Ian suddenly recalled the day he had run into Aisha at the restaurant a few days ago. In truth, she had not left his mind since then. Even with another woman on his arm, her pale face had remained unchanged…

‘She flinched at a whisper, yet sat there trying to keep her pride…’

Although he had been pleased to see the carefully composed façade crumble so easily, he had also been irritated by it. How dare she pretend to be unaffected? However, when he recalled the fork slipping from her hand and her pale, trembling back, some of his irritation eased.

But the thought of rumours spreading that their engagement had fallen through soured his mood again. He had already told Aisha in person that he would not marry her, so confirming this to others would have been easy enough. Yet, for some reason, he found himself reluctant to speak those words aloud.

When Ian remained silent, the man who had first brought it up swallowed nervously. He was truly curious — had Aisha Parden really behaved wantonly with other men? With that innocent-looking face? If so, how had Ian found out? Had he caught her in bed with several men, as the more sordid rumours claimed?

“I heard a rumor that Aisha Parden—”

Unable to contain his filthy curiosity, he began to speak—only for Vincent, who had been pushed to the back, to suddenly lurch forward. He had downed several more glasses in the meantime, and his eyes were now as dull and cloudy as a dead fish’s.

“Ian, if you’re not planning to marry Aisha Parden, would you mind if I had some fun with her?”

Vincent had heard the rumors from his own fiancée. Whether they were true or not, they had pleased him immensely. In his mind, he had already taken them as fact, imagining Ian’s face twisted in humiliation.

‘The arrogant bastard. Must sting, knowing the woman who was almost your fiancée has been spreading her legs around. And judging by that face of yours, you still have a bit of attachment left…’

Believing he had found the perfect way to irritate Ian, Vincent opened his mouth. His eyes gleamed as the stench of alcohol wafted from him like a noxious vapour. Those nearby grimaced and shook their heads, but he paid them no attention.

“Her family’s not even a century old — you can hardly call her a noble’s daughter — but that pretty face of hers is rare. With skin that fair, I bet the body under her dress is even whiter. Wouldn’t it be something to bruise it red under your hands?”

The words spilling from Vincent’s mouth were fouler than his breath. Some tried to act as though they hadn’t heard, while others watched with eager, lascivious interest. Aisha Parden, with her delicate colouring and air of innocence, was considered beautiful precisely because of her purity — and such vulgar talk only made her all the more tempting to them.

“And just look at her—slender waist that sways like a willow, but her chest is well-rounded… A woman like that is perfect in bed. You could wrap those pale strands around your hand, drag her onto the mattress, pin her down from behind—”

Seeing how intently some people were listening, Vincent became more animated. But that was as far as he got. His sordid ramblings were cut short by Ian’s sharp, glacial blue gaze fixed on him.

“A brainless fool who doesn’t know his place lets his mouth run, and the stench of it fills the air.”

“What? What did you just—”

Vincent’s face stiffened at the obvious insult. Undaunted, Ian took a handkerchief from his br*ast pocket and dramatically held it to his nose. This open display of contempt prompted an awkward round of throat-clearing from onlookers who had been watching Vincent with interest just moments earlier.

“Even when I tell you outright to close your stinking mouth, you still can’t take the hint? I wondered if it might be otherwise, but it seems that head of yours really is just for show.”

“You… you—!”

The faint crease between Ian’s brows remained unsoftened. Hiding his mouth behind a pale blue handkerchief, he delivered a stream of quiet insults as naturally as breathing.

Furious, Vincent snatched up the glass in front of him and raised it high. Half the liquor inside sloshed over the rim. Although Vincent’s posture suggested that he was about to hurl it, Ian didn’t so much as blink. Crossing one leg over the other, he sneered and drawled.

“Empty-headed, useless, and foul-smelling besides… and it’s not as if you’re much to look at. Tch. Throwing you out would be a far greater gain.”

Vincent’s grip on the glass was so tight that the veins stood out on his hand. In the end, however, he didn’t throw it. When Ian’s gaze locked with his, a flicker of fear crept in. What would happen if he did?

Ian was not a forgiving man. Back in their academy days, Robert had once drunkenly swung at him, resulting in his expulsion. He hadn’t been able to show his face in the capital since then. If that had been the outcome back then, when Ian wielded far less influence than he does now, the consequences today would be far worse.

Vincent bit down on his lip and slowly lowered the glass. The sight of him backing down drew brief smirks from some of those seated nearby. Ian had humiliated him enough to satisfy most men by now, but he was not in the mood to let go of his anger. Spinning the glass slowly in his handkerchief-covered grip, he continued.

