Transmigrated as the Villainess Princess - Chapter 204

Chapter 204: The Third Person (Special Chapter)
Fiorensia had always been a woman of precision. Her life had been guided by careful calculations, by strategies that ensured success no matter the odds.

When she learned she was pregnant for the second time, she treated it as she would any other battle, with unwavering resolve.

The Mors Dukedom was prospering, her two sons growing stronger each day, and she had a husband who ruled beside her as an equal. Life was not perfect, but it was close enough.

Yet, just as happiness settled into her bones, the winds of war howled once more. The borders of the northern territory were no longer secure.

The zergs, creatures born from the corruption of war, had begun multiplying at an alarming rate.

Even with the advancement of technology, even with the combined might of the kingdom, the supply chains struggled to keep up.

Fiorensia watched from the sidelines as the battles grew bloodier, her heart clenching each time she saw the reports.

The zergs were endless, their numbers seemingly multiplying faster than they could be killed. And as resources dwindled, so did the loyalty of men.

Ricardo, her husband, had been called to the frontlines once again. He left with the same determination as always, sword in hand, eyes burning with purpose.

Fiorensia did not question it. She did not ask him for reassurances or sweet promises of return.

They were past such things. She simply nodded, placing a hand over her stomach, silently telling him to come back alive.

For months, she managed everything in his absence. The Mors Dukedom thrived under her rule, their defenses impenetrable even as the war dragged on.

She buried herself in her duties, ensuring that the kingdom’s supplies reached their soldiers, that their people did not starve, and that their sons did not feel the absence of their father too deeply.

She told herself that this was simply the way of things. Ricardo would return, and all would be as it was before. But war was a cruel thing. It changed men.

She had heard whispers, of course. The servants spoke in hushed tones when they thought she wasn’t listening.

The nobles exchanged knowing glances when they visited the estate. Even the knights hesitated before meeting her gaze, their loyalty torn between duty and truth.

Fiorensia ignored it. She was not a fool, but she was not a woman who acted on baseless rumors.

Until she had proof, until she had seen it with her own eyes, she would not allow herself to believe it. And so, for five years, she lived in ignorance.

Until the day Ricardo returned home. The news of his arrival spread like wildfire. The entire dukedom gathered in celebration, eager to welcome back their victorious duke.

Fiorensia stood at the castle gates, her heart hammering against her ribcage. It had been too long since she last saw him.

Their third child, their youngest son, had already learned to walk and talk. Would Ricardo recognize him? Would he look at their child with love, the way he had with their firstborns?

The gates opened, and there he was. Ricardo Mors, Duke of the North, war hero, and her husband. He looked different.

There was a weight to him that had not been there before, a tiredness that went beyond physical exhaustion. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, everything else faded.

But then she saw her. A woman stood beside him, wrapped in a noble’s cloak, her figure unmistakably heavy with child.

The world tilted beneath Fiorensia’s feet. She could not speak. Could not breathe.

The crowd murmured in confusion. The servants exchanged glances, uncertain of what they were witnessing.

And then, as if to make the wound deeper, Ricardo reached out and placed a hand on the woman’s stomach, his expression softening in a way that Fiorensia had not seen in years.

It was not a mistake. Not a misunderstanding. The betrayal was laid bare before her, for the entire dukedom to see.

Fiorensia had seen countless battlefields. She had witnessed men torn apart by war, had commanded troops in the face of death, and had stood before enemies who wished for her downfall.

But nothing, nothing, had ever prepared her for this. The world was silent.

Ricardo stepped forward. His lips parted, as if to explain, as if to justify the unjustifiable. But Fiorensia did not want to hear it. She turned on her heel and walked away.

The halls of the castle felt suffocating. The memories clawed at her, mocking her with every step.

The warmth she had once known was gone, replaced by a coldness that seeped into her very bones. In the privacy of her chambers, Fiorensia finally let herself break.

She had been a fool. A blind, trusting fool. For years, she had convinced herself that Ricardo would never betray her.

That despite the temptations of war, despite the distance between them, he would remain hers. But love was not enough. He had chosen another.

He had taken another into his arms and had whispered to her the words that once belonged to Fiorensia. He had given her his child, a child that would bear his name, his legacy.

Her hands trembled. She had sacrificed everything for him. She had given him power and had stood beside him when the world doubted him.

She had built his empire, had given him sons, had loved him beyond reason. And this was her reward.

A knock at the door. She did not answer. A voice. “Fiorensia, please…”

She laughed. A hollow, bitter sound. “Leave.”

Silence. Then, the sound of footsteps retreating. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, at the woman who had once been so strong, so unbreakable. She did not recognize herself.

The tears came, slow at first, then unstoppable.

Fiorensia had faced a thousand enemies and had conquered wars that others could not. But in the end, it was not the battlefield that destroyed her. It was love.

Fiorensia sat in silence, her body numb, her mind drowning in the weight of betrayal.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the remnants of a life she no longer recognized.

The ornate dresses in her wardrobe, the love letters hidden in her drawers, the carved crib where their youngest son had once slept, everything was a cruel reminder of the illusion she had lived in.

Her hands clenched into fists. How could he do this? How could he bring that woman into her home, parade her like a rightful duchess when Fiorensia was still standing?

Did he think she would simply bow her head, accept her place as the discarded wife while another carried his child? A sharp, bitter laugh escaped her lips.

No.

Fiorensia was not a woman who broke easily. If Ricardo thought she would fall silently into the shadows, he had gravely underestimated her.