Sugar, Secrets and Upheaval

The air in the west wing felt quieter, as if the whispers of the main hall couldn't quite reach here. We passed a handful of doors, each one leading to what I presumed were more bedrooms, a private library, and a study, among other rooms. An oppressive sense of loneliness and isolation hung heavy. The paintings here seemed to watch us with an even greater intensity, as if the Blakes themselves had been trapped within these very walls. It was a wing designed for a family, yet it screamed of lives lived in parallel, not intersecting.

“So this wing… Is this where you grew up?”

“Indeed. Father and Mother were in the north wing. My sister and I, we were at the west wing. This place… it was occupied by the Blake children for centuries. I am certain we may even locate the crib I was placed in when I was born.”

The very architecture of this house, this lineage, designed to create people like him — detached, self-sufficient, and ultimately alone.

"And this sterile distance, this lack of warmth... that was simply the Blake way for centuries, wasn't it?" I asked, my gaze sweeping across.

“Not for Blakes specifically. It is for every single noble child ever born,” he said. “Pick your poison, Raphael. Would you like to see where Julia and I ‘consummated’ our marriage? Or perhaps my childhood bedroom? Or maybe my bathroom, where I was thoroughly scrubbed by servants?” he asked, his voice flat.

Each option was a fresh cut.

“I… I don’t know. This place feels… oppressive,” I said, my voice quiet.

“Try living in it,” he stated flatly, completely unperturbed by my discomfort. “Ah, a piece of history trivia.” He paused, allowing the silence to stretch. “Have you wondered, what would happen to you, as my spouse, if you were a noblewoman?”

“You mean as their responsibilities?” I asked, trying to grasp the context he was aiming for.

“Partly, yes,” Levi replied as we began to walk, our footsteps echoing softly down the quiet corridor towards a study. “I do not wish to walk all the way to the north hall, so a little imagination should suffice. Let us imagine you, a noblewoman married to me, the sole heir to a duchy. First, the moment of your birth, we were likely betrothed by our parents. No choice for you then, no selection. Let us say you had your own lover. Not an issue. Never an issue. Infidelity was not a factor for divorce. Now, consider you were of a lower standing, perhaps a countess or a baroness. You would not even be permitted a separate bedchamber. Every Friday, regardless of your consent, you would respond to your husband’s advances. Your most important function, after all, is to produce heirs.”

"What about the men in this system? Were they not also victims of this cold transaction of heirs and titles?" I asked, pushing back, trying to understand the full scope of his perspective.

He stopped walking abruptly, his movement so sudden it pulled me up short beside him. A genuine bewilderment crossed his features. “What?” he asked. “In which universe, for you, are the men the victim in this transaction?”

He's so focused on the systematic violation of women, on their lack of autonomy over their own bodies and choices, that he completely overlooks the cage built around the men, too. The forced betrothals, the expectations of legacy, the inability to choose love, the constant pressure to produce an heir, regardless of personal desire or compatibility — these were chains, too.

"Perhaps it's a universe where the architect of the system, even one who benefits, is ultimately consumed by its demands," I said, my voice steady.

“Oh?” Levi mused, the single syllable flat, yet an undercurrent of something in his tone sent a fresh chill down my spine. "You have done and did it now, have you not?" he muttered.

“What?”

“Enter.” He pushed open the wooden doors to his study. The room beyond yawned, dark and cavernous. The scent of old paper and dust motes danced in the sliver of light that escaped from the corridor.

“Sit on the desk,” he commanded.

I settled onto the edge of the large wooden table. My gaze swept across the room, taking in the towering, wood bookshelves that lined the walls, crammed with leather-bound volumes that seemed to absorb all sound. The heavy oak doors sealed us inside.

“Alright, Mr. Empathetic. Let us talk,” he stated, standing in the middle of the study. “In which universe are the men the victim in this system? They were the bearers of the titles; they had complete immunity. They would torment and abuse their wives and daughters, and those women could not even sue them, as marital rape was not a factor for divorce. Divorce for nobility, it simply did not exist until two decades ago.

