⚠️ Content Warning
This chapter contains intense psychological and physical violence, as well as implications of abuse.
Readers who are sensitive to such content or prefer to avoid it are strongly advised to skip this chapter.
Skipping this chapter will not affect your understanding of the overall plot.
The chapter:
After returning to her room, Irene sank into her favorite chair.
She exhaled deeply... then laughed.
A short, bitter laugh—wounded, cracked—escaping from a heart full of scorn.
"Did he say anything about the wedding?" she muttered.
"Is this... part of your revenge? How pathetic. Truly pathetic."
---
Several days passed.
She spent them buried in study and silent lessons with the tutor, draining every ounce of strength she had.
Until one heavy evening, she stumbled into her chambers, too tired to even change her clothes, and collapsed on the bed.
She was about to fall asleep when—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
She lifted her head slowly, then sat up and answered in a faint voice:
"Come in."
The door creaked open… It was the same grim-faced servant, his usual expression foretelling nothing good.
"His Majesty requests your presence. Immediately."
She blinked, drained.
Then sighed deeply and whispered to herself:
"I don't want to see his face again..."
But still—she stood.
As she always did.
Her steps were slow and cold, but she didn't turn back.
She entered the hall as she was used to, and stood still.
His icy voice arrived before his eyes did:
"Sit."
So she sat.
He twirled a golden pen between his fingers, not looking at her as he said:
"The reply has come. In two days… the engagement between the two kingdoms will be officially announced."
She didn't answer at first.
Then raised her head slowly and spoke with a cold tone:
"Did they accept… marrying their son without a traditional royal union?"
He raised his head then, meeting her with that sharp, familiar stare.
"They had some questions… but they were understanding."
A silence.
She chuckled lightly, mocking glint in her eyes.
"How amusing."
He stopped playing with the pen.
She lifted her gaze again—steady, unflinching.
"May I ask... is this part of your revenge against my mother?"
He slammed the pen on the desk.
Turned to her.
She stared at him like never before.
Those cold, unblinking eyes... like the eyes of a woman he once knew.
"How tragic," she said, "for the world to learn that the so-called mighty Ice King... still seethes with hatred for a humble maid who was murdered eight years ago."
His jaw clenched.
The veins in his face tightened.
But she didn't stop. Her words were daggers, deliberate and merciless.
"My mother must have been the most beautiful woman you've ever met… to have weakened you like this."
Suddenly… he stood.
The chair scraped back harshly. He moved toward her—slow, heavy steps.
"Stand."
His voice was low, but sharp as steel.
Irene met his eyes—unshaken, firm—not out of defiance, but from a weight long buried in her chest. A weight she had to release—even at a great cost.
She had known, for days now, that her words wouldn't go unpunished.
But she hadn't imagined this level of cruelty.
"I said stand."
Louder this time.
She sighed quietly, steadied herself, and stood.
And without warning—
He didn't strike her face.
Instead, he drove a brutal blow into her abdomen—calculated, precise, aimed at her weakest spot.
The sound of the impact echoed through the empty hall.
Her fragile body lurched backward… then collapsed to the floor.
Her breath caught.
She gasped, clutching her stomach, writhing in agony, air ripped from her lungs like a drowning girl.
His voice returned, cold as ever:
"Get up."
She didn't move.
He stepped closer. Then again.
A second blow.
This one landed on her shoulder and ribs.
She cried out faintly, her body jolting on the floor.
"Get up."
A third blow.
The other side now… her body slammed into the marble, and her heart along with it.
The fourth...
When it came, the pain wasn't the worst part.
From her lips... spilled a thin line of blood.
She froze.
Wide eyes slowly narrowed.
She looked at the crimson stain on the floor… at her trembling fingers.
Blood.
Her deepest fear.
Her darkest nightmare.
Now real.
The king's voice came again—less sharp, but no less charged:
"Get up."
Still, she didn't move.
It wasn't the pain.
It was fear.
Paralysis.
As if time had stopped—
As if the child who had watched her mother and grandparents slaughtered before her eyes had returned.
