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I remained squatting on the low stool Cole had brought me. He had fled earlier, long gone after enduring several minutes of my tantrum. I must have looked ready to tear him apart; no wonder he ran so fast. Still, he had returned—if only briefly—with a stool and a bucket.

He hadn’t said a word before running off again.

That boy wasn’t serious at all.

I bit my lip beneath the cloth covering my nose and mouth. I knew I’d said the smell was nothing compared to being thrown into that filthy swamp of waste, but that didn’t mean I could comfortably breathe in the stench of horse droppings nonstop.

I hadn’t realized how pampered we indoor servants truly were until now. Working inside the mansion wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t cruel either. It was far more comfortable than working outdoors. Even now, I couldn’t understand why outdoor workers were paid so poorly in comparison.

Regardless, I was an outdoor worker now. I had a lot to adapt to. No matter what hardships I’d endured in my past lives, this was still something new.

It was nothing compared to before. But that didn’t mean I had to accept suffering without complaint.

By the time afternoon faded toward evening, what should have been my lunch break arrived. I had spent hours seated there, shoveling horse waste into a bucket and dumping it into a larger bag.

The work sounded simple, but it drained the mind. Perhaps I would grow used to it one day—but not today.

The Westwond horses were magnificent creatures, carefully groomed and well tended. They were treasures of the household, treated with great importance.

Yet for all their beauty, their waste was anything but pleasant.

How could something so refined produce something so awful?

I carried the final bucket toward the waste site, my arm aching. The buckets used here were nothing like the ones inside the mansion. This one was made of thick wood bound tightly with metal, sturdy to the point of excess. It looked ordinary on the outside, but the inside was narrow, making it unnecessarily heavy. Most of the weight came from the bucket itself rather than its contents.

The disposal site lay some distance from the stables, and the walk beneath the sun with such a load was exhausting.

When I finally arrived, I dropped the bucket without care. It hit the ground with a dull thud, and I sighed as the tension left my muscles.

“My arm’s about to fall off,” I muttered, stretching it. “They said there was suitable work for girls. Who knew they meant this?”

That infuriating Cole came to mind again. Such a cheerful face hiding such hypocrisy. I recalled how he smiled at nothing and shuddered slightly. Was there something wrong with him?

As if answering my thoughts, my stomach growled.

“I’m hungry.”

“Did someone say… hungry?” a voice said behind me.

I turned—and froze.

My mouth fell open.

I knew him.

“Nic! It’s you! I thought you died—oh, wait, not yet!” I shouted as I ran toward him.

He startled visibly.

“You know me—wait, what? When did I—who are you?”

I stopped short, suddenly aware of his fear.

“Wait, I—” I stepped forward again, and he immediately jumped back.

“Stay there!” he said, holding up a hand.

I raised a brow. Did he expect me to actually listen?

I ignored him and rushed forward, grabbing his arm before he could flee.

“Calm down. I didn’t mean it like that,” I said quickly. “I just mistook you for someone else.”

He stared at me for a moment, then slowly relaxed.

“Ah…” He wiped sweat from his brow, clearly relieved.

That was when I noticed the flask in his hand.

Food.

Without thinking, I took it from him.

“Is this for me?” I asked, my eyes lighting up.

He blinked, dazed, then nodded.

“Yes. I was told to bring it to you. Apparently, girls like you can’t manage with only one meal a day.”

“Oh,” I said. “Who sent you? And wait—you only eat twice a day?”

For servants, two meals were considered generous. But for labor like this—heavy, demanding work—it should have been three.

I couldn’t fully relate. Under Madame Marsala, I’d never experienced unfair treatment.

We wore good-quality uniforms: black silk gowns with white detailing at the blouse, the hems flowing as though layered. Beneath was the simple white underdress women always wore, doubling as nightwear. It looked like two garments, but it was only one.

More importantly, we never lacked food. We ate from the household leftovers—a luxury in itself—along with basic daily meals.

There were many advantages to working inside the Westwond mansion. I never imagined outdoor workers lived like this.

I sighed.

It seemed my life was about to change completely. I was no longer a sheltered servant but one left to manage alone, without guidance.

Still, it wasn’t entirely bad. Aside from the poor pay and limited meals, there was freedom. As long as the day’s work was done, I could go where I pleased.

Inside the mansion, servants were rarely allowed out unless assigned work or dismissed for the day. Their wards lay deep in the woods beyond the estate.

I never knew the reason for such restrictions. I assumed it was to prevent distractions—perhaps to stop servants meant to clean windows from wandering off to chase butterflies.

A foolish rule, really.

Lost in thought, I ate. The food was plain compared to what I was used to, but it filled my stomach. That was enough.

No matter how much I’d suffered in my past lives, I had never gone hungry. And only now did I realize—I hadn’t truly suffered physically. It had all been mental.

And I had done it to myself.

I chased the duke, only to learn how insignificant I was beside Ariana. I hated her, compared myself to her, reshaped myself for him. All for his affection.

I ruined not only my body but my mind. I became obsessed. Twisted. I schemed against anyone I believed stood between us.

I blamed myself. I blamed others. I disrupted the Westwond household, dug into secrets that should never have been touched.

In the end, I was eliminated.

Not by the duke—but by the head lady, who held too many secrets and saw me as a liability.

The duke never even looked at me when I was locked away and executed. His trusted aide pulled the trigger instead.

I remembered his expression clearly. Disgusted. As if I were waste from the swamp.

He didn’t hate me. I wasn’t worth that much.

I wasn’t even worth killing himself.

I was removed for one reason only.

Because Ariana had a nightmare that night.

For that alone, I was disposed of.

And I had foolishly hoped he felt something—anything—for me.

That was how I died in my first life.

And just as foolishly, I made the same mistake in my second.

I really was stupid.

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