“Men were permitted to roam wild, while women had to sit on this desk”—he gestured to the very surface I was sitting on,—"not only performing their own duties, which included managing internal and household affairs, varying by title, but also overseeing the responsibilities of their spouses, fathers, and brothers, so they did not starve to death. Tell me, Raphael, where, then, are the victims in this transaction?”

From his perspective, I can see why he’d view my previous argument as absurd.

“I understand your point. I am not denying that. I… Were you not a victim, Levi? In this system? In this transaction? As a child groomed for political marriage? That was my point,” I said, meeting his gaze.

“So what?” he said, his voice cold. "How can you possibly put those as equals? Yes, I was groomed for a marriage, so was Julia."

He cannot allow for the idea that his own chains might have been a form of victimhood, because it would undermine the very premise of his revolution and his justified fury. He’s the oppressor, never the oppressed, even when the system bound him too.

"The degree of suffering is not what I'm equating, Levi, but the fundamental lack of choice for both. Yours was merely... less absolute," I clarified, trying to make him see the nuance.

“Visual learner, are you?”

He grabbed my arm and began to pull me out of the study.

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We didn't stop in the hallway. Levi continued to pull me along, his pace unhurried yet determined. Our footsteps were the only sound, until the soft padding of multiple other footsteps joined ours. The servants were following us. He led me past more closed doors, until we reached the very end of the corridor. Here, a single door stood apart, almost forbidding in its solitude.

This had to be it.

It was a bedroom, dominated by a four-poster bed draped in rich, dark fabrics, but it felt more like a maintained exhibit than a lived-in space.

As we stepped across the threshold, the retinue of servants glided silently into the room. One servant went to the bed, beginning to smooth the perfectly arranged dark fabrics, while another moved to a cabinet, extracting white linens that had no doubt been stored with care. Others began to dim the few lanterns in the room.

"Is this your idea of a 'visual lesson,' Levi? A demonstration of sterile duty?" I

“We have not started,” he said. He turned his head towards the servants. “Hurry up,” he commanded.

As if on cue, another servant entered, carrying a small basket filled with gleaming vials of body oils. Before I could process the implication, two other servants, approached me. Their hands, went to the fastenings of my garments. The buttons of my waistcoat were swiftly undone, followed by the rustle of my shirt being unbuttoned.

“What the fuck? What are you doing?” I snarled, trying to shove away a servant whose fingers were unbuttoning my shirt. Panic, sharp and cold, shot through me.

“They are preparing my ‘bride’,” Levi stated, his voice flat, utterly unfazed by my outburst. That word — 'bride'. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs novel·fiɾe·net

"Is this your way of proving my 'victimhood'? By making me enact the past?" I yelled, trying to twist away from the servants.

“Shh… No yelling. Butler, were he not deceased, he might be inclined to discipline you. You are, after all, not a noble, but a foreigner.”

“Levi, what the fuck? Stop this!” I yelled as the servants continued to undress me.

“Surely,” he said and he clapped his hands sharply. “Leave,” he commanded, his gaze sweeping over the retinue of servants. Without a glance in my direction, they turned as one and hurried from the room, until the doors swung shut behind them.

“Gods… What the fuck is wrong with you?” I choked out, my hands fumbling with the buttons of my shirt, trying to cover myself.

“Not so victim, now, am I?”

The words cut sharper than any blade.

"And this, then, is the foundation of your 'justice'? To inflict the very powerlessness you despise?"

“I told you that we have not even started,” Levi stated, his voice flat as he watched my struggle. “Why do you think they brought that basket here? It was to ‘prepare’ you. But you refused. So, as the foreign bride you are, go be on all fours on the bed.”

“What the fuck has gotten into you? I am not doing that!” I backed away from the bed.

"Still defiant? Delicious." He walked to the basket of oils, and his long fingers sifted through the vials. "Let us observe what would unfold in a situation like this," he mused, almost to himself, as if conducting a scientific experiment. "Hm... Pick your poison, dear, cattle whip or an oil that would tingle your lower body?"