The king knelt beside her, gripped her hair, yanked her head up.
"So... the little chick finally cracked the shell?"
"You think you're brave now—just because you're getting married?"
"Is that it? You think you can rebel now?"
He came closer—his breath icy against her skin.
"I'll show you the price of your words."
Still holding her by the hair, he lifted her roughly and slammed her onto the cold wooden desk.
Before she could gasp, his hand clamped around her throat.
His grip was iron.
"If you think I can't get rid of you now… you're wrong."
His voice, venom in her ear:
"Your life... belongs to me."
"I do whatever I please. No one on this earth can stop me."
His hand squeezed tighter. Her vision dimmed.
Her limbs twitched, her body fought.
"Do you think... a rat like you… has the right to look at me that way?"
She was slipping away, oxygen gone, eyes fading—
Then suddenly… he let go.
She collapsed to the ground, gasping wildly, coughing violently, hands clutching her throat.
But it wasn't over.
He grabbed her again by the hair, flung her onto the sofa behind him.
"You look like her…" he muttered in a low, furious voice.
"Too much… so much that I hate looking at you."
He leaned in again, staring at her face like it was a ghost from a past he couldn't bury.
"When I see this face… I want to kill you with one look."
Then he whispered, slowly, cruelly:
"Do you know how beautiful your mother's voice was… when I used to amuse myself with her?"
Irene froze.
Her entire body trembled. Her eyes widened in horror.
"Do you make the same sounds?"
He placed his hand where time seemed to stop.
This wasn't a man.
This was a monster.
For the first time in her life, Irene felt a new emotion—a mixture of humiliation, horror, and revulsion.
A pain more devastating than any blow.
As his hands wandered further, she shoved him away with sudden force.
And then—she cried.
"Stop… please, no…"
"I beg you, I swear I won't do it again… please, stop… please…"
At last—he moved away, after a long moment.
Then he stared down at her with merciless eyes:
"That was just a warning. One more slip… one more act of defiance…"
"I'll cut out your tongue and throw it to the dogs."
"Then I'll end your worthless life."
The guards moved instantly.
They approached slowly, and unlike usual, they didn't grab her harshly—
One held her arm, the other her shoulder—like they were afraid of breaking what had already shattered.
Irene didn't resist.
Her head was lowered, breath still trembling, hand wiping the blood from her lip.
She walked with them—not truly walking… more like being dragged down a dark, endless corridor.
She didn't lift her head.
Didn't look back.
Didn't speak.
They passed through the dim halls, their silence more painful than any word.
At her chamber door, one guard opened it.
The other gently pushed her inside.
Without a glance behind, she walked slowly to the center of the room.
Click.
The door shut behind her.
Clack.
The key turned from the outside… locked.
Her eyes remained fixed on the wall ahead.
She didn't move.
Then her knees gave out.
She collapsed.
Her knees hit the marble, arms falling beside her—
And she broke.
Not a soft cry… but a scream of pain.
A sob so deep, it felt like her soul was being ripped from her chest.
"Mother… Mother…"
She called for her… like a child who'd lost everything.
No scream. Just a voice bleeding pain.
Time passed—unmeasured, endless.
Then she dragged herself to the bathroom, crawling across the cold floor.
She pushed open the door and closed it behind her.
Empty eyes scanned the room.
She grabbed the metal bucket filled with cold water.
With trembling arms, she lifted it—
And poured it over herself.
The freezing water crashed over her, and her body shuddered violently.
Then again—she refilled it and poured—
And again.
She scrubbed her skin frantically.
Rubbing, washing, scraping—trying to erase the memory, drown the terror, kill the shame.
"Mother… is this what you felt?"
"Mother… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"
She whispered, wept, gasped—her body a storm of pain.
Then suddenly—
She screamed.
"I'll kill him!"
"I'll kill him!"
"I'll destroy him!! Whatever it takes!!"
Her voice echoed off the bathroom walls—
But her heart had made its choice.
Tears still fell.
Cold water soaked her clothes.
But her eyes…
Were no longer broken.
To be continued...