Sold As A Slave, Returned To Be Queen - Chapter 12: Chapter 12

When Edward mentioned the Holy Grail painting from years ago, Valeria's expression flickered. She quickly turned her head away, unable to meet his eyes, and no longer dared speak on Charlotte's behalf. All she could do was quietly dab at her tears.
As if squeezing out a few more tears might somehow lessen the pain Charlotte had endured over the years.
Charlotte remained kneeling, her forehead pressed to the cold floor, her mind blank to whatever Edward was yelling. But deep inside, a slow, twisting ache rose—sharper, somehow, than the pain in her battered body. It clung to her ribs, her throat—familiar and unbearable.
When she was little, no matter how busy Edward was, he'd always come to see her first after court.
He'd lift her into his arms like she was the most precious thing in the world, his face lit with warmth and fatherly pride.
That version of him had disappeared the day Charlotte was sent to the Red Pavilion. Since then, she and the rest of the Hastings family might as well have been strangers.
Otherwise, why hadn't this so-called father come to see her even once since her return?
"General Hastings," Charlotte said, her voice clear and cold, "my surname is Gibbs. I have no ties to the Hastings family. Whatever I do has nothing to do with your name."
There was no trace left of the soft, sweet girl who used to cling to his sleeve and call him Father. Her voice now was sharp, cutting, and distant.
Edward paused, momentarily thrown off by her tone. But a beat later, fury surged back even stronger.
He thought of the King's recent pressure, the sideways glances from colleagues, the barely veiled mockery—and all of it, he decided, could be traced back to her. The imposter. The shame of the family. Any trace of affection he might've once had was long gone.
As far as he was concerned, he'd already done more than enough for her.
Back when she caused that catastrophe, the Hastings family could have disowned her outright. If not for the years they'd spent as father and daughter, they would've cut ties completely.
"Three years in the Red Pavilion—you brought that on yourself. You're the one who betrayed this family. When did the Hastings family ever wrong you? We fed you, clothed you, gave you everything—only to raise a snake in our own house!
"And now you sneak off to that kind of filthy place? With Brielle's wedding just around the corner? What do you think the Marquis' household will say? What will outsiders think of a daughter raised by the Hastings family? You did this on purpose, didn't you? You want to ruin Brielle's name.
"Someone—bring the rod. Punish her. Hard."
The more he spoke, the more convinced he became. In his mind, there was only one explanation: Charlotte was jealous. Jealous that Brielle was about to marry into nobility—taking the future that once belonged to her.
He could still hear the mocking voices from court that morning. His peers had casually mentioned seeing Charlotte at Gilded Cage, their words laced with smug amusement. A few even hinted at her time in the Red Pavilion, suggesting that no matter how she dressed, filth still clung to her bones.
It was humiliation. Pure and public. And now he was going to make someone pay.
Charlotte opened her mouth to speak—but before she could get a word out, someone shoved a cloth into her mouth, gagging her.
Two strong nursemaids held her down. A thick wooden rod came crashing down onto her back, then again—this time across her not-yet-healed leg.
By the second strike, the wounds had already reopened. Blood began seeping through the fabric of her dress.
Valeria sobbed harder at the sight—but Charlotte didn't hear a single word of protest from her. And that silence was the cruelest part of all.
How ironic. Valeria didn't dare plead for her—not because she didn't care, but because she was afraid. Afraid Edward might bring up the Holy Grail painting again, afraid the truth she'd hidden to protect her precious daughter, Brielle, might come to light.
So afraid… that she would rather stand there and watch Charlotte be beaten to death.
Charlotte had long since stopped expecting anything from the woman who called herself her mother. But watching those two sitting above her now—cold, distant, and pretending to care—her heart finally went completely cold.
She thought, 'Fine. Let this be the debt repaid for the years the Hastings family raised me.
'If my life ends here, then so be it.
'How fittingly ironic.'
Her vision blurred, but through the haze, she thought she heard the voice of Rosalie.
Rosalie—frail but dignified—rushed into the hall, leaning on Lilith Moore for support. The moment she saw Charlotte lying there, covered in blood, she nearly collapsed from shock.
"You two! How could you be so heartless?" she cried, voice trembling with fury. "She just came back from that place—her wounds haven't even healed—and you're already beating her like this?
"What, would it please you more if she died right here? Would that finally make you happy?"
Edward, still fuming moments ago, now looked slightly uncomfortable. He hadn't noticed how bad her condition was.
Of course, he hadn't meant to beat her to death. 'But is her body really this weak? Just two blows, and she is already like this?
'God knows if she is faking it again, trying to manipulate me into feeling guilty,' he thought.
With that thought, his voice hardened.
"Mother, this isn't your concern. Everyone already knows she went to Gilded Cage. If we don't discipline her, where's the Hastings family's dignity?"
"You're blaming her based on gossip?" Rosalie snapped. "Did you even ask her maid? Or anyone else in the household?"
She might've been old, but she wasn't senile. Her sharp gaze landed squarely on Valeria, who had done nothing but cry uselessly the entire time.
"Isn't her maid the one you arranged? Don't tell me you don't know whether she even left her room last night."
The words hit Valeria like a bolt of lightning. She froze on the spot.
Brielle had been unwell all morning, and in the chaos, Valeria had completely forgotten to ask Gracie…
"But—"
Edward frowned. He knew, deep down, that he'd acted too hastily. But having Rosalie side with someone she considered an outsider only made him feel more stifled.
"I've been sick for days," Rosalie continued, her voice hoarse, "and the only one who's visited me was Charlotte. If not for her, I might have died in this house without anyone noticing—just waiting to meet your father in the afterlife."
Her words were heavy, soaked in grief and disappointment. Filial piety—that was a burden no proper son could ignore.
The mention of the late Old General Christopher Hastings made Edward shift uncomfortably, a rare flicker of shame appearing on his face.
"Brielle's been unwell," he muttered, "so yes, I've neglected you. But she's your granddaughter…"
"I'm old, and I know my place," Rosalie cut in. "Of course you'd give the best of everything to your daughter. But I only have Charlotte left. As long as I can see her, I still have a reason to live.
"And now you beat her like this? What, are you trying to send me to my grave too?"
Her voice shook as her knees buckled again. Lilith caught her just in time as she gasped for breath, her face pale as ash—like she might faint at any moment.
If news got out that Rosalie had collapsed from anger—because Edward had beaten Charlotte half to death—the whole Aurenshire would be whispering by morning about how Edward had driven his own mother to the brink.
He felt his rage boiling over, but there was nothing he could do. Looking down at Charlotte's unconscious body, he felt no guilt—only deeper irritation and disgust.
"Fine," he spat. "Since you insist… take the ungrateful girl back."