How Am I Supposed To Get Angry?

“…Mother-in-law Yumila.”

Anna and Yumila stood there, stunned.

The skin that had caught the fan was already bruising blue, and red blood seeped from a cut likely caused by the metal fittings—clear evidence of violence.

Marguerite held that arm up before Yumila, as if to display it.

“Were you intending to put this injury on Anna’s face? On Anna, who was only faithfully carrying out orders?”

“H-hii—!”

The fan slipped from Yumila’s trembling hand and fell to the floor.

Only after inflicting a visible injury did Yumila truly grasp what she had done.

But that could only be called thoughtless. If you strike someone with full force, they will be hurt—such a thing was obvious.

Marguerite furrowed her brows.

—You should probably show a little more anger.

Noel’s voice echoed in her mind.

‘I am angry.’

Marguerite realized it with surprise.

Something bubbled up from deep in her gut, a sensation like her hair standing on end—this was anger. An emotion that had been sealed away as meaningless in House Clavel, one that Marguerite herself had suppressed.

‘But how am I supposed to get angry?!’

Bringing out an emotion she had long forgotten was difficult.

This anger was directed at Yumila. So unless it reached Yumila, it would be meaningless. How could she make it reach her?

With a calmness that hardly suggested fury, Marguerite thought it through.

‘That’s it—I’ll imitate Mother-in-law Yumila!’

Picking up the fan Yumila had dropped earlier, Marguerite slammed it onto the table just as Yumila always did.

Bang!! A sound loud enough to echo through the dining room rang out.

Even Lucien flinched, his shoulders jerking.

Marguerite’s face held no expression. Having forgotten what kind of face one made when angry, she had settled for a blank stare.

With an expressionless face, she pounded the table—faced with Marguerite’s sudden transformation, Yumila turned pale with terror and collapsed weakly to the floor.

But Marguerite did not notice.

“You see, Mother-in-law Yumila. You often call people shameless, but—”

Bang. Bang.

“H-hii, h—!”

“I think tormenting servants who cannot possibly disobey you is far more shameful.”

Bang. Bang.

“If you dislike me, then please direct it at me as you always have. I don’t mind at all.”

Bang. Bang.

“Oh! That slipped out. When I say I don’t mind, I mean—well, that was a figure of speech. It hurts. I’m sad. My heart is aching. Please believe me!”

Bang bang bang bang!

“Hiiiii! All right, I understand, I understand, please stop!!”

“…Mother-in-law?!”

Startled by the hoarse voice, Marguerite looked up.

There Yumila was, sitting on the floor, drenched in cold sweat, tears streaming so heavily that her makeup had run.

“What’s wrong?!”

As Marguerite set the fan down and hurried toward her, Yumila’s face twisted even more.

Of course—she had been overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of her daughter-in-law’s sudden outburst.

Seeing the fear in Yumila’s eyes, Marguerite finally realized it.

“Eh? I was just copying what you did, Mother-in-law.”

“!!”

“Ah—s-sorry, please don’t cry! Did I scare you?! I’m sorry!”

At Marguerite’s panicked apologies, Yumila—and not only Yumila, but Lucien and Anna as well—understood.

Marguerite’s tolerance far exceeded their own limits.

Marguerite’s anger seemed to have already dissipated as she desperately tried to soothe Yumila, patting her back, but that very composure only deepened the terror, leaving Yumila on the verge of a fit.

“…Forgive me, but that’s enough.”

An unfamiliar voice cut in at that moment.

Anna immediately straightened and bowed toward the source of the voice. Lucien inclined his head as well. Marguerite stood and bowed too.

Yumila, still slumped on the floor, stared blankly at the speaker.

The husband who had avoided her, avoided his family, and never appeared at the table—

Duke Alban de Broy stood at the entrance to the dining room, his face utterly exhausted.