Chapter 1 Three Years’ Punishment

“I’m warning you one last time—keep your mouth shut when you leave. Whatever happened in the past three years, bury it and forget it, got it? Don’t think being the daughter of a duke’s estate means someone’s going to back you up! There never was anyone before, and there sure won’t be in the future.”

Athena Monson’s face was expressionless, her voice hollow. She nodded meekly, not daring to defy the steward.

Leaning against the wall for support, she slowly made her way out of the camp.

She had once lit up Pidence City with her dazzling dance. Now her knees, ruined from years of injury, could barely hold her weight. Without medicine, even her skill in healing was useless.

Just outside the camp, she heard someone call her name. Flinching, she lifted her head hesitantly.

What met her eyes was a majestic steed, a royal gift, and astride it sat the Marquis of Somers—Michael Osborne. The famed war god himself.

He sat tall and poised, broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, his face strikingly handsome. He still carried that same air of noble elegance.

This was the man she had loved for three long years. She had seen this scene in her dreams countless times—him finally coming to take her home.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

Because it was him—he was the one who had thrown her into this hellish camp, ordering others to “teach her a lesson.”

The cold indifference in his eyes made her already shattered heart tremble again.

“I can take you home,” Michael said, looking down at her from his horse, eyes like ice, his tone as sharp as a blade. “But tell me—do you finally admit you were wrong?”

“If you hadn’t poisoned the pastries back then, Willow wouldn’t be living with a chronic illness. She still needs daily medicine. You only suffered three years of punishment—she’ll suffer for the rest of her life. You owe her forever!”

When Athena remained silent, Michael snapped, “Answer me! Do you admit your guilt?”

The sudden sharpness in his voice made her jump. Reflexively, she shut her eyes, wrapped her arms around her head, and crouched down, crying out, “I admit it! I was wrong! I’ll never do it again!”

But the lash she expected never came. Only then did she remember—he was the Marquis of Somers. A man like him would never lower himself to beat someone like her.

Still, she truly had been wrong. She was wrong to care. Wrong to love. Wrong to give her heart to people who treated it like nothing.

When she’d first been thrown into the camp, she still clung to a shred of hope.

She had thought, ‘My fiancé can’t really be that heartless. He has protected me since our engagement—risking his life, even, to spare me from harm. And my parents in the duke’s estate—surely, they would come for me. I have been framed.’

But she waited. And waited. And what came instead was nothing but torment—merciless, day after day, at the hands of the soldiers.

She was a noblewoman, not a camp whore. They didn’t dare touch her, which only made them more creative in how they broke her.

Sometimes, they beat her with slender whips made specifically for disciplining women—tools that cut deep and left her flesh in tatters. Other times, they stripped her naked and tossed her into the snow.

They were waiting for her to beg. To give in. To offer her body in exchange for a bite of food or a few days of peace.

But she never did. So their torment grew nastier, more degrading, every time.

Eventually, she stopped fighting back—not out of obedience, but because she no longer had the strength to resist.

“Athena, what game are you playing now?” Michael frowned, his tone sharp with disdain.

He wondered, ‘Three years of discipline, and she’s ended up this pathetic?’

The once-glowing beauty of her face was gone—now it was sickly pale and hollow. Her waist, once soft and full, had thinned so much it looked like it might snap under a strong breeze.

He thought, ‘Trying to act pitiful? I am not falling for it. I personally ordered my men to take good care of her. There is no way she’s truly been mistreated.’

Turning away, Michael dismounted. He reached out a hand toward her. “Get in the carriage.”

But she recoiled like a wounded animal, clutching her head, eyes blank, voice trembling as she pleaded, “No… please don’t… don’t touch me…”

“That’s enough,” he snapped. “Still pretending to be pitiful?”

His voice turned colder. “What, is this your way of making me feel guilty?”

Athena slowly came back to herself. Her voice was dry, hoarse. She gave a hollow laugh, laced with self-mockery.

In front of Michael—or her parents—she had never once had the right to feel wronged.

If they’d ever truly felt guilty, they wouldn’t have waited until now.

Thirteen years ago, her birth parents finally brought her home to the duke’s estate. That was when she found out the truth—she’d been swapped at birth.

The greedy couple who raised her had traded her away and left her to suffer five bitter years.

She’d thought that returning to her real family meant love and acceptance. But what she got instead was coldness.

Her parents and brothers barely looked at her.

Whenever Willow Monson—the girl who’d lived her life—felt sad or neglected, they rushed to comfort her, as if she were the real daughter.

Little by little, Athena was pushed aside.

They constantly reminded her, “You’re the older sister. You should be the mature one. Be patient with Willow. Don’t fight. Don’t compete.”

Wanting so desperately to belong, Athena did as she was told. She gave way in everything, always stepping aside for Willow.

Three years ago, she even made pastries by hand to try to please her.

But Willow ended up poisoned—vomiting blood.

Their parents were furious. They said Athena’s years away had corrupted her to the bone. Said she wasn’t worthy of being their daughter.

Egged on by Willow’s whispers, they decided to send her away—banished from Pidence City forever.

Even the brothers who once adored her said, “Willow might’ve enjoyed your life for over a decade, but she’s innocent. How could you use such cruel tactics just to win attention? We don’t have a sister as heartless as you!”

No matter how Athena tried to explain, no one believed her. Not once.

The moment Willow shed a tear, the blame fell on Athena.

In the end, it was Michael who stepped in to stop them from sending her away.

But he didn’t save her. He simply had her quietly dumped in the military camp—believing that after enough suffering, she’d finally learn her place.

A gust of wind lifted the tangled strands of Athena’s hair, revealing her emaciated, unrecognizable face.

Michael scowled. “Get up. We’re going back to the estate.”

Athena tried, but her legs gave out beneath her, and she crumpled to the ground again.

Michael turned back, his eyes flashing cold steel. “If you’d rather not go back… then drag yourself back into that camp.”