“Just to be clear, I had no intention of deceiving you. I just didn’t mention it because those kinds of odd jobs aren’t really considered proper experience.”
Even after Deborah explained, Zen still didn’t lower the hand covering his eyes.
To be honest, this wasn’t a situation where Deborah needed to make excuses or persuade Zen. Yet, Zen didn’t seem angry—he looked hurt. Feeling strangely guilty, Deborah ended up apologizing.
“If I made you uncomfortable in any way, I sincerely apolo—”
Zen cut her off again.
“Enough. I’m not the one who should be receiving an apology.”
“……”
“……And I do understand why you didn’t say anything. I do.”
His voice, broken and halting, carried a heavy sigh, like fog in the air.
“Even so…”
Zen murmured softly and took a breath. His eyes, trying hard to stay calm, looked at Deborah again.
“…Fine. Let’s just move past that for now.”
“Thank you…?”
Deborah answered as if being swept away by a wave, though she couldn’t fully hide her confusion.
“Your last name is Johnson, right?”
“Ah. Yes.”
“Your first name is common, and so is your last name.”
Zen let out a self-mocking laugh. Deborah didn’t think he was seriously picking a fight over her name, but she couldn’t deny a part of it.
‘I’ve met at least five other Deborahs. Or was it six?’
Still, she hadn’t met many people with the same last name.
Johnson wasn’t any less common than Deborah, and it’s not like she’d never met a Johnson before. It was just that she hadn’t been “Deborah Johnson” for very long.
“My maiden name was Barker.”
Deborah added casually, trying to lighten the mood for him.
But that light remark hit Zen like a rock to the head—his eyes first frowned, then widened.
“What did you say?”
“Barker was pretty common too, but not as much as Johnson. So—”
“No, wait!”
Zen shouted urgently. Deborah blinked rapidly.
“Wait a moment…”
Zen’s golden eyes wandered through the air. His neatly styled hair stayed in place, but his eyelashes trembled helplessly.
He kept picking apart this simple fact, over and over, then swallowed hard and slowly opened his lips.
“You were… married?”
“Yes.”
Though Deborah looked a little surprised, she remained composed.
She was twenty-eight. It wouldn’t be strange if she had two children already. Just like it wasn’t strange for Zen to be preparing for marriage himself.
“……”
As the warm tea cooled to lukewarm, Zen finally opened his mouth. But it still took him even longer to speak again.
“Your husband…”
The uncertain sentence that came out, interrupted several times by a hesitant tongue, barely sounded like a question.
Deborah chose not to guess what he meant and waited patiently.
“When did you meet your husband… no, more importantly, where is that man and what is he doing now?”
His voice began to show anger.
The veins on his reddening face and his trembling fists showed his fury was not mild.
To Deborah, it felt like unjustified criticism.
Why is he even asking that? And “that man”? Why call her husband something like that?
Deborah didn’t find it pleasant at all. However…
“I don’t see why a question like ‘when did I meet my husband’ is relevant to this interview.”
She calmly pointed out the inappropriate direction of his questioning. Unlike Zen, Deborah wasn’t the type to lose her temper easily, nor was she someone who always held her tongue.
‘Sometimes people avoid hiring married women for live-in maid roles.’
So she could understand asking whether she was married. But asking when they met? That was just personal.
‘There’s no reason to ask that. Sure, maybe out of curiosity—but Zen?’
The man she knew wasn’t the type to be curious about the private lives of passing strangers.
‘And his reaction… it’s not curiosity. He’s just angry.’
Did he really think she tried to hide her marriage?
In this world, it wasn’t uncommon to exclude married women from being personal maids to noblewomen.
It was so normal that even writing “Married women not accepted” on the notice wasn’t considered discriminatory. But this time, that wasn’t written on the notice.
‘Maybe they didn’t write it because it was too obvious in this world.’
Still, Deborah had nothing to be ashamed of.
“Anyway, what is that man doing now? What is he doing that made you become a live-in maid in someone else’s house?”
Zen frowned and asked again. Deborah’s long eyelashes fluttered slightly.
