing him—only with the hollow role of "wife" she had been forced to play.
Even if he almost never ate, even if he didn't glance at it, she still had to prepare it, place it exactly where he wanted it, and then step back like a prisoner awaiting judgment. Watching him—maybe he would come, maybe he wouldn't, maybe he would only glance at it before walking away.
She pushed the kitchen door open and froze.
Several maids were already working inside.
Caroline stood in the doorway, staring blankly. Was she no longer needed here?
"Oh, madam, you're awake?" A woman in her fifties, with a gentle smile, noticed her first. She set down her cloth and walked over quickly.
"You still have an injury on your leg. You should rest more. We'll take care of breakfast, don't worry."
Caroline looked at her, momentarily dazed. The woman's smile was genuine—without condescension, without the forced politeness she had grown used to. It was a simple kind of care, so simple it felt unreal.
The other maids glanced over too, smiling at her with quiet nods. No mockery. No cruelty. No sharp words.
These maids... were not like the ones at the apartment.
"Madam?" The plump maid tilted her head, her smile deepening when Caroline didn't answer.
"Don't you remember me? I'm Kenna. When you were young, you and Ms. Edith Neville used to visit the Hamilton Mansion all the time. Back then, you loved my cookies—always sneaking into the kitchen to find me."
Caroline repeated the name silently in her head, and after a long moment, the rusted cogs of memory began to turn. Kenna had worked for Alexander's family since he was a boy.
When she and Edith were still children, they would sometimes come to the Hamilton Mansion with their parents. Rainey hadn't liked them much, but she had been polite enough. Alexander, even then, had his own mind. He didn't follow his mother's preferences entirely—he welcomed them warmly, especially Edith.
Kenna had always smelled faintly of fresh-baked sweets. She would slip them cookies still warm from the oven. Edith would eat them happily, her eyes curving like crescents, saying in her sweet voice, "Thank you, Kenna."
Caroline had liked them too, but she had always eaten carefully, as if afraid to take too much. She had always believed that kindness was meant for Edith, and she was only allowed the crumbs of it.
After Edith's death, everything had changed. Caroline had never seen Kenna again, and she had stopped recalling old faces.
But Kenna was still here. Still working in Alexander's private home.
Warmth rose in Caroline's chest; someone still remembered her. But with it came a sharper ache. The world had changed. Kenna was still the same gentle woman, but Caroline was no longer the girl who could laugh with her sister over stolen cookies.
She was the one who had destroyed Edith. The prisoner that Alexander despised.
Her eyes burned, and she lowered her head quickly to hide the wetness.
"Madam, are you feeling unwell?" Kenna stepped closer, steadying Caroline's arm when she noticed her slight sway.
"You look so pale... and too thin. I heard you've been unwell lately, but I didn't realize it was this bad. Oh, dear... the dead cannot return, and you shouldn't punish yourself so much. Ms. Edith Neville's death... it was an accident. No one could blame you."
Caroline lifted her head slowly, staring at Kenna.
It was the first time anyone had said such words to her. If someone had told her this five years ago, maybe it would have given her a small measure of comfort.
But now, hearing it brought only sadness—no relief, no spark of emotion beyond grief.
No. It was no accident. Everyone knew Edith's death was her fault.
Kenna's kindness was genuine... but it didn't erase her guilt.