The massive doors of the chapel opened. A dizzying long wedding aisle stretched before her eyes.

At its end stood a man, backlit by the colorful light filtering through the stained glass.

As the solemn bridal march echoed through the pipe organ, the bride began to move forward.
Behind her veil, Raflia tried to compose her rapid breathing and force a pretty smile. Despite her efforts, her face contorted, a mess of mingled joy and sorrow.

The lily of the valley bouquet trembled in her hands. Her endless veil trailed behind her footsteps.

Countless guests lined both sides of the aisle, each watching her with different expressions.

Some blessed the bride sincerely, others pitied her, and still others sent sneers.

The man’s figure grew closer through the veil. Raflia agonized.

‘Should I run away now? Is this really the best option?’

Even until that moment, the cruel reality approached her steadily.

Finally standing before him, despite her blurred vision through the veil, she could sense his distinctively sturdy build, beautiful appearance, and the arrogance flowing through him. An overwhelming man who made her tremble just by meeting his eyes.

The darkness of Buleco and the hound of the reservoir. Her enemy and her only savior.

This man is my husband, Duke Lesion Bronski…

The bride faced Duke Bronski. The duke lightly lifted her veil.

In an instant, her awkward expression vanished, revealing a woman’s dazzling smile. Clear dark eyes focused solely on her groom, flushed cheeks, and ruby-red lips. The perfect image of a pure and foolish woman completely fallen for the man before her.

Even those who had disapproved of the love story that had stirred society nodded in approval at Raflia’s perfect smile.

Even that dog-like depraved illegitimate son of Henry III was looking at the woman before him with love.

Some thought they would become each other’s salvation, while others believed she would be just another passing breeze for him.

Led by the officiant, the two faced each other and recited:

“I promise to love and be with you forever, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.”

When the ring bearer brought the wedding rings, they placed diamond rings on each other’s left ring fingers.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

At the officiant’s words, the duke gazed at Raflia with a faint smile. For a moment, her face froze in bewilderment.

He gently took both her hands and whispered softly:

“Smile.”

As if on cue, a smile returned to Raflia’s face. To the guests, it was a sweet smile as if he had whispered words of love.

He stared at her smiling face with satisfaction and lowered his head.

Raflia’s face contorted uncontrollably. The warmth of his lips on hers, his strong arm around
her waist. All of it enveloped her in both discomfort and comfort.

Though she wanted to push his hands away immediately, she decided not to show her true feelings.

The lily of the valley bouquet fell from her hands with a soft thud. Raflia grabbed the duke’s formal attire with both hands and burrowed deeper into his embrace, kissing him more deeply.

For a moment, she felt his body tense in surprise.

At that moment, her face brightened again. As if lost in a happy dream, Raflia gently closed her eyes. As though truly in love, her heartbeat quickened.

She repeated to herself:

‘I wish I would just die soon, rather than suffer such torment.’

This wedding was the perfect “ending” for the century’s lovers who had shaken the kingdom of Buleco.

* * *

She opened her eyes wide and simultaneously released her held breath with a sigh. She kept taking deep breaths to calm her tension, but couldn’t easily settle down.

Raflia looked up at the full-length mirror. The woman with black hair elegantly pinned up and pearl earrings still seemed unfamiliar.

This was the mansion of the Herriot family. Today was the engagement celebration party of an old nouveau riche man over eighty.

A crude diamond ring sat on Raflia’s white velvet gloves. Meant to flaunt his wealth with its large stones, it looked rather vulgar.

“Still, you’re fortunate, aren’t you?” said one of the middle-aged maids of the Herriot household who was helping with her preparations.

“People are starving everywhere after the war. Though you’ll have to put up with an old man, if you endure a little, you can live in wealth for the rest of your life.”

The younger maid frowned at this.

“Even so…”

“Just endure a little, miss. Frankly speaking, it wouldn’t be strange if he died suddenly at any moment.”