‘Why is he acting like this? Anyone would think I was sold for money.’
Of course, a married woman working as a live-in maid wasn’t common. Husbands were supposed to earn money, and wives stayed home to care for the family. That was the norm here.
Some wives did work out of financial need, but most only took small jobs nearby, not ones that made them live in someone else’s home.
And even if such jobs existed, they were hard to get.
‘Still, why is he this angry?’
Was he upset on her behalf, as a good man, angry at her husband for putting her in this situation?
‘You?’
If it were someone else, maybe. But Zen? No.
‘You’re not someone who would care like that.’
Deborah remembered exactly how cruel he had been to Dia.
‘He’s just picking a fight.’
With a faint smile, Deborah replied.
“I was lucky to be able to work for Madam Saint. I believe any woman with maid experience would wish to have a kind employer like her.”
“What are you saying? Are you bragging that you met Madam Saint thanks to your husband?”
Zen growled the words like he was chewing them up, his fists clenched tightly, his breath hot.
“Are you defending your husband in front of me?”
Hot breath always carries a bit of moisture. And so did his words.
Deborah blinked and then calmly answered.
“Because I’m the only one left who can defend him.”
Zen clenched his teeth. Unable to hide his stormy emotions, he heard Deborah speak again—clear and soft, like sunlight during a gentle rain that couldn’t even wet your collar.
“The dead can’t defend themselves.”
Zen’s eyes widened. Deborah smiled gently at his frozen expression.
And only then did Zen notice that her simple black dress wasn’t just any black dress.
‘…Mourning clothes.’
A widow wears dark-colored clothes for three years. That was the custom in this country, which prided itself on tradition.
“…When?”
“Let me see.”
Deborah quietly counted in her head before answering.
“In about twelve months, I think I’ll be able to take off this mourning dress.”
She smiled faintly, like a drop of paint in a bottle of clear water.
Just then, the golden sunlight of the afternoon streamed through the window and lit her up. Her dull black dress looked like a brown one sprinkled with gold dust.
She was dazzling, yet to Zen, it felt like she might disappear at any moment. And if he touched her, she might shatter.
“……”
So all he could do was keep clenching his fists.
“…Huh?”
Deborah couldn’t understand the situation.
She was supposed to be at a hotel. And by tomorrow morning at the latest, she needed to catch a train to Burmers.
“Miss, please check your luggage.”
A handsome footman handed her small travel bag that had been waiting in the hotel room.
Inside the bag, which only had a cheap little lock, were the few belongings she had brought.
“Yes, everything’s here.”
“That’s a relief. Then I’ll take my leave.”
The sound of the door closing echoed in the room.
‘How tall is the ceiling that a small sound echoes this much?’
Deborah looked around the room again. It was spacious in every direction bigger than most average homes.
‘This is supposed to be a room?’
And it was filled with luxury. The wallpaper was elegant, and every piece of furniture was a beautiful ivory color.
Even the subtle scent of lily of the valley in the air…
‘It’s not strong. It’s like they planted fresh flowers all over.’
Deborah glanced around, then sat on the bed. It was so soft, it felt like sitting on a cloud.
‘Wow. He wants me to sleep in a bed better than Madam Saint’s?’
What was this man thinking, giving her such a room?
‘No, it’s not just about the room. This is basically like being imprisoned.’
Deborah sighed and recalled her earlier conversation with Zen.
“……”
Zen looked quietly at Deborah. There was sympathy? Pity? She couldn’t quite tell—but his gaze held emotions she couldn’t describe.
“…I see. Understood.”
At Zen’s low response, Deborah smiled and said,
“When I return, I’ll be sure to tell Madam Saint about Mr. Baker’s kindness toward me. I’m sure she’ll be pleased.”
Zen’s face twisted immediately.
“Return?”
Deborah was confused again—what now?
“Yes. I’m heading back to the hotel today. I’ll catch the train tomorrow.”
Zen narrowed his already sharp eyes.
“You won’t be returning to the hotel. You won’t be taking that train either.”
Deborah frowned.
‘What is this man talking about?’
