Depraved Noble: Forced To Live The Debaucherous Life Of An Evil Noble!-Chapter 49: You Don’t Deserve To Wear Your Uniform

The room was thick with suffocating silence, the tension stretching to an almost unbearable degree as Cassius stood before Isabelle, his gaze sharp and unyielding. His expression, a perfect blend of feigned disappointment and cruelty, only made his next words hit even harder.

He exhaled slowly, the sound almost mournful, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his true enjoyment of the moment.

"But it’s such a shame." He said, his voice carrying through the room with deceptive gentleness. "Even though you are so beautiful, Isabelle, it’s all wasted because of the sins you have committed against this household."

Whispers spread through the assembled women, but this time, it was not because they believed his words, but quite the opposite.

They knew she had done nothing wrong. They knew Isabelle was innocent. And that was precisely why it was so pitiful to watch her be made an example of.

A few of the younger maids lowered their heads, unable to meet Isabelle’s gaze. Others shifted uncomfortably, clearly struggling to contain their emotions, as if speaking up would change nothing and only bring his attention upon them instead.

Cassius, of course, was aware of this. He was counting on it.

He let out another long, disappointed sigh, shaking his head with the air of a man forced into a role he did not particularly enjoy.

"I even gave you a chance, you know." He continued, his voice laced with deliberate regret. "A chance to open that pretty little mouth of yours and speak the truth about what you had done."

He made a vague gesture with one hand, as if inviting the crowd to witness his supposed mercy.

"But alas, the poison of your sins ran too deep." His voice dipped slightly, a quiet, contemplative sorrow filling his tone. "And so you refused to take my offer. You refused to confess. And now, here we are."

The pitifulness his words settled over the gathered women, their shoulders sagging as they glanced towards Isabelle, their expressions filled not with suspicion, but with resigned sympathy.

She was merely an unfortunate soul, chosen for this twisted game of their master’s, and nothing she could say or do would change the outcome.

And Cassius had known exactly what he was doing when he had selected her.

He had picked the one person least deserving of punishment, someone who would garner pity rather than outrage, someone who would only deepen the fear within the others because if she-the kindest, most virtuous of them all—could be singled out like this, then anyone could be next.

The dread in the room filled, sinking into every corner like a damp fog that refused to lift.

Cassius allowed the silence to stretch just long enough, ensuring that the hopelessness of the situation had been fully understood.

Then, with a slow, calculated step forward, he turned his attention back to Isabelle, closing the already small distance between them

His voice, though quieter now, somehow felt even heavier. "Tell me, Isabelle." He said his tone taking on a almost gentle quality, as if he genuinely wanted to understand. "Do you even know what the Holyfield household is known for?"

He did not wait for an answer.

"Ethics." His lips curled into a faint smile, one that did not reach his eyes. "Morals."

He let his fingers trail absently along the edge of his clothes, as if contemplating something far greater than the moment at hand.

"Our name is synonymous with honor, with dignity, with an unshakable sense of right and wrong."

His gaze flickered briefly towards the crowd before returning to Isabelle, sharp and piercing.

"The Holyfield family has never been involved in anything wicked, anything unjust, anything evil."

There was a cruel irony in those words, spoken so easily, so fluidly, as if he—Cassius Holyfield—were not the very embodiment of wickedness itself with what he was doing now.

But no one dared to challenge him. No one would dare to laugh at the absurdity. of such a statement.

Because this was not about the truth. This was about power.

And right now, Cassius wielded it effortlessly.

His gaze darkened, the playful in his expression subtly shifting into something far more dangerous. "And yet." He continued. "Someone like you someone who serves under this household—could betray it so completely."

Cassius allowed a single beat of silence to pass before tilting his head, his voice dropping to something lower, more intimate, as if he were speaking only to her now.

"So, tell me, Isabelle..." His tone was so deceptively gentle. "Do you even feel disgusted by what you’ve done?"

Gasps came, not from Isabelle, but from one of the women in the crowd, a sound so small yet so filled with unease. Cassius pretended not to notice.

"Or... His voice lowered further, until it was nothing more than a whisper of silk against steel. "Are you so far gone that you do not even care anymore?"

The room was utterly still, Cassius’s words pressing down like an iron brand on every soul present.

His voice, though barely above a whisper, sliced through the thick air like a blade, its sharpened edge finding its mark—not in Isabelle, who remained unmoved beneath the guise of quiet distress, but in the women who surrounded them.

Isabelle, for all her outward trembling, was entirely unaffected.

She had long prepared herself for this moment, had steeled her heart against whatever cruel accusations he would throw her way, knowing full well that none of it was real, that it was all just an elaborate performance.

She understood the role she was meant to play—the condemned, the fallen—but inside, she remained completely untouched, untouched by his words, untouched by the weight of the accusations that bore down on her so heavily.

But the crowd…

The crowd was not so fortunate.

For they, unlike Isabelle, had truly sinned.

Each and every one of them had their own secrets, their own quiet betrayals tucked away in the folds of their conscience, hidden beneath the veil of their daily lives.

And now, as Cassius’s voice dripped with quiet condemnation, as he wove his cruel narrative around Isabelle’s supposed corruption, they couldn’t help but feel the weight of those sins clawing at them from within.

The words that should have struck Isabelle like a hammer instead buried themselves deep into the hearts of those watching.