Raflia lowered her head at the maid’s words. She might be right. She was merchandise sold to pay off the Rozantin family’s debt to the Herriot family.

Nevertheless, to the maids, she was still the lady of a wealthy household they had to serve. A life without financial worries, living in luxury until death. A life they couldn’t help but envy.

Despite this, Raflia couldn’t ignore this miserable feeling.

Once, she had dreamed of graduating school and becoming a teacher, but that dream had vanished like a mirage. The bright-future-seeking girl had now mortgaged that future.

The jewels on Raflia’s body gleamed brilliantly in the candlelight. But the more her exterior was adorned by the maids’ hands, the emptier Raflia felt inside.

“Still, having lived as nobility all her life, she must have had her own pride,” the young maid murmured.

“I suppose so. But we commoners don’t understand such things. Isn’t that why the master bought the miss?”

She was right. The Herriot family were nouveau riche who ran a large cotton factory, but had always been dismissed by nobles as mere insignificant merchants. This was their opportunity to raise their family’s status by acquiring a noble-born wife.

But at that moment, Raflia’s face twisted strangely upon hearing those words.

“Me?”

Raflia, who had been quiet, spoke for the first time.

The two maids exchanged puzzled glances. The younger maid answered:

“Yes, that’s what the master said.”

Raflia raised her head to look at herself in the mirror. There stood Raflia Rozantin, a young woman whom the old nouveau riche firmly believed to be nobility.

* * *

Idlers.

Lesion thought this of the able-bodied young men before him.

The stale smell of cigarettes, the strong smell of alcohol… It was a pathetic social gathering of listless idlers exchanging idle talk, like the cigarette butts already filling the ashtray.

Cards lay on the table, but this too was merely an excuse for them to gather. Even when they lost all their money on all-in bets, their expressions never changed, and they simply muttered:

“What are you doing the week after next?”

The youngest, Deveron, asked, and the men answered in succession:

“Don’t know.”

“If you’ve nothing to do, come to Canderson Nero.”

“What about you, Duke Bronski?”

Deveron turned to the silent Lesion. Lesion played his last card when his turn came. A nine of clubs.

“This round is a bust. After winning all this time.”

Torio, who had played an ace of spades, laughed as he swept up the pot. Lesion simply watched his money go, as if it belonged to someone else.

‘Two weeks later, what was I supposed to do?’

Being no different from these idlers, he had no particular plans. During the endless rest period given to soldiers after the war, he had committed his mad wife to a mental hospital.

“Going to that mental hospital again?”

At Deveron’s words, Lesion smiled faintly.

‘Ah, I remember.’

“Court.”

At Lesion’s words, Torio raised his glass.

“Finally.”

“Congratulations. Finally escaping prison, eh?”

Lord Resford raised his glass to toast his comrade. Lesion clinked glasses with them but didn’t seem particularly happy.

Of course, divorcing that woman was something to celebrate, but an end was also a beginning.

The settlement place for an escaped prisoner was still a prison.

Using this as an excuse to drink another glass, the idlers began to grumble in earnest about what to do next.

From the party at the Canderson house the week after next to the rags-to-riches story of Jabet Canderson who became suddenly wealthy from gold mining.

Meanwhile, cards were dealt again and glasses refilled. Just as Lesion began to feel bored with this endless repetition.

From outside the dim reception room where they sat, surprised voices could be heard.

The men turned their heads toward what might have been exclamations or cries.

“Showing off again, I suppose?”

Deveron said. Torio, concentrating on his cards, replied:

“That fellow has nothing but money. Art bought with money, mansion bought with money, woman bought with… money?”

Today happened to be the engagement celebration party of Herriot, the host of this party.

Bored, Lesion threw his cards on the table and stood up, heading outside the reception room.

He needed fresh air.

“Oh, leaving? Then you lose!”

Torio’s voice called from behind, but he casually ignored it.

