“Count Hilden requests a meeting.”
At the servant’s quiet words, the duke’s hand, which had been flipping through a book, came to a stop. The duke tilted his head slightly, looking at the servant as if telling him to say it again. The servant bowed deeply and repeated,
“It seems a letter has arrived requesting Lady Hilden to be appointed as Princess Yulicias’s maid. Count Hilden believes you arranged this, and he is very upset. He insists he must speak with you.”
“I see. Where is he?”
The duke responded simply and rose from his seat. He walked smoothly across the room, pausing briefly to sip from the coffee on the small table. He seemed to be lost in thought, his fingers tapping the cup in rhythm.
“A maid, huh…”
He murmured with a dry chuckle, set the cup down, and headed to the parlor where the count was waiting.
The count was sitting on the sofa, clearly displeased. The parlor in Rillum faced the greenhouse, so one could view the plants and flowers through the wide windows. People often said the sight of such greenery calmed emotions, but the count looked unaffected. Whether he was too angry or simply immune to such things, his stern face stared down at his hands.
“Count.”
The duke entered with a faint smile. The count stood and offered a slight bow, and the duke gave a nod in return.
“Will you have tea?”
The duke asked, noticing the servant standing nearby. The count, annoyed that the duke was casually bringing up tea despite knowing why he had come, replied sharply, his irritation barely suppressed.
“I’m not here for tea.”
The duke tilted his head, as if wondering why else he’d be here. The count, more frustrated, raised his voice.
“You can’t possibly pretend not to know. The news was unbelievable. That Sophia is now Princess Yulicias’s maid? Who could believe this happened without your influence?”
“Is that so?”
The duke replied indifferently, as if uninterested. The count grew angrier at his inattentive attitude. Still, he was the duke—advisor to the emperor, perhaps more powerful than the emperor himself.
“I don’t believe you had bad intentions. My daughter likely begged you, saying it was her only wish. As her fiancé, it must’ve been hard to refuse. But, Duke… she’s still a child.”
“……”
“She doesn’t understand that she should care more about herself than her friends. She has no idea how cruel society can be. Thinking she can handle it is just her own illusion.”
The count spoke with seriousness, but the duke didn’t acknowledge it and replied calmly.
“Even so, it’s something she must face eventually. Surely, you don’t expect her to avoid society even after becoming my wife.”
“That’s a concern for the future, isn’t it?”
“But people remember cowards forever.”
The duke said quietly. The count immediately caught the slight jab in those words—coward. It was aimed at him. The duke was calling out the count’s lifetime of political avoidance, choosing to hide rather than fight. Even if the duke hadn’t meant it, the count took it that way.
Flushing with anger, the count fell silent for a moment before choosing the worst response possible.
“Regardless, she’s still my daughter, and that means I have the right to do as I please. I won’t let her go to the capital—even if I have to break her legs.”
The duke’s expression shifted. A faint smile curved one side of his lips, mixed with irritation. He looked devastatingly handsome and overpowering.
Feeling he had provoked the duke, the count smugly lifted his chin. The duke tilted his head and said,
“You can’t do that.”
“I’m not a man who speaks lightly. What I can or cannot do to my daughter isn’t for you to decide.”
The count reveled in a petty satisfaction, enjoying the thought of holding something even the duke couldn’t control. If the duke dared insult him, the count was ready to ruin what he held just to teach him a lesson.
At least for now.
The duke stared at him silently. For a brief moment, the count wondered if the duke had already seen through him. Trying not to falter, he stiffened his neck.
“Come to think of it, you slapped Sophia once, didn’t you?”
The duke nodded, as if recalling something. The count sensed something dark behind his words—a bad feeling crept in. Like he’d made a mistake, like he’d stepped into a deep hole.
“That was—”
Just as the count started to explain—
Smack!
His head jerked to the side.
For a moment, the count couldn’t think. His mind went completely blank, and a feeling of humiliation struck through his body like lightning.
“Did you just…”
The count slowly opened his mouth.
“Did you just… hit me?”
The duke didn’t reply. His face remained calm and emotionless as he looked at the count. Only quiet confidence.
The count was briefly confused, but the stinging pain on his cheek and the overwhelming shame of being slapped—by a man much younger than himself—made it very real.
“You must be insane. You just…!”
“How about calling her a bitch instead?”
“What?”
“A bitch. A selfish brat. An ungrateful child who doesn’t know her parents. An immature, self-centered girl. There are so many things you could say to break Sophia without needing to raise a hand.”
“What are you even—”
The count was too stunned to understand. But despite the wildness of his words, the duke’s face remained perfectly composed.
“I’m giving you options. So the next time you feel like insulting her, use the harshest words you can think of. Scorn her. Disappoint her. I don’t care. But don’t hit her. Seeing her cheek turn red hurt me more than I expected.”
The duke said it as if it was a line he would never let anyone cross. But the count was simply speechless.
“This is…”
Insane.
He swallowed the curse. His burning cheek throbbed, and the duke’s mad words made his thoughts spin.
He couldn’t believe someone in their right mind would say such a thing.
If the duke had confessed, he slapped the count out of rage because he hit his fiancée—it would’ve been crazy, but understandable.
But telling him to say anything he wanted as long as he didn’t hit her? That sounded like all the duke cared about was Sophia’s body, not her heart.
“I’ll have to reconsider this engagement.”
The count said, holding his cheek. The duke gave a short laugh and motioned for a servant to bring a cold towel.
“I can’t give my daughter to someone like you.”
The count spoke firmly, taking the towel from the servant and pressing it to his cheek. Yet the duke still looked calm, almost indifferent.
Does he really think I can’t reject him?
Apparently, yes. The duke was too arrogant to believe the count could refuse a groom of his standing.
But the duke had miscalculated.
The count was a man who did what he said. He took pride in that—even if it wasn’t a good trait. He didn’t know that “doing what you say” isn’t always admirable, but often just a weapon used by petty men.
“You’ll have to answer for this insult.”
Dropping all formalities, the count stood up, threw the towel to the floor, and left the room.
He kept thinking about how to get revenge. His burning pride told him he would do anything to break off the engagement. But the moment he left Rillum, that anger began to fade. As if someone had poured cold water over him.
His inflated pride suddenly deflated, and the shame and anger cleared away like fog.
He even had to hold his head from dizziness. Weakness washed over him.
Maybe this is fine, a thought surfaced—like someone dragged it out of him. The farther he got from Rillum, the more his feelings faded and understanding of the duke filled the empty space.
By the time he returned home, sweaty and worn out, he said to his daughter with a tired face,
“You may go to the capital, Sophia.”
With not a shred of his own will left.
