Chapter 33: Chapter 33 – Viktor got caught Red-handed

Helena’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you also know that he is showing generosity by helping you.”

The word ’generosity’ hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t compassion. It was a transaction, a gift from a superior to a subordinate.

Mira nodded slowly, a knot of confusion tightening in her stomach.

Why was she saying all this?

A faint, unconscious smile touched Mira’s lips as the image of Viktor gently cleaning Toby’s face flashed in her mind.

He was a nobleman, yes, but he had been… good to them.

She lowered her gaze, her smile soft and private, and gave another small nod.

The sight of that smile seemed to harden something in Helena’s face. “Then you also know your boundaries, don’t you?”

The words landed like a slap. Much harder than the one from the bandit.

Mira’s body trembled, a violent, uncontrollable shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

She blinked, looking up at Helena as if seeing her for the first time. The smile was gone, erased.

’Oh, that’s what she meant.’

The thought crashed through her with the force of a physical blow.

The warmth, the closeness, the brief moment his hand was on her face—it was a fluke. A moment of exhaustion-fueled kindness that meant nothing. He was Lord Viktor.

She was Mira, a penniless commoner, a widow, a mother with a sickly child.

The chasm between their worlds was not a crack to be stepped over; it was a canyon, deep and impossibly wide.

She looked down, her teeth sinking into her lower lip until she could taste the faint, metallic tang of blood again.

She gave a small, jerky nod.

A shadow moved, and Helena was standing in front of her.

She placed a hand on Mira’s shoulder, her touch firm and cool through the thin fabric of her dress.

“Don’t think I am evil,” Helena said, her voice softer now, but no less absolute. “It’s just the harsh reality of the world. Either you become irrepplaceble or simply live in reality you were born into…”

With that, she squeezed Mira’s shoulder once, a final, emphatic punctuation mark, and then she was gone, her footsteps receding back into the darkness of the manor.

Mira stood alone in the cold, the moonlight painting her in shades of silver and grey.

The pain in her lip, the ache in her bones, the chill on her skin—it was all secondary to the cold, hard weight of reality settling back into her heart.

The fragile hope that had sparked to life beside the fire was now just a flicker, guttering in the wind.

“…Haah…” Mira’s Eyes became suddenly teary. Tears fell as she placed her hand somewhat, maybe due to not seeing the warmth in this place for so many years, she might have really clenched too hard that now she felt even though she knew Lady Helena’s words were true. It hurts more than what happened with the bandit.

She was to be honest, nothing.

If she were to compare herself based on this world heirerchy then she was like a dog brought from streets due to compensation of a human.

’…A dog… yeah, how can I forgot the gap between us is so big… Young lord.’

—

Helena’s footsteps were crisp and even as she left Mira standing in the cold courtyard. She walked back through the dark corridor, her posture ramrod straight, a perfect mask of stoicism firmly in place.

But the moment she was back in the relative warmth of the main hall, her pace quickened.

She didn’t stop, marching past the sleeping forms of Toby and the empty couch where her master had been, and didn’t slow until she’d ducked into the pantry, pulling the door almost shut behind her.

In the near-total darkness, surrounded by the faint scent of dried herbs and dust, her composure shattered.

A hot flush crept up her neck, burning her cheeks. She pressed her hands to her face, her fingers cold against her feverish skin.

“What did I just do?” she muttered into her palms, her voice tight and unfamiliar. She blinked rapidly, trying to shove down the ugly feeling churning in her gut.

She had been cruel.

Needlessly cruel.

And for what? To remind a broken woman of her place?

’No.’

The real reason surfaced, venomous and sharp.

“Did I… get jealous of her?”

The thought was so jarring, so repulsive, she almost said it aloud. Jealousy. A petty, common emotion she had always prided herself on being above. But there it was.

She shut her eyes tight, and the day’s events played back, not as a series of crises, but through the lens of that single, sickening emotion.

She had seen it. Every single time.

From the moment they’d brought Mira and Toby inside, she had seen the way the Young Master’s eyes kept straying to the woman.

It wasn’t just a glance. It was a heavy, consuming gaze that lingered on the curve of Mira’s hip, the swell of her chest, the shape of her lips.

As a woman, her intuition screamed.

It wasn’t just lust; it was an intense, possessive focus.

And his body betrayed him, too. More than once, she’d noticed the distinct bulge in his trousers when he looked at Mira, a crude, undeniable testament to his thoughts.

The intensity of it all had coiled like a snake in Helena’s stomach, and after seeing his gentle gesture, it had struck.

She breathed out, a long, shaky exhale.

Shaking her head, she pushed the pantry door open, determined to put the thoughts aside. The reality of her duty was more important than her own fleeting feelings.

She looked toward the small couch where she had last seen Viktor.

It was empty.

The dusty cushion still bore the impression of his head, but he was gone.

“Young master?” she whispered, confusion pricking at her. Panic, cold and sharp, followed immediately.

Where had he gone? He was exhausted, dead to the world. He shouldn’t be wandering.

Keeping her steps light so as not to wake the sleeping child, she began to search. The main hall was empty.

The kitchen was dark and silent. She moved down the main hallway, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs.

Then she heard it.

A sound from one of the disused drawing rooms upstairs. It was a strange, rhythmic noise. A wet, slapping sound, punctuated by low, strained breaths.

Phack… phack… haah… phack…

Helena froze, her blood running cold. She crept up the stairs, each step a conscious effort in silence.

The sound grew louder, more frantic as she approached the partially open door. She peered through the crack.

The sight that met her eyes stole the air from her lungs.

Viktor was standing in the middle of the room, illuminated by a single shaft of moonlight from a grime-covered window.

His back was mostly to her, his trousers pooled around his ankles.

His hand was a blur, wrapped tight around his thick, erect cock, pumping it with a desperate, punishing rhythm.

“Urgh…” His jaw was clenched, his whole body rigid with strain as he choked back a groan.

Helena’s hands flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp.

Her eyes widened in shock, disbelief, and something else… something hot and dark that she refused to name.

“Young master…” The words were a ghost of a whisper, barely audible, but in the tense silence between his harsh breaths, he heard it.

He stilled. The frantic motion stopped.

Slowly, he turned.

His face was flushed, his eyes wild and unfocused with a feverish need. He wasn’t embarrassed.

He wasn’t ashamed. He looked at her, breathing hard, his expression one of raw, agonizing desperation.

“I need your help, Helena.”

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