Unlike the reception room, the banquet hall was bathed in blindingly bright light. Crystal chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling, and candles on the tables burned red, dripping wax.

In the hall, gentlemen in tailcoats sat around the central stage. They were all dark-suited men.

In the center stood a woman in a white dress with a dark expression, and the host of this party, Bottom Herriot, roughly gripping her wrist and shaking it as he announced:

“The Count Rozantin family, what kind of family is it? They’re nobles among nobles who served and protected the court of Corantia kings for over a hundred years! Therefore, this beautiful lady can be called a true noble.”

As the old man boasted proudly, people applauded in response. Bottom Herriot, as if drunk, continuously looked the beautiful woman who would become his wife up and down, giggling.

“Of course, even though Corantia lost to our great Buleco Kingdom and is now struggling, it’s still a country with cultural strength, isn’t it? Their women are all refined and gentle.”

He stretched out one hand and forcibly embraced Raflia’s waist.

“I am truly fortunate. To have such a beautiful wife in my later years!”
Hahaha, the old man laughed heartily as if rejuvenated. The people watching them laughed along. One of them called out:

“Might you even have a son in your old age?”

At this, the crowd grew even more boisterous. Bottom Herriot also laughed, waving his hands.

“I don’t ask for a son. I would be content with just one small, pretty daughter who takes after her mother.”

The people laughed, exchanging vulgar jokes among themselves with the young woman in their midst. They didn’t even mind the objectification.

Lesion watched the scene with apparent disdain.

People who feel inferior about their status but are exactly that vulgar.

He leaned against the wall, looking at the woman. A young woman who seemed to have just come of age. A woman who would live and wither like a pretty ornamental flower collected by that old man.

While sending such bored glances, his eyes met the woman’s. An expressionless face with dark, distinct, shining eyes.

The eyes that saw him wavered for a moment before looking away.

Shortly after, the woman, with tightly closed lips, pushed away the old man’s arm around her waist. Then suddenly she opened her mouth and said something to the old man.

Her small voice was drowned out by the loud noise of the crowd, but the old man heard it clearly, his face instantly turning red and blue.

“Miss Rozantin…!”

At the same time, the old man’s angry voice echoed.

It was noisy.

“Speak carefully. Such false words will only damage the goodwill between Herriot and Rozantin…”

Bottom Herriot said, glaring sharply at the girl.

The girl in the pure white dress silently bowed her head. But her mouth busily said something quietly. After hearing it, Bottom Herriot said with a bewildered face:

“How shameless. You clearly said you were a daughter of Rozantin, but…!”

The voice of the skinny old man over eighty was still strong. He couldn’t finish his last words, becoming speechless.

The middle-aged second son, who had been looking unfavorably at his soon-to-be stepmother, seized the moment and shouted:

“This is an insult to Herriot! A noble family from a defeated country that’s not even really noble anymore. When we offered some money, it was Rozantin who first requested to repay the favor with their daughter.”

“That’s right. Returning kindness with enmity.”

The third son chimed in.

“We will hold you accountable for this separately. To abandon honor for money…”

The middle-aged sons kept shouting about honor. Their father’s honor, the family’s honor.

Things that nouveau riche loved to talk about. Because these were things money couldn’t buy.

They didn’t question their father’s actions of buying a teenage girl with money to make her an old man’s second wife and holding an engagement party as if to show off.

By this point, one would feel sorry for the young girl.

An elderly gentleman who had been watching the situation stood up discreetly and said:

“Gentlemen of Herriot, please calm down now…”

“Still, I didn’t lie about my identity.”

The girl’s clear voice echoed through the banquet hall. The elderly gentleman turned to look at
her.

When the girl’s black eyes, shining transparently like the sun, turned toward him, Bottom Herriot was inwardly surprised and his face stiffened.

With an expression as noble as the pearls on her ears, the girl said:

“My name is Raflia Rozantin. I am undeniably a daughter of Rozantin.”