I was in the dining room now, enjoying my lunch in a sunlit corner where the tall windows let in the soft warmth of early afternoon. Laid out before me was a feast that could tempt even a heartbroken ghost—my favorite spicy dishes lined the table like colorful jewels as always the mighty Sasha had done a great job.
There was Fiery Crimson Stew, a rich blend of slow-cooked meat simmered with sun-dried peppers and crushed flameberries that left a tingling heat on the tongue; Spiced Butterleaf Wraps, filled with seared mushrooms and garlic-roasted wild rice; a bowl of Storm Pepper Broth, which burned gloriously down the throat but left a refreshing citrus aftertaste; and of course, Crisp Emberroot Fritters, golden on the outside with a soft, molten center that warmed you from the inside out.
But even with all this glory on my plate, my mind was far away—stuck on that mysterious, sass-soaked voice from earlier.
It had told me I could ask for help with anything. And what did I want more than anything else?
To find my mother.
So, naturally, with all the poise of the elegant yet desperate birthday diva that I was, I placed down my spoon, took a deep breath, and said with steady determination,
"I need assistance in finding my mother, Isabelle Sylvaine Schofield."
Then I waited.
Silence.
I waited more… still nothing.
I glanced at the empty air above the table, as if expecting words to materialize in steam.
Still nothing.
I even finished my entire Emberroot Fritter in slow bites, waiting for some kind of divine voice-over or magic sparkle.
Nothing.
My eye twitched slightly. "Seriously?"
I exhaled sharply through my nose before I could lose my temper. No, no, focus Isla. Breathe. Sass-voice clearly said she'll appear when she feels like it. Of course she'd pull this stunt now.
Fine. Two could play that game.
Instead of obsessing over something I currently had no control over, I turned my thoughts toward something I could influence—Sasha.
Sweet, reliable Sasha.
She'd been by my side since childhood, always calm, always graceful, and she never asked for anything in return. Even yesterday—makeup, hair, emotional support, and birthday hype squad—she had done it all effortlessly, just to make me feel special.
And it hit me again: I really wanted to do something for her.
I didn't have to look far for inspiration either. I'd been noticing something... curious lately. Sasha kept sharing these shy, flickering glances with one of the night guards assigned to my chambers. I wasn't blind. Or stupid. Those weren't just "oh hi, you're guarding the hallway" kind of looks. No, they were soft, charged, and far too frequent to be coincidence.
I'd even caught him staring once—when Sasha was fixing my shawl on the balcony, and he was down by the corridor pretending to "check the perimeter." Please. The only perimeter he was checking was the curve of Sasha's smile.
And when I remembered how willingly he helped us find that locksmith—just because Sasha asked him—I knew for sure. He risked getting fired by my father if he got caught, and still didn't hesitate.
So tell me... why weren't they together yet?
Sasha's in her thirties. Which, in our world, is basically code for "ancient unmarried lady," which I personally think is a dumb mindset. But still, the judgment from society here was real. If she wanted to be with him, why hadn't she?
Was there something in the way? Something I could help remove?
If the sassy system voice wasn't ready to assist me in finding my mother just yet, then fine. I'd use this waiting time to be useful elsewhere. And if that meant playing a little matchmaking fairy for my favorite person on staff?
Oh, I was absolutely down for it.
After finishing my lunch, I made a beeline straight to my room. I knew Sasha would follow me soon enough—she always did.
As soon as she entered, I closed the door behind her and spun around, catching her gently by the wrist before she could ask anything. With a warm but firm grip, I guided her to sit down beside me on the edge of the bed.
"Sasha," I began, looking directly into her eyes, "I know you and our night guard are seeing each other."
The silence that followed was... golden. I didn't interrupt it. She needed a moment to let that sink in.
Her eyes widened like I'd just told her I could breathe fire. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again—like a fish trying to form words on dry land.
"M… My… La… Lady… Ahmm—"
"Alright, alright, breathe," I said, patting her hand gently with a smile. "It's okay. I'm not going to scold you or anything. Actually… I'm really happy for you."
She blinked a few times, clearly still in shock, but some of the panic slowly faded from her face.
"My lady," she finally managed, "how… how do you know? I… I swear I'll stop seeing him if you don't approve—please don't be upset with me…"
I stopped her immediately, frowning. "Sasha, no. Don't say that. I have no problem at all with you seeing him. It's your life, your heart. Who you love is your choice. You don't need my permission for that."
Her eyes grew even wider, but now the fear was gone—replaced by something warmer, softer. Gratitude, maybe. Or hope.
"I'm happy for you," I said again, more gently this time. "It's perfectly normal to love someone, especially someone like him—he's kind, loyal, and he clearly loves you. I just… I was wondering. You've known each other for years, and in this society I mean our society, people usually get married so young. So why haven't you two tied the knot yet?"
The moment the words left my mouth, I noticed a shift in her. Sasha tensed, her gaze dropping to her lap. Her fingers twisted nervously together.
"Sasha," I said softly, "don't worry. You can tell me anything."
She let out a slow breath, and after a long pause, she nodded.
"My lady," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "I was sold to a human trafficker. By my own mother."
The air in the room thickened instantly. My heart clenched.
"Those days were… the worst of my life," she continued, her voice shaking. "But then, one day, the stewardess of this mansion saw me in the market—she was out buying new maids for your mother. When she saw me, she said she just couldn't leave me there. So she bought me."
Her hands trembled slightly, but she kept going.
"I was terrified. Being bought again—it didn't feel like rescue. Not at first. But then… Duchess Isabelle showed me kindness I didn't even know existed. She made me believe that the world still had some good in it."
My throat tightened at the mention of my mother.
"After that," Sasha continued, "I decided that I'd do everything in my power for her. And then, when she entrusted you to me, you became my purpose. You were so small… always getting bullied, always alone. I couldn't leave you. Even when Steven proposed to me—more than once—I refused."
"Why?" I asked gently, though I already suspected.
"Because this mansion doesn't allow married women to work as personal attendants," she said. "If I married Steven, I'd have to leave you behind. And I couldn't do that. You needed someone."
My eyes were already brimming with tears by the time she finished speaking. Steven, of course, was still waiting for her. I knew it. I'd seen it in his eyes, the way he looked at her like she hung the stars herself.
"And he still wants to marry me," she added softly, "even now. Even after all this time. I tried to make him understand the rules here, but… he won't give up."
That was it. I broke down. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I threw my arms around her and hugged her tightly as the tears finally spilled over.
"You're so stupid, Sasha!" I cried into her shoulder. "I don't get bullied anymore! You don't have to keep punishing yourself for my sake!"
She held me back just as tightly, and for a while, we just cried together.
"You deserve happiness," I whispered. "And if the only thing stopping you from marrying him is some stupid rule, then I'll change it. I'll talk to Father myself and tell him I want you to remain my personal attendant even after your marriage."
She pulled away to look at me, her eyes glistening. And then—oh stars—she smiled. That kind of smile people wear when they feel like the entire world just said, you matter.
I smiled too.
And just when I thought my heart couldn't hold any more emotion, the familiar sassy voice echoed in my mind—only audible to me:
"Mission 'Reach Isabelle Sylvaine Schofield' will begin once you arrive at Thornvale Groove."
My breath hitched.
"Don't be late and then blame me, I give you twenty four hours to reach their. "