Madame Deirdre Stern.
A name that would come to be known across the world of oil barons and mining companies after the death of the husband I had been paired with—Fitzgerald Shultz. An old man more than seventy years my senior, whom everyone considered the perfect punishment for my sins.
This bitter fate was born from betrayal—by my adoptive family and my so-called fiancé.
It began when a couple bought me from an uncle to be their daughter. But I would call it more accurately "animal husbandry." Naively, I believed I'd be living in luxury upon entering the Formand household. It turned out to be a living hell.
They already had a son, but since the war was raging, he could be called to the front at any moment. So they decided to take in another child to maintain their lifestyle—a well-groomed, moderately intelligent girl who, if properly trained, could be sold to the highest bidder.
Thus, at age five, I was politically engaged to my first love, who would later become the vilest piece of filth I've ever had the misfortune to know: Melvin Blake.
He knew full well the torment I suffered under the governesses and the beatings I received if I failed in my studies. He would often come to comfort me.
It wasn't until seven years later that he revealed his true self. In my final year of elementary school, a snake in the grass named Florencia Rivas showed up, playing the victim in front of Melvin—especially once it became public that he was the sole heir to a fleet of merchant ships.
With each of that vixen's schemes, I ended up being blamed and shunned. Sabotaged belongings, sudden accidents on staircases, even a bedbug infestation in the dorms—all served to fuel the hatred against me. In a single year, Florencia destroyed my reputation and turned everyone against me.
But what truly shattered the last of my resolve was Melvin publicly denouncing me without evidence, calling me a jealous whore while clinging to his "innocent" new lover.
Humiliated beyond measure, I hurled a crystal glass at his face, leaving a scar he would carry for life.
The Blakes, outraged, broke off the engagement and demanded compensation—though it was dismissed once it was revealed that Melvin, despite being engaged, had slept with another woman.
Still, they sought revenge for the permanent damage to their son's face, and their chosen punishment came in the form of a new fiancé.
Colonel Fitzgerald Shultz was selected—a penniless old degenerate with a record of abuse. His two late wives had both taken their own lives rather than stay with him.
I was practically sold to the devil, and the Formands were overjoyed to be rid of me—especially once their son returned from war, decorated.
Cursing them all, I vowed they would crawl before I was done.
On the wedding day, no one came except Fitzgerald's two elderly sisters, who mocked me and forced me to wear their mother's hideous dress. Nearly seventy, the old man was still strong. When I showed reluctance at the altar, he crushed my hand.
Needless to say, the wedding night was sheer hell—from which my first son, Jules, was conceived.
I foolishly thought the child might be a gift after all my suffering, but his twisted behavior made me come to despise him.
When Jules turned three, Fitzgerald brought home a terrier puppy to guard the house. The little dog was affectionate, always greeting me when I returned from the market—until one morning, he didn't.
When I went looking for him, what I found broke me. Jules had killed the dog with scissors and, the wretched boy, proudly held up the head demanding my approval.
Furious, I tried to discipline him with a belt, but his father arrived to protect him. I was the one who ended up beaten with a broken arm. And seeing Jules's ghastly grin, I knew—he would grow up just like Fitzgerald.
From that macabre day, his brother Louis was conceived, and horrifyingly, followed the same monstrous path. I was never able to set limits on either of them—Fitzgerald wouldn't allow it. To keep me from laying a hand on them, he sent them away to be raised by his sisters in the city.
Relieved to be rid of them, I accelerated my plan.
It turned out my vile husband wasn't so poor after all. A well-known gambler and abuser in the slums we lived in, he kept something suspicious locked in the basement. One night, drunk beyond coherence, he passed out—and I seized the opportunity to uncover his secret.
Beneath a loose floorboard in an old shoebox, I found a black twenty-sided glassy polyhedron. As soon as I held it, it began to glow.
The misshapen icosahedron shone like the sun but vanished from my hands as though it had never been there.
Stunned, and feeling a strange lightness I'd never known, I climbed back to the kitchen—only to see my brown hair had turned gold and my green eyes, a deep blue. My body, moving on its own, emptied the strychnine into a wine bottle. I knew then—Fitzgerald would die.
He took the bottle with him to the tavern, and hours later, I learned he was dead.
No one suspected a thing. He was old. A drunkard. Of course he drank himself to death.
I buried him without a shred of pity before our fifth anniversary.
With no one left to hinder me, I left the slums and, as if guided by another force, traveled to the Hastings swamps to forge my own path.
Buying a worthless plot of land, I took a shotgun, fired it into the pond—and struck black gold.
Oil. The coveted hydrocarbon, increasingly in demand for the machines of the modern age.
Within three years, I was the richest woman in the country. I changed my name to reflect my fortune, my lucky star—my Stern.
My dealings in oil prospered. For eleven years, no one could rival me.
Even Jules and Louis, far away with their aunts, remained the miserable creatures they'd always been.
They refused to help with Fitzgerald's funeral, and I rejoiced in their absence.
But then, years later, their two spinster aunts came for a visit. I found the old crones revolting—and instead of begging for money, they asked me for something else.
They were looking for Fitzgerald's shoebox. I feigned ignorance, suggesting the old fool had probably gambled it away.
Their eyes said they knew I was lying. They left, promising to return and reclaim what had been stolen.
From my office window, I watched them go. I wished them dead.
Then a glow bloomed in my chest—and as they climbed into their rickety carriage, the horses went mad, galloping straight into the river.
The cursed sisters died instantly.
Whatever was inside me… it was on my side. It too longed to destroy those who interfered.
Years passed, and money poured in wherever I stepped.
Land I bought turned out to hold oil—or else, iron and gold mines.
The archaic world had entered the age of machines, and not even the sky was a limit anymore.
Just before my thirty-third birthday, the cockroach Louis invited me to his mansion.
In fifteen years, neither of those bastards had shown up out of affection. If they reached out, it was always for gain.
When I arrived, his "daughter" Jenna rudely walked out without a greeting, leaving her sister to serve tea.
Unable to conceive, Louis and his wife had adopted a girl. Then, miraculously, they'd had one of their own—a viper named Jenna.
And so, at just five years old, the small girl named Vaneesha—with her strange reddish-black hair—was turned into a servant.
When she tripped and spilled the heavy tray, she was instantly struck on the calves. More than a daughter, she was their slave. I was disgusted.
"She has to learn to behave," Louis said. "She's lucky the Blakes agreed to betroth her to their son. Now, where were we?"—evoking the bastard who once damned me, he earned my wrath.
"How much is your debt?" I asked.
"Mother—"
"How much?"
"...A hundred thousand."
"I'll give you half a million… if you include the girl in the deal. I need a maid."
He looked at her—then smiled with delight.
Trembling in terror, Vaneesha had no idea what fate awaited her.