Chapter 334: If You Want to Die, Suit Yourself

Hartie opened the door. Under the flickering lantern light, Isolde saw a woman in a blue cotton jacket standing in the courtyard—Renee, Cristina’s personal maid. Hattie stepped back inside, shutting the door firmly. “Ignore it. Go back to sleep.”

“What happened?” Isolde asked.

“Nothing. And even if something did happen, it’s none of the Lady’s concern,” Hattie said, her voice carrying a trace of irritation.

Isolde frowned. “Tell me. Did something happen to Cristina?”

“Whatever happens to her, it’s not our problem.”

“Hattie,” Isolde said, fixing her with a firm gaze, “Cristina is Oliver’s concubine—at least in name. That makes her part of this household. If something happens to her, I have to handle it. Unless, of course, you want to give Allan an excuse to find fault with me tomorrow.”

“How could he find fault with you? You just married in today. If anyone should be handling this, it’s Margaret. What kind of new bride starts managing the household on her wedding night?”

Isolde sighed. “If they hadn’t come knocking, I wouldn’t bother. But since they did, we can’t pretend we didn’t hear.”

Hattie huffed. “Doug said tonight wouldn’t be peaceful. Guess he was right. Cristina’s maid came running to report that she attempted suicide—slit her wrists.”

“Slit her wrists? Why?” Isolde was stunned.

“Who knows?” Hattie scoffed. “If she really wanted to die, she could’ve done it somewhere else. Choosing tonight of all nights—she’s clearly trying to stir up trouble.”

Isolde hadn’t expected this. Cristina had always looked down on Oliver, and she had to know she’d be dealt with after the wedding. She hadn’t even consummated the marriage with him—still a maiden in every sense. What could drive her to such extremes?

“I’ll go take a look. Wait outside while I get dressed.”

Hattie hurried after her. “Don’t—”

They both stopped. Oliver was awake. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching them.

“You’re up?” Isolde strode over, exasperated. “I tried everything to wake you earlier, and now you’re awake on your own?”

Oliver’s deep gaze flickered with amusement. “And what exactly did you do to wake me?”

Ignoring him, Isolde fastened a cloak over her shoulders. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Oliver got up and poured himself a cup of water.

“Cristina tried to kill herself. Her maid came running.”

“Don’t go.” Oliver’s expression darkened as he set the cup down.

“Hm?” Isolde turned to him.

“It’s none of our concern. You’re not a doctor. If she’s hurt, let her people call a physician.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his pounding headache.

Hattie agreed, nodding. “Oliver’s right. Her life has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m not going just to check on her wounds. I want to know why.”

Cristina wasn’t the type to be easily manipulated. She was strong-willed and dismissive of others’ opinions. Unless… she was truly desperate. If the Valen family’s troubles were only beginning, Isolde needed to understand all angles.

“If it has to be done, I’ll go,” Oliver offered.

“No. This is an internal household matter. There’s no need for you to get involved. Trust me—I can handle it. No matter her reasons, you shouldn’t make an appearance tonight.”

With that, she swept out the door, dragging Hattie along. Oliver groaned, shaking his head to clear the lingering haze. He stepped outside and called for Miniro.

“Oliver.” Miniro jogged over, slightly out of breath.

“Go over there and keep an eye on things. If Isolde runs into trouble, come back and tell me immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Miniro left at once.

Cristina’s suicide attempt had already reached Margaret’s ears. Tonight, Agnes had stayed at the estate instead of returning home. Upon hearing the news, she accompanied Margaret to Cristina’s quarters. A physician had been summoned, but he had yet to arrive. When Isolde entered, Cristina’s maid had already bandaged her wrists. She lay on the bed, hair disheveled, face deathly pale.

“You?” Agnes shot to her feet, her tone accusatory. “Where’s Oliver? Why didn’t he come?”

Isolde curtseyed to Margaret first, then replied coolly, “Oliver was drunk and asleep. I heard Renee’s report, so I came to see what happened.”

Her gaze shifted to Cristina. “Are you alright?”

Cristina closed her eyes and ignored her.

“How could she be alright? She nearly died,” Agnes huffed.

“Why?” Isolde’s eyes narrowed. Her gaze flicked to Cristina’s hands—wrapped in bandages hidden beneath her sleeves. The wounds weren’t visible, but there were a few drops of blood staining the sheets.

Cristina’s eyes suddenly snapped open, burning with hostility. “Why? Because I don’t want to live anymore. What other reason do you need?”

“No one wants to die for no reason,” Isolde countered.

“Who do you think you are to question me?” Cristina sneered, full of defiance—hardly the demeanor of someone who had just escaped death.

Margaret, who had been silent, finally spoke. “Isolde, you should go back. The physician will be here soon. She seems stable for now.”

But Agnes suddenly dropped to her knees, her voice choked with emotion. “Mother, how can you say she’s fine? Cristina comes from a noble family! She was humiliated into becoming Oliver’s concubine! She was supposed to be his fiancée before she was deceived! Now, the man she loves has another woman in his arms—how could she not be heartbroken? Mother, Cristina and I have always been close. When I married in, she was still just a girl. I can’t bear to see her like this. You must do something for her!”

Margaret’s fingers tightened around her handkerchief. Annoyance flickered in her gaze, though she suppressed it. “And what exactly do you want me to do?”

Agnes pleaded, “Mother, given Cristina’s background, making her a concubine wouldn’t disgrace Oliver, would it?”

Isolde turned to Cristina, who was already staring at her.

“You attempted suicide… to become a concubine?” Isolde asked.

Cristina’s voice was cold. “Either I die, and the world sees you as the wife who drove me to my grave, or you let me stay as Oliver’s concubine. The choice is yours.”

Isolde had come here expecting to uncover some hidden motive. Instead, she found this. A slow, icy smile spread across her lips. “So if I refuse to make you a concubine, that means I killed you?”

“That’s right,” Cristina said venomously.

Isolde’s smile widened, but her eyes were frozen steel. “Your life is yours. If you don’t value it, do you think I will? You really believe threatening me with your life is a wise gamble? Let me tell you something—your ‘threat’ means nothing to me. If you want to die, suit yourself. Cutting your wrists didn’t work? Try hanging yourself. Still no luck? Go out and buy some arsenic, mix it into your soup, and drink it down. I promise you, that’ll do the trick.”

“Isolde! How can you be so heartless?” Agnes leapt to her feet, furious.

Isolde snorted, not even sparing her a glance. She turned to Margaret. “It’s late. We should all get some rest. Those who truly want to die—nothing can stop them. And those who don’t… they’ll find a way to live. No sense wasting time here.”

With that, she spun on her heel and strode out, leaving the cold night air swirling in her wake.

What a ridiculous waste of time.