Surviving as a Terminally Ill Heiress - Chapter 3

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 3

They say Ambrose has a table made of solid gold.
It hit me suddenly—a memory of the maids gossiping back when I worked in the Barony.
I shook my head with a deflated expression.
‘Sisters, you got it wrong.’
The real Ambrose has his entire room made of gold.
The ceiling, the walls, and even the legs of the sofa I’m sitting on right now gleam and shimmer.
I kept my spine rigid and swallowed a sigh.
How much would a sofa like this cost, anyway? Whatever it is, it must be astronomically expensive.
‘…Uncomfortable.’
The sofa should have been cloud-soft, but the weight of unease made me feel as though I were sitting on a bed of thorns.
I was acutely aware of my younger siblings’ dirty shoes touching the back of my leg where they rested their heads.
I started to reach down and remove their shoes, then felt a sudden spike of defiance.
‘Why does it matter? This isn’t even their house.’
Besides, we were being left here without a word of explanation.
We’d been in this gilded reception room for three hours now.
My siblings had waddled around with wide eyes like they’d stumbled into another world, exhausted themselves, and drifted to sleep—all quite some time ago.
“Hmph.”
I hadn’t expected lavish treatment, but I certainly hadn’t anticipated being treated like an unwanted guest.
In meek rebellion, I slouched back against the sofa’s armrest.
Then I slowly scanned the reception room.
The sheer scale was dizzying—silk-smooth curtains, a carpet embroidered with golden thread, a chandelier that was itself a work of art.
Money really does make a difference.
Everything here was spacious, luxurious…
‘Warm.’
Compared to our ramshackle house with its drafts seeping in through cracks everywhere, this was a different world entirely.
At least I could stop worrying about my siblings catching a cold.
Only then did the tension finally drain from my shoulders.
I dozed where I sat, nodding off again and again, until the grandfather clock completed another full rotation and a knock sounded at the door.
“The Duke will see you now.”
Finally!
I fixed my eyes on the slowly opening door.
Let me get a good look at that expensive face… Ah, just as I thought, Mother.
‘If that man had a son, he’d be Mother’s one great first love.’
I nearly clapped without thinking.
Rigid posture, a bearing like a great mountain. That air of authority that only comes from someone who’s never once deferred to another in their life.
And approaching unhurriedly was a middle-aged man who clearly must have been breathtakingly handsome in his youth.
“You’re late.”
“Yes.”
“…Verifying the authenticity of the Ring.”
Ah.
From his perspective, it must have been like a bolt from the blue—suddenly learning his only son, whom he’d thought dead, had bloodline somewhere in the world.
And given the standing of the family, triple verification would certainly be necessary.
I lowered my gaze and nodded obediently.
“I understand. It must have been quite a shock for you, given how sudden this is.”
“Well, naturally…”
“Though you might have at least given some warning that you’d be late.”
Ha.
For a moment, an oddly strangled laugh escaped.
I looked up, but the Duke and the butler behind him were both expressionless.
Had I heard wrong?
While I was tilting my head in confusion, the Duke dropped heavily into the seat across from me.
So this man was…
‘My grandfather?’
We exchanged a moment of appraising looks.
Amusingly, he had the same expression—’This is my granddaughter?’
“So, your name is Rabine?”
“It’s Rabine.”
“…Rabine.”
“You can just call me Bebe.”
“Rabine.”
Stubborn pride.
I studied the Duke’s face carefully, noting how he insisted on the wrong pronunciation without so much as a hint of apology.
My appearance leans mostly toward Mother’s side, but there’s one thing…
“Your eyes—you have your father’s eyes.”
If we’re being precise, the original owner of these eyes would be you, sir.
Clear, blood-red irises.
Mother and my siblings all had golden eyes, so meeting my own blood’s gaze in someone else’s face felt oddly moving.
‘Unfamiliar, yet not unfamiliar…which makes it strange.’
A sensation difficult to put into words.
As my fingers fidgeted with an inexplicable unease, the Duke asked:
“From your name—is your mother from Ritz?”
“Yes.”
“Then…”
Prejudice seeped from his rigid face and tone.
I knew exactly what he was thinking.
Stroking my siblings’ hair calmly, I cut him off.
“She was a dancer. Not a courtesan.”
“…”
“Not that I need to defend her, but I’m telling you for my own sake. Believe it or don’t—suit yourself.”
Ritz had been erased from history twenty years ago.
And realistically, a woman from a fallen nation had precious few ways to survive.
‘Especially a beautiful one with no skills but song and dance…’
Such misunderstandings were hardly surprising.
In truth, Mother had been approached countless times by back-alley brokers and men seeking a mistress.
But our mother valued love—no, her face, no, love—more than life itself.
I smiled brightly and added:
“Still, you’ll have no choice but to accept it soon. That my siblings and I were born from love and raised by love.”
By the woman with the most love in all the world, at that.
I straightened my shoulders without a shred of shame—and the Duke fixed me with an unflinching stare.
What? Probably because I’m a merchant’s daughter.
He looked at me the way a merchant assesses goods…
“I see. Though I can’t speak to how noble the love of a streetwalker might be.”
I flinched.
My hands clenched in the empty air.
These are still tender, untoughened hands—hands that have never known hardship.
Though our life wasn’t prosperous, Mother wouldn’t even let me help with simple household chores.
She’d fed and clothed three children with that frail body of hers, working herself to the bone.
She’d loved us that fiercely.
I bowed my head like a child holding back tears.
“…Why don’t you judge for yourself?”
“Hmm?”
“Is there far to look? Your oh-so-accomplished son was probably only on par with a streetwalker.”
“What—what did you say?”
“Or rather, that a courtesan managed to bear and raise a child this well says that she was better than him.”
The Duke’s mouth fell open.
Apparently, it was quite the shock to be told his own bloodline ranked below a woman of the streets.
Why should it matter to me? He insulted my mother first.
I glared at him with sudden heat and bit back sharply:
“The grand House of Ambrose is nothing special!”
“You insolent whelp…!”
My first day in Ambrose ended with the old Duke’s voice booming through the reception room.

