“It’s been a while, Your Grace.”

It was the voice of the woman who seemed to dominate his memories. Ruben turned his head indifferently. Helia stood by the door in a simple, deep navy sheath dress. Despite the warmth of her greeting, her tone held an unmistakable note of displeasure.

“You’re difficult to get a hold of these days.”

“My apologies for the long absence.”

“Not that I meant for you to visit at such a late hour.”

Helia looked back over her shoulder. Della and the maids had accompanied her to the room.

“Leave us.”

At her order, Della escorted the maids out of the room. Watching them go, Helia did nothing to hide her sneer.

“Leaving is the one thing you all do best.”

It was a tone filled with disdain. Ruben could easily imagine how the estate staff had suffered under Helia’s sharp tongue, especially someone like Della, who had served him smoothly and without fault for many years. He would need to find a way to make it up to her.

Ruben stifled a sigh inwardly. Unaware of his thoughts, Helia spoke in a voice tinged with mockery.

“So.”

“…”

“What should I make of a man who rushes to a lady’s residence late at night?”

Helia draped herself lazily over a red velvet sofa, her dress parting at a slit to reveal a pale thigh. Ruben turned his gaze away.

“I heard that Count Ikael Tyr visited you,” he said flatly, getting straight to the point. Despite knowing this was likely his reason for coming, Helia couldn’t help but feel disappointed. She let out a faint chuckle at herself.

“Yes, a scoundrel claiming to be your friend showed up during the day.”

“…”

“You might be wise to choose your associates more carefully.”

Helia summarized her impression of Ikael in a single, cutting sentence. Ruben raised an eyebrow and asked.

“Did he do anything disrespectful to you?”

Ruben appeared upset, almost as if he were worried. He seemed tense, struggling to maintain his usual calm composure. Helia found herself puzzled by this rare display of emotion from him. It was as if he were angry on her behalf…

‘No, that couldn’t be,’ she thought, dismissing the notion. What he was worried about was, indeed, his friend. It had nothing to do with any disrespect she may have suffered; he just didn’t want his friend to be reprimanded too harshly. Yes, that must be it—he rushed here out of concern that she might have given his friend a hard time. The realization left a fresh wound in her heart, already bruised by many similar blows. Helia brushed it off; she was well accustomed to this feeling.

“Showing up unannounced was impolite, to begin with.”

“…I apologize on his behalf,” Ruben said, bowing his head politely. Helia stared at the back of his head.

Ruben Effenberg, worrying about others. Ruben Effenberg, bowing his head for someone else. None of it was hers; it was all for someone else.

Something hot and bitter surge rose inside her, but Helia straightened her back and lifted her chin resolutely. This, too, was all too familiar.

“If he…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Helia cut him off abruptly. Ruben looked a bit taken aback. Worry about what? He wanted to ask, yet she acted as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. He frowned slightly, feeling as though his thoughts were laid bare.

“We didn’t exchange a single word.”

“…”

“I’m not someone who tolerates disrespect.”

Ruben felt a wave of relief at her words. Helia had perfectly understood his concerns. However, even before he could question this, he noticed that his sense of relief felt strangely out of place. What was he relieved about, exactly?

But Helia gave him no time to ponder further. She casually tossed a letter onto the table—a sheet she had set aside earlier after burning the others that day.

“Take a look.”

Feeling a foreboding sense, Ruben slowly reached for the envelope. The front of the envelope bore the crest of the Marquis of Hewells stamped in opulent gold. Ruben opened the letter, and, as expected, it was an invitation to tea.

The Marquis of Hewells, once a mere count, had purchased his marquisate title with wealth, drawing widespread criticism. His estate was notorious for its exorbitant taxes, and tributes under his name flowed ceaselessly to the royal family. In short, he was the polar opposite of Ruben Effenberg.

He was a troublesome figure with whom sharing a pleasant afternoon tea would be highly uncomfortable. Suppressing his discomfort, Ruben asked, though he knew the answer.

“What is your reason for showing this to me?”

“Judging by the fact that you’re asking when you already know, you don’t really want to go,” Helia laughed, amused. Her laughter reminded him of a witch savoring her captured prey.

“Do you have any particular fondness for him?”

“Of course. After all, he is utterly devoted to the royal family.”

