Her Voice, Her Revenge

After five years of prayers, Judith—seven months pregnant—went into early labor. Uncontrollable hemorrhage followed, her life hanging by a thread.

The husband who had always adored her was nowhere to be found. He had vanished, along with the young maid of sympathetic humors he kept privately for her sake.

She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but another contraction ripped through her—a searing pain that threatened to tear her apart.

“Vincent… Where is Vincent?”

Seeing her sister’s face pale with agony, Ariana wept as she sent everyone out to search. The only replies were helpless shakes of the head.

“The bleeding won’t stop! We can’t wait any longer!”

“Didn’t they say that maid’s very vitality was the key? Where is he?!”

Facing the physician’s furious shouts, Ariana trembled, sobs choking her voice. “I’ve sent everyone… His Highness still can’t be found…”

Before Judith could speak, another violent contraction twisted through her.

Before darkness claimed her, her last blurred glance fell on the tightly shut door.

Vincent had not come.

She did not know how much time had passed when she finally woke in her bed.

Her hand moved to her flat, empty stomach. Dread and grief crashed over her like a wave.

“My baby…”

She struggled up, desperate to find her child, but saw only her sister, eyes red from crying.

“Sister… I thought you’d never wake…”

“The baby… where is my baby?” Her voice was frail as she clutched Ariana’s sleeve, tears brimming.

“The physician said… the situation was critical. Saving you took everything he had.”

Ariana could not bring herself to finish.

“And Vincent?”

Ariana’s expression darkened. “I’ve been by your side for three days and nights. He hasn’t come. Not once.”

The world seemed to spin. A pain so sharp it nearly knocked her unconscious again.

Her precious child, nurtured for seven months, filled with countless hopes and dreams—gone, without ever opening its eyes to this world.

This was the child Vincent had longed for day and night. Yet the father had not come to see them, not even once.

Gasping, her voice ragged, Judith summoned Vincent’s most trusted subordinate.

“Where is Vincent?”

Faced with her demand, Aaron wiped sweat from his brow. “His Highness… is occupied…”

His hesitation turned her heart to ice.

“Tell Vincent to come see me!”

Finally, with her sister’s support, Judith saw it—a tiny, cold form beside the midwife.

Her child, the one she could not save. A little girl. Judith breathed warm air onto the small, cold hand.

“My child, Mother will take you away.”

Cradling the baby, she took a carriage directly to a certain place—the private residence where Vincent kept that maid, Leah.

She wanted him to see their child one last time.

But at the door, she saw him. Vincent, gently soothing a weeping woman in his arms, his voice soft as silk.

“Shhh, now, don’t cry.”

“Hush, my love. We won’t go if you’re frightened.”

Leah’s face was streaked with tears, eyes red. “I want to go too, but I’m so scared…”

“Shh, don’t be afraid. We simply won’t go.”

Judith stood outside the door. It felt like a thousand blades piercing her heart, the pain so sharp she could barely breathe.

While she had hovered between life and death, the man she loved was comforting another, younger woman.

The Vincent who had once risked his life for her had finally become faithless.

Yes, Vincent had risked his life for her three times.

At eighteen, caught in a skirmish while they were out, he had shielded her for three days and three nights, ensuring her rescue first while he nearly died.

At twenty-one, he charged alone into a bandit den to save her, taking three knife wounds—the last a hair’s breadth from his heart. He fought for seven days and nights in the infirmary before clinging to life.

At twenty-five, when everyone opposed their marriage, Vincent endured the family’s judgment: a hundred lashes. His back was flayed open, not a patch of skin left whole.

After their wedding, Judith had basked in that hard-won happiness. So when Vincent said he wanted a child, despite her difficulty conceiving, she tried with all her might. Years of prayers and bitter tonics later, she finally carried his child.

Once she was with child, the man grew even more devoted. Not only that—Vincent had found and installed a maid in a private residence, a girl whose constitution was said to harmonize with Judith’s, a safeguard, he said, for the birthing bed.

Judith had questioned this once, but his smile dispelled her doubts.

“You’re carrying our child, and still you get jealous?”

“Don’t overthink it. It’s just a precaution. I want you safe, our child brought safely into this world.”

She had believed him.

And so her child had died.

Judith did not speak. Instead, she tightened her hold on the cold bundle, turned, and took her child to be laid to rest.

Only after watching the tiny urn buried did she take out the carrier pigeon she had raised so long and send a message far away:

“Barbara, I trust you are well. After all these years, dare I ask if this humble woman might return to the Melody Pavilion?”

The reply came swiftly: “Of course! The Melody Pavilion will always welcome you, my ever-beautiful Judith.”

The Melody Pavilion existed apart from the official music bureau. Its thirteen members were each shrouded in mystery. Their performances were exceedingly rare, tickets nearly impossible to obtain. Even the emperor praised their exquisite voices.

And Judith had been among the finest of them—her voice more ethereal, more captivating than any other, leaving all who heard it enchanted.

Reading the note, she felt a lump in her throat. “Thank you, Barbara.”

After settling the details of her return and arranging all her affairs, she finally had someone formally draft a writ of divorce.

Judith looked at the small headstone. Buried there was not only her child, but her own heart—the heart that had once loved that man.

After three years of marriage, Judith had finally woken from the dream.

Perhaps it was time to leave.