[Urgent! The perpetrator of the ‘Ivan Beneff Incident,’ ‘Rochelle Kotov,’ is missing after escaping……]

[‘Rochelle Kotov,’ the only daughter of the Kotov family. Currently wanted by authorities.]

[What crime did the Kotov family commit? An exclusive interview with two individuals who
allegedly received bribes from the former head, Maksim.]

Yevgeny sat with his legs crossed, leaning deeply against the back of his chair. The anonymous informants rambled on, vaguely but lengthily, about how greedy and unscrupulous Maksim, the head of the Kotov family, was, and about the supposed fortune he had stashed away in the hills behind their estate.

“…Such a predictable story,” Yevgeny remarked with a light laugh.

If there really had been treasure buried in the hills, it would have been found the day the revolutionaries ransacked the house. The article was nothing but wordplay meant to incite the public.

But Yevgeny was not merciful enough to think of, or restore, the honor and pride of a ghost already beheaded. He tapped the photo of Maksim, head of the Kotov family, with his finger as if it were insignificant, then quietly turned the page.

The main headlines were no different from the previous ones. The world was obsessed with finding the villainess Rochelle Kotov and stripping her bare in the square.

It was a witch hunt.

A witch hunt, indeed.

Ivan, that wretch, was getting desperate and resorting to such shallow tricks.

As he took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee, a hint of amusement lingered on Yevgeny’s face.

With the stiff newspaper half-folded and tucked under his arm, Yevgeny slowly rose and began to walk away—then stopped, recalling the flushed face of the woman in bed.

“Sir Yevgeny?”

A young servant, who had been hovering nearby and waiting for a chance to speak, seized the opportunity. “Sir, is there anything else you need?” he asked politely.

Yevgeny turned to face him squarely.

“One more slice of toast, please.”

“Of course. Shall I bring it to your room when it’s ready?”

“No, I’ll take it myself. Add bacon and scrambled eggs on top, a glass of lukewarm water, and another cup of black coffee, nothing added.”

“Yes, please wait just a moment.”

The servant, lingering as if reluctant to leave, slowly passed Yevgeny and entered the kitchen. The breeze he left behind caused a small ripple, and naturally, a small slip of paper fell from Yevgeny’s elbow to the floor.

He bent down and picked up the card from the red carpet. The unfamiliar notice, tucked into the newspaper, was printed in a very large, conspicuous red font.

“Rochelle Kotov, unmarried, 20 years old. Prisoner number N2779, deep violet hair and blue eyes. White skin and a curvaceous body. A large scar on her forehead. Worked as an employee at the ‘Villette’ tavern in the capital for about two months. Bounty: 32 francs…”

Yevgeny’s face remained perfectly calm as he read the paper without a hint of emotion.

Perhaps, the moment he saw her troubled, tear-dried face, he instinctively realized the truth. Maybe that’s why he presented himself as a kind man who couldn’t easily overlook someone in trouble and decided to offer her a helping hand.

For Yevgeny, telling lies he didn’t mean was never difficult.

***

“……”

Her throat felt swollen, making it impossible for her to speak. Blinking in confusion, Rochelle squeezed her throat with more force.

“Ah, ah…”

A strange sound, like scraping a violin that hadn’t been tuned in years with a fingernail, came from her mouth. Could she have caught a cold? Her body felt as heavy as if it were buried deep underground.

She needed to run away from him. As she thought this, Rochelle laboriously turned her head to the side. She tried to glance around, but all she saw was the neatly made bed. The other side of the bed, where she hadn’t lain, was perfectly tidy, as if no one had touched it the night before.

After a brief struggle, she managed to sit up. When her feet touched the carpet and she straightened her back, an unbearable headache surged over her. The chilly air seeped into her body, drop by drop.

A hot fever crept up from her throat. As Rochelle took a deep breath and forced herself upright, Yevgeny returned to the room, both hands full with plates and a glass of water.

Rochelle quietly straightened her back and watched him approach. Stopping in front of the table, Yevgeny slid a plate toward her. On it were a steaming cup of coffee and a thickly buttered slice of bread, cut into triangles.

“Good morning,” he said.

“G-good morning,” she replied.

At the harsh, grating sound of her voice, Yevgeny frowned slightly as he looked at her. Rochelle coughed once, then avoided his gaze and sat down as if nothing was wrong.

Perhaps feeling overheated from the contrast between the cold outside and the warmth of the room, Yevgeny took off his coat and tossed it onto the bed. Rochelle’s eyes naturally followed the line of his strong arms.

The white dress shirt, sleeves rolled slightly, was a bit wrinkled. It was a flaw unsuited to someone so sharp and precise.

Her gaze drifted upward, drawn to his thin, pale lips and sharply defined nose.

And then, Rochelle quietly met the golden eyes of the man who was looking down at her.

Caught off guard by the unexpected eye contact, Rochelle gasped for breath. The man was gentle, but there was a subtle chill in his eyes—just like his brother.

Rochelle’s reason instinctively rejected his gaze. She squeezed her eyes shut and looked down. Her hands, clasped on her knees, twisted restlessly under the tension.

If he realized she was a noble, he would not hesitate to grab her by the neck and drag her to the executioner.

But Yevgeny only laughed.

She cautiously opened her eyes. The man was leaning his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand, watching her.

“Miss.”

His gaze made her body stiffen. A sense of dread grew inside her for no reason at all. The anxiety that Yevgeny might have discovered something, no—she was certain he had.

Rochelle gripped her knees tightly with her trembling hands.

Yevgeny tapped the table in front of her.

“Miss.”

“…Yes.”

As Rochelle looked up, trembling, the man nonchalantly pointed to the food on the plate.

“Your food is getting cold.”

“Yes.”

With her chest burning from the pressure, she raised her arm and curled her finger around the handle of the cup. She brought it to her lips and took a sip of the bitter coffee, but her anxiety did not wash away.

As she silently set the cup back on the table, Yevgeny quietly called her name again.

“…Miss.”

“……”

“Do you know Rochelle Kotov?”

At last, her real name slipped from Yevgeny’s red lips.

Rochelle, who had been sitting up straight and pretending nothing was wrong, immediately lost her composure. Cold sweat ran down her back. She propped her elbows on the table to bear her weight and lowered her head, exhaling deeply.

Leaning forward to meet her gaze, Yevgeny asked again, his voice soft yet direct.

“Do you know Rochelle Kotov?”

“…No.”

“……”

“I swear I don’t.”

“Have you ever even heard the name?”

Yevgeny raised his thick eyebrows at Rochelle, who was feigning ignorance.

“I’ve been mistaken for her a few times because of a similar appearance, but I have absolutely no connection to her.”

“……”

“It’s true.”

Even to her own ears, her voice sounded terribly shaky and unconvincing. Still, Rochelle forced herself to meet his eyes, as if desperate to prove her innocence. Their eyes locked, quiet but full of swirling emotions.

Yevgeny must have seen her fear as well. Rochelle was certain of it.

But he neither threatened nor mocked her. He just wore that inexplicable smile.