“Shall we take some time to review things, then?” As you say, Aisha Parden comes from a nouveau riche family that has only existed for less than a century. But what about your family, Vincent?”

The Viscounty of Valtous, at its most generous description, could hardly be called a fine house. Its title was not high, its history not long, and it was far from wealthy. If those present had to choose between the Pardens and the Valtous, every last one of them would choose the former.

“Y-you dare compare us to them?!”

Vincent knew perfectly well that his family could not compete with the Pardens, objectively speaking. However, his pride made it impossible for him to accept this fact. The very idea of comparison was an affront. His voice rose into a shout.

“Our house is old! My ancestor was granted the title two hundred years ago for his great service at the Battle of Najenta! And you would compare us to some merchant family that bought their way into the peerage—”

“Ah, so two hundred years…”

Ian sighed, and his sigh echoed around the table. Two centuries was nothing to scoff at, but it was far from the kind of history that would make you want to boast. Compared to the Marquess of Lloyd, whose family had held power since the Empire’s inception, Vincent’s lineage was laughably short.

“And if I recall, it’s been nearly a century since your family’s held the title without an estate of its own. The Pardens, even before their ennoblement, owned half the land in the Lotus region.”

The current Viscounty of Valtous had no territory whatsoever, not even a small plot. Vincent’s great-grandfather gambled away the family fortune and ultimately lost the estate itself. A low-ranking title without land was bound to be treated with thinly veiled disdain.

Upset by the reference to his family’s disgrace, Vincent shot to his feet.

“You—!”

“By your account, your father is the venerable head of a grand old family—a viscount. And yet, his title is destined for your eldest brother, isn’t it?”

Even as Vincent’s face flushed an angry red, Ian pressed on. The way he hounded his prey into a corner, only to cut them down without mercy, made a few of the onlookers exchange uneasy glances.

“The Valtous have no other hereditary titles, and you’re nowhere near as wealthy as the Pardens. This means that, as the third son, your father won’t be able to leave you anything substantial.”

“…”

“In a few years, you’ll likely be a titleless nobleman with no property save for whatever dowry your fiancée brings you.”

“…”

“And yet you see fit to speak ill of her in front of so many witnesses? If one of them repeats what you say, and you end up being rejected because of it, your future could be ruined completely.”

Beneath his bright gold hair and crimson lips, Vincent unleashed a torrent of cutting words. With no restraint to soften them, his face turned from pale to ashen grey. He swayed on his feet, and murmurs began to circulate among the group about whether it was time to intervene.

However, Ian, whose throat had already been loosened by alcohol, seemed intent on seeing this through to the bitter end. This was in stark contrast to his usual near-muteness, and a few of those who had kept their tongues in check privately congratulated themselves, letting out silent sighs of relief.

“The idea that you could “play” with the esteemed daughter of the Parden family is laughable. If Aisha Parden were to take you on as her plaything, you should count yourself lucky. As far as I know, she has a considerable fortune of her own — enough to shower a plaything with gold. Is that what you’re after? Or are you just pretending to refuse out of pride?”

“Y-you bastard! You damned bastard! I’ve had enough of—!”

Clang!

“Uh—?! Hey, stop him!”

“Vincent!”

“Let me go! That bastard—! You think you’re so high and mighty?”

There was a crash, followed by the sound of a bottle tipping and spilling. Vincent lunged across the table toward Ian, but the others grabbed hold of him and held him back.

“Let me go! I’ll beat him to death! Let go! I said, let me go!“

Ian merely smirked at Vincent’s flailing rage while the others restrained him. Then he got up from the sofa. The moment he stood up, Vincent froze mid-struggle and stopped thrashing around. Towering over him by seven inches, Ian looked down with a voice as calm as a knife’s edge.

“If you can, then do it.”

“W-what…?”

“Don’t just bark—go ahead, beat me to death if you can.”

Only an icy cold remained in the blue of his eyes. The sheer pressure of it seemed enough to force a man to his knees, and Vincent, cowed before it, began to hiccup.

“I… I-I… hic…”

“Why keep barking if you can’t even follow through?”

Vincent hiccupped again, his body jerking up and down, and the contempt on Ian’s face deepened. He lifted his gaze to the table and reached for a glass perched precariously on the edge. He gestured towards the hem of his trousers with a tilt of his chin.

“And what about this?”

In his outburst, Vincent had knocked over a bottle, dampening the cuff of Ian’s trousers and the toe of his shoe. This kind of thing could easily happen in a place where drinks flowed freely, but Ian regarded it as a grave offence.