There Is No Paradise Where I Ran Away To (14 Chapters Left to Complete) - Chapter 95

It had already been three days since returning to Rodinia. With the master of the estate back, the winter manor had regained its liveliness once more.

While Vivian had chosen the path of life on the brink of death, Charlotte had taken the opposite road. It was the consequence of her choice. Knowing this, everyone else refrained from commenting on Edwin’s harsh decision, understanding that there must be good reason behind such a judgment.

Yet there were exactly two people.

Vivian and Baron Zimmermann stood firmly on the opposing side, repeatedly attempting to persuade him otherwise.

Baron Zimmermann’s protests remained within understandable bounds. He claimed he’d risk even his life for Charlotte; he insisted Vivian didn’t truly love the Duke; he argued that Charlotte, as family, had only acted out of sorrow—such were the absurd claims he could make.

But Vivian, swayed by that brief affection, grew endlessly weak-hearted. She had spent over a week doing nothing but sleeping—a choice born of her inability to fathom what that time might have meant for someone else.

“Here is the entirety of today’s mail addressed to Miss Ebelline.”

All the letters had come from Baron Zimmermann, Theo, or various noble ladies.

Edwin meticulously opened and examined every letter sent by Baron Zimmermann. Anyone witnessing them might mistake the painstaking, fervent detail for ardent love letters.

Gideon, believing Vivian to be Edwin’s weak point, had been shaking her resolve—and predictably, Vivian wavered. Naturally, she’d stubbornly come pleading for Charlotte’s release or ranting that Edwin had no right to do this.

Edwin crumpled the Baron’s letters and without hesitation tossed them into the fire. Within the roaring flames, Charlotte’s pitiful plea and heartfelt entreaties turned to mere ash.

“Please deliver the rest to Vivian.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

After Charlotte’s guilty verdict, House Zimmermann vehemently opposed the marriage between the two. Yet their refusal to yield only confirmed that Charlotte’s love was beyond sincerity—it was fate bestowed by the gods themselves.

Had that incident in Rottermond never occurred, Charlotte would now be waking each morning to tender affection from a husband whose love ran as deep as the sea—not to this damp, soggy, foul-smelling morning thick with mold.

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