Welcome to the Rose Mansion - Chapter 146
Even now, he was trying to tear her heart apart.
Richelle looked down at the roses. They were pitiful, barely possessing any thorns.
For a moment, she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to cry, to scream. But Richelle suppressed every impulse, knowing she had to.
Her sharp green eyes looked up at the man.
“How about you? Are you happy?”
“Are you asking me?”
He smiled serenely. Richelle tightened her grip around the roses.
“You were waiting for the moment I entered the fourth floor, weren’t you? That’s why you left Alan and me alone until now. Isn’t that right?”
She endured his gaze, which felt as if he was watching an entertaining pet. How had she ever mistaken that look for kindness, as if he were a lover showing warmth?
How could she have been so wrong?
“Did you want me to know about Edgar… Rose?”
The moment that name left her lips, the atmosphere instantly turned frigid. The air, the light, the darkness—everything seemed to hold its breath, even the dust.
‘Rose’ looked down at Richelle, his eyes vacant, void of any readable emotion.
Facing that abyss, Richelle finally grasped the truth.
He was a being beyond human comprehension. Just standing before him felt like she might drown, an overwhelming fear that suffocated her.
Her breathing grew shallow, her face gradually paling. Then, Rose’s eyes softened, curving into a crescent-like smile.
< Rose, you say. >
A flicker of delight shone in his crimson gaze. Against his flawless white face, the small dark mole beneath his eye stood out like the North Star in a night sky.
He leaned toward her, close enough that their hair might intertwine, yet he exuded neither breath nor warmth.
< It’s not so unpleasant, hearing that name from you. Quite intriguing… >
With a dark smile, Rose stepped back, the oppressive weight he had emitted momentarily was hidden again beneath the guise of gentlemanly elegance.
“Shall we have some tea, Richelle?”
Though it sounded like a suggestion, his tone left no room for refusal.
But Richelle didn’t accept immediately. She clenched her fists, damp with cold sweat, and asked,
“Where is Alan?”
“Oh? Already so attached, are we?”
He widened his eyes as if genuinely surprised, the look of innocence so false it was almost sickening. He smiled again.
“Don’t worry. He’s locked up in his room, kicking and thrashing like a wild colt. It seems Madam Otis passed away sooner than I expected.”
His tone was calm, as if he were commenting on a wildflower by the roadside.
Rose reached out and, as if handling a precious jewel, gently brushed Richelle’s chin.
“I’ve prepared a tea party just for you. Won’t you join me?”
“……”
“Surely, you have many questions. And things to resolve.”
Removing his hand from her chin, he offered his arm in a polite gesture. Richelle glanced at his gloved hand.
Though she had guessed his real name, he showed no intention of leaving, and she indeed had much to ask.
In the end, Richelle placed her hand over Rogéros’s.
* * *
A small tea party had been arranged.
Though he had called it ‘small’, the delicate tea table was laden with far more food than two people could consume—especially since neither seemed inclined to eat.
The roses’ scent wafted heavily from the teacups, a fragrance Richelle was now thoroughly sick of.
She glanced over the table, without once reaching for the cup, her gaze eventually settling on a small sandwich with ham.
“Oh, don’t worry about it.”
Rose remarked offhandedly, as if only now remembering.
“Since you came to this mansion, you’ve only been served ‘normal’ meat.”
“…’Normal’ meat?”
The sight of the kitchen flashed through her mind, and her stomach churned.
Across from her, Rose sipped his tea with complete nonchalance.
“Your meals have only included that during your first banquet. Even then, Alan stopped you from eating it. He’s a rather considerate boy, isn’t he?”
“……”
“The ingredients hanging in the kitchen are reserved for special occasions, though they mainly serve as snacks for the chef. So, don’t hesitate. I imagine you haven’t had a proper meal since dealing with the chef. Am I wrong?”
Richelle looked away from the sandwich. Since he had brought up the kitchen first, she knew exactly where to start with her questions.
“Becky Dustin.”
“Hmm?”
“Did you plan to kill her that day?”
In the most horrific way possible, ensuring both she and Alan would witness her death.