Ruben felt a surge of revulsion. Knowing the countless tears and sacrifices that had paid for that “devotion” only heightened his distaste. Yet, he skillfully restrained the urge to shout at her to look upon the corpses that lay in the path of her arrogance.

“Go yourself. I’ll see you off,” he replied.

“That won’t do.”

“…”

“Leaving your fiancée behind to go alone—are you trying to disgrace me?”

Her audacious demand that he escort her to the Marquis’s tea party filled him with contempt. Yet, Ruben had little difficulty discerning that Helia would drag him there, no matter what.

“It’s next week. Keep your schedule open.”

With that, Helia rose, signaling that the conversation was over. There was no room for rebuttal.

Ruben offered a polite farewell and left the estate. Refusing the servant’s offer to bring a carriage, he strolled to his residence. He needed the cool night air to keep himself from exploding.

—

As soon as Ruben entered the opulent mansion of the Marquis, he grimaced. The jewels embedded in the fountain at the garden’s center reflected the sunlight glaringly. The garden, as seen from the windows, was a sight to behold—a gaudy mess. Art pieces were displayed proudly but lacked harmony, each mounted on gold-plated pedestals that detracted from their beauty. The Marquis’s residence mirrored his personality perfectly: flashy and vulgar.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” the Marquis of Hewells greeted Helia and Ruben warmly as they alighted from the carriage. The middle-aged man’s face, with specks of white in his beard, bore an unpleasantly smug expression.

“And this is my wife. She’s already met Your Highness,” he said, gesturing to the Marchioness, who greeted Ruben demurely, her gaze lingering on him for a moment.

“I am Canna Howells. Welcome to you both,” she said with a polite bow.

Ruben returned the bow while Helia stood haughtily, her head held high, not moving an inch.

“Come, let’s head inside.”

The Marquis urged them forward, and Ruben’s sigh was drowned out by the sound of footsteps.

“Your Highness, this way, please,” Canna offered to lead Helia as they reached the mansion’s central hall. The Marquis quickly engaged Ruben in conversation.

“And you, my lord, please join me. I assure you, while it may not compare to tea, we shall have an enjoyable time,” the Marquis chuckled, laughing at his words. Unfortunately, he was the only one.

Tea parties were typically gatherings for women. Most likely, the men would assemble elsewhere to share dull political talk and smoke cigars. Expecting this, Ruben began to turn in the direction he was being led without hesitation.

“See you later, Duke,” Helia said, extending one hand toward him. Her small hand, encased in a lace glove, was outstretched in a gesture he understood. Ruben took her hand and kissed it lightly without emotion. Such theatrics were trivial to him.

“Have a pleasant time.”

“Enjoy yourself too, Duke.”

With that, they parted and walked their separate ways. Ruben let the Marquis ramble about the extravagant costs of building the mansion, ignoring him while they strolled through the corridors. Like the garden, the hallways were filled with ostentatious decorations and artworks at every turn.

The Marquis’s sitting room was surprisingly empty. It was easy to surmise that either no other guests had accepted the invitation or that only Helia and he had been invited in the first place.

Ruben felt a surge of irritation at Helia for dragging him along when she could have easily come alone. Then again, he realized, she would have brought him along even to a marketplace if she could appear by his side.

“Would you like a cigar?” the Marquis asked politely. Ruben shook his head to decline.

“Then a glass of wine?

“That sounds fine.”

Ruben settled onto a sofa in the sitting room. The soft, cold texture of the leather—made from hunted game—left an unpleasant impression.

Hunting had recently become popular among the nobility, a trend sparked by King Xeroth. He particularly enjoyed hunting large animals; he would shoot them with an arrow, leaving them incapacitated, and then allow his servants to beat the creature severely before presenting it to him. Some criticized it as barbaric, but for those desperate to win his favor, it was a “sport” they had to learn, just as the man before him had indeed done.

“I never imagined the Duke would end up engaged to Her Highness the Princess,” the Marquis commented offhandedly, pouring wine into Ruben’s glass. Ruben gave a wry smile—it had surprised him, too.

“One thing led to another,” he replied simply.

“What drew you to accept the engagement? Was it her beauty?” the Marquis asked, grinning. It was an offensive, impertinent, and crude question, but Ruben had no intention of defending Helia’s honor, so he merely sipped his wine. Seemingly interpreting his silence as agreement, the Marquis continued eagerly.

“I thought the Duke wouldn’t give a second glance to someone like Her Highness.”