* * *

This historic first meeting between granddaughter and grandfather concluded with the loud crying of children waking from sleep.
The butler had immediately summoned the head maid to take the three children, then locked the reception room door firmly behind them.
And to the quivering figure of his master, the butler spoke:
“You may smile freely now, sir.”
“Ahem, ahem…! Why would I smile!”
Denying it so transparently.
Ansley, upon narrowing his eyes, soon wore a pleased expression.
It had been a long time since Gustaf looked this pleased, ever since his only son went missing.
Gustaf cleared his throat repeatedly before rummaging in his breast pocket.
A rusted Ring emerged from those weathered, calloused hands.
“Tsk. He said he took it when he left for battle, but I never imagined he’d actually give it to a woman.”
Perhaps it was just like the boy, in a way.
Who else would leave such an ornament—no, such a burden—as a pledge to his secret lover?
Something seemingly worthless but worth more than any jewel: the insignia of the House of Ambrose’s heir, heavy with meaning.
Gustaf’s eyes fixed upon the Ring.
His real son’s Ring, verified countless times with the Magic Verification Device.
In truth, he’d recognized it at first glance.
How could he not? He’d searched for it so long.
Gustaf murmured, eyes downturned and wrinkled and red:
“…That Ansley was sealed shut like a fortress—he could only ever be a knight.”
“Yes. The young master always found dealing with people difficult, sir.”
“Yet he secretly left behind something unlike himself.”
“Indeed. That young lady is quite bold and clever.”
“Hmph. A green thing barely old enough to bleed, and she dares to be presumptuous…”
“Yes, yes—which is why you’re so very pleased with her, sir.”
“Who said I was pleased!”
Ansley shook his head behind Gustaf’s back.
Our master was always so dishonest when it came to personal matters.
It had made his courtship with the Madam rather turbulent in his youth, and now I found myself wondering what it had been like for young Ansley.
Gustaf seemed to be having similar thoughts, his face growing thoughtful as he spoke:
“That boy really had no interest in women—I wasn’t even sure he’d make a proper man. But what worry that was. To slip up like this?”
Gustaf’s eyes crinkled in something between laughter and grief as he gripped Ansley’s Ring so tightly it hurt.
It had been ten years since his only son went missing in battle.
The situation was far from promising, yet hope remained in the single fact that no remains had ever been found.
“Useless child…a useless child to the very end.”
Hope had come and gone, and come again.
The old butler dared place a quiet hand on the master’s shoulder—one that could neither weep nor laugh freely.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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