Because even though Cassius’s attention was solely on her, even though it was Isabelle standing before him accused and disgraced—

It felt as though he was speaking to them.

The way he spoke of treachery, of betrayal, of dishonor. The way he described someone who had forsaken the Holyfield estate’s values.

It was almost too much.

Because they knew, they knew that, in some way or another, they had all done something that could be counted as betrayal.

They had whispered lies when it suited them.

They had hidden their wrongdoings beneath polite smiles.

They had committed small acts of selfishness, of disloyalty, believing they were too insignificant to be noticed.

But now, now, under his gaze, under his words—

It felt as though every single one of those sins had been dragged into the open, naked and exposed for all to see.

And yet, it was Isabelle who stood before him, bearing the burden of his accusations.

A woman who, they knew, had done nothing wrong.

A woman whose only crime was being chosen.

And still—still, they did not speak up.

Because that guilt, that quiet, burning guilt—made them too afraid to intervene.

Cassius, of course, noticed it all.

A slow, cruel smile curled on his lips.

’Perfect...Absolutely perfect.’ He let the silence stretch, let their self-loathing and unease fester, before exhaling as if burdened by great disappointment.

Then, in a voice rich with feigned regret, he sighed, "Since all your actions go against the Holyfield estate and its principles…"

He let the words settle, their weight suffocating.

Then, as his smile twisted into something darker, something more wicked—

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"Then you do not deserve to wear its uniform."

A sharp gasp tore through the crowd. A few women physically recoiled, their eyes wide with disbelief, with horror.

Isabelle, perfect in her role, widened her own eyes just enough, her lips trembled in a quiet show of shock, though deep inside, she was already moving to the next step of the act.

Cassius, his gaze gleaming with anticipation, took a single, measured step closer as he said,

"Take it off, Isabelle...Take the uniform you so so obviously don’t deserve to wear on your body."

His voice was not raised, not forceful—but commanding. The kind of voice that left no room for negotiation.

The kind of voice that sank into the bones and made resistance feel futile.

A murmur of panic spread through the maids.

"H-He wouldn’t…"

"Is he truly going to—?"

"This is cruel…"

And yet, no one moved to stop it.

Because fear ruled over them more than their sense of morality ever could.

Isabelle, still locked in her role, stumbled back half a step, gripping the fabric of her uniform in trembling hands.

"Y-Young Master—" She inhaled sharply, shaking her head as if trying to comprehend his command. "T-This is absurd! I have done nothing wrong!"

Her voice cracked, just enough to sound utterly desperate, utterly shattered.

"I have been nothing but honest my entire life!"

Cassius, who had been watching her with sharp, calculating amusement, merely clicked his tongue.

Then, before she could plead any further, he cut her off, his voice dropping into something low, dangerous, and final.

"I don’t want to hear any of that, Isabelle." He tilted his head, his smirk widening.

"Just tell me are you going to take your clothes off on your own?"

His crimson gaze gleamed.

"...Or am I going to have to do it for you?"

A fresh wave of horror rippled through the crowd.

One of the women let out a strangled sound of disbelief.

"T-This…"

"This is going too far…!"

And yet—still, no one dared to step forward. The weight of their own sins, their own cowardice, too heavy.

As the weight of Cassius’s command settled over the room like a death sentence, the assembled women remained paralyzed, their gazes fixed on Isabelle with varying degrees of shock, horror, and helplessness.

But Isabelle?

Isabelle wasn’t afraid.

In fact, beneath the delicate tremble of her fingers, beneath the soft shudder of her breath, beneath the perfectly crafted act of a woman on the verge of despair—

She was thrilled.

The moment the words had left his lips, the moment Cassius had commanded her to strip, her heart had leapt in her chest, her body reacting before her mind had even fully caught up.

’He wanted to see her.’

Not just admire her through layers of fabric, not just imagine the shape of her beneath her uniform—he wanted her exposed before him.

And oh, if it were anyone else—

If any other man had dared to demand such a thing of her, she would have spat in his face, she would have cursed him, she would have burned with outrage at the sheer audacity of it.

But Cassius?...Her master?

The man whose words had stripped her bare long before his hands ever could?

For him, she wanted this.

She wanted to show him what he had already claimed as his.

She wanted him to see, to witness, to appreciate her fully, just as he had always done.

The knowledge that he—and only he—had the right to demand such a thing from her sent a shiver through her body, one she had to force herself to suppress.

But she knew she couldn’t just throw away her clothes as though she were stepping into a warm bath.

She couldn’t let her eagerness show.

She couldn’t let the anticipation that curled within her be seen by anyone but him.

So, forcing herself into the role of the unwilling, the reluctant, she hesitated, allowing a soft, shamed whimper to escape her lips as she cast a desperate glance toward the gathered maids.

None of them met her gaze.

None of them dared to.

Because they couldn’t help her.

Because they wouldn’t.

And that was exactly what she needed them to believe.

Exhaling shakily, as if forcing herself through unimaginable humiliation, she reached up with trembling fingers, hesitating once more before her hands finally found the first button of her uniform.

Her breaths came uneven, her chest rising and falling in delicate, stuttering motions as she pinched the fabric between her fingers, feeling the cool metal against her skin.

Then, slowly—hesitantly—she undid the first button.