“Neither. Just stop this weird history lesson,” I said, my voice trembling but holding firm.

“Oh?” he mused, and placed the cattle whip back. “I assume I was rather… nice to you, was I not?”

He shoved me onto the bed, the impact jarring through my body.

“What the fuck has gotten into you?”

“Nothing. We are simply strolling through the memory lane,” he said, utterly devoid of irony or malice. As he spoke, he unzipped my pants.

"You're recreating the very crimes you claim to abhor," I said, my voice shaking with anger.

“I have not even started anything, Raphael. You only got your zippers undone; cease your lamentations,” he said, utterly devoid of any recognition of the terror or violation in my words. “Be a doll, and strip the remainder of your garments. Otherwise, the servants are quite ready to their tasks.”

The disconnect was absolute.

I grabbed his wrists, my hands clamping down on his as his fingers worked at my belt buckle. “Levi, okay, I get it, just stop.”

“How certain are you? Do you know why those servants are still outside? Listening to this very moment?”

"The servants are listening because they fear you, Levi. Just as they feared the Blakes before you."

“Feared is the wrong term. They are present, in the event of your non-fulfillment of duty, so that they could ‘please’ their master.”

“Gods… I… I understand, just get a hold of yourself. Are you angry? Mad? You’ve been looking at me blankly since the moment we set foot in this mansion. Just stop this and we’ll have a proper talk,” I said, still gripping his wrists, trying to anchor him, or myself, in some semblance of sanity.

He leaned closer, his breath cool against my ear, and his voice dropped to a low murmur that sent a fresh shiver down my spine. “Why should I? You seek to find answers about how those noblemen were ‘victims’, too. Here are the answers, Raphael. Now is not the time to shy away.”

“What is your endgame in this? What? Are you going to rape me, so that I get my lesson? Is this pettiness? Are you trying to enact justice again?”

He chuckled, a brittle sound that scratched against my ear. “Oh, no, dear. I would certainly not cross that line. I might be genocidal, but not a rapist.” He pulled himself back, his blank eyes fixed on mine. “Now, now. You explicitly stated you have no desire to ‘please’ your master, so, let us observe what would happen in this scenario.”

As if that's a moral high ground.

“I was not trying to diminish the victimhood, you… fuck the niceness rule. You fucking emotionally stunted idiot with the stubbornness of a damn mule. Are you not a victim? Of course you are! It doesn’t have to be equal to the women. Or to the servants, commoners, or people outside of the ruling class. Every suffering has its own right to be spoken of. It doesn’t have to be big events; it is erasure and corrosion of you, your choices, your agency. Of course you are a victim, look at this fucking mansion. Filled with portraits of your ancestors, each one a fresh horror. Or your grandfather. Or your mother who violated you as a minor. Or how you got a food aversion. Every single one of those are horrors in their own rights. Now you fucking idiot, you are trying to create a horror for me, too? To do what exactly? So that I could be violated, and understand? I don’t need to understand, I already acknowledge it!” I yelled, my voice raw and cracking, my grip still tight on his wrists.

“The horror I am creating for you is but a fleeting echo. You acknowledge? It's a mere intellectual concept.”

“Fuck you,” I snarled. “You are a complete piece of shit. You let servants touch me, then you tried to take my clothes off. Fleeting echo or not, you still did it.” My voice cracked on the last words, my knuckles white. “Apologize.”

“Apologize for what, Raphael? For allowing you to experience a fraction of their reality?”

“No. Apologize for thinking you had the right to subject me to this.”

Levi took a deep breath, the sound unnaturally loud. With a yank, he wrenched his wrists from my grip.

“Accept my apologies.” He turned from the bed and walked towards door.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

“Wait,” he said, his voice flat, as he opened the door. “Bring me the box, and clear the west wing.” He paused, his eyes sweeping over them, ensuring his command was understood. After a moment, he re-entered the bedchamber, now carrying a wooden box, longer than my elbow.