Chapter 7.3

A few small outdoor chairs were pushed into a corner of the terrace. She dragged one back and sat down in front of Cyril. Her green eyes, reflecting deep fatigue, didn’t seem to suggest her legs hurt.  

“Cyril. Do you know how much we look like spies right now?”  

“Yes, especially since we have no useful information to exchange.”  

“No matter how bad the relationship between the Bureau and the Knights gets, we’re not supposed to be spying on each other.”  

“But we are. So, what are you curious about?”  

Instead of answering, Danielle sat in the chair and kicked off her shoes. Watching her toss her shoes, clearly more out of frustration than discomfort, Cyril silently picked them up and handed them back. Of course, Danielle didn’t even glance at them.  

Time passed, though it was unclear how much. By the time a cricket had finished its chirping, she finally opened her mouth, launching into a sudden tirade. Her words were a chaotic mix of vivid insults, devoid of any mention of the Ingrams.  

“Congratulations, Sir Cyril Frey, the heartthrob of high society. How does it feel to receive all the attention you missed out on for twelve years?”  

“…I thought we were done with that topic. Besides, I always invited you to join me.”  

“Do you even call that an invitation? Do you know how openly people talked about you flirting with every woman in front of me?”  

Cyril, who had never once intended to flirt with anyone despite frequently showing up at salons, felt a pang of indignation but kept his mouth shut. He had never considered himself remarkable enough to be called the capital’s finest gentleman, but he understood that when someone behaved out of character, it would inevitably draw attention.  

Whether it was being seen dancing more often than usual at royal balls, revealing unexpectedly good card skills, or speaking to every dark-haired, green-eyed young lady while discreetly being polite to blondes and redheads, everything he did seemed to stand out in hindsight.  

For a while, he had been too preoccupied searching for a dark-haired, emerald-eyed noblewoman to think about anything else. Now, Cyril found himself staring anew at his fiancée, the sharp-tongued Investigation Bureau spy Danielle Odillon, sitting on the terrace chair with her shoes off.  

Her glossy black hair was pinned up, exposing her neck, and her rounded shoulders were draped in a pale rose scarf. Her plump cheeks and pointed chin faced him directly, her expression filled with displeasure. The faint dimples in her cheeks, remnants of a smile, were barely noticeable amidst her puffed-up face. Cyril hesitated. 

Should I apologize for my half-hearted invitations?  

But Danielle, as always, obliterated his hesitation.  

“What, are you off searching for true love? Should I bring out the contract and demand the Lovron Clause be enforced right now?”  

“…There are things you say, and there are things you don’t, Danielle Odillon.”

“Why? Can’t a person go looking for love? The engagement contract is just an obligation, isn’t it?”

It’s valid to stop fulfilling the obligation if one finds love. Danielle wiggled her toes inside her silk stockings as if playing the piano. Cyril absentmindedly thought that her vaguely suggestive gesture oddly matched her remarks about the Lovron Clause.  

The special clause in their engagement contract, the Lovron Clause, allowed the dissolution of the engagement without fault if one found true, irreparable love. Cyril’s face flushed hotly, a sign that he was just as angry as he was embarrassed.  

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His voice, now cold and steady, followed the end of his breath.  

“Danielle, fulfilling an obligation doesn’t mean forcing yourself to do something you don’t want to. Even a non-knight should understand that.”

“Oh, is that so, Sir Cyril Frey of the proud Royal Knights? But you got mad when I said I wouldn’t reject a perfectly fine groom.”

“Hah.”  

How could he not get angry at hearing such words? At the time, Danielle had spoken as though she’d picked Cyril up off the street. It was the night before the summer festival, a night when they had been unusually cordial toward each other.  

They had just retrieved the jewelry they had exchanged at a jeweler and were trying them on. When Cyril held up an emerald necklace, Danielle turned around, gathered her hair to one side, and exposed her pale neck. He carefully brushed away the strands of hair sticking to her slightly damp skin and fastened the necklace. It took him two tries to clasp the not-so-small hook, prompting Danielle to burst into giggles.  

The gray cufflinks she had put on him earlier reflected starlight, shimmering faintly. Cyril briefly thought the light matched the color of her nape.  

‘Should we just get married already?’ 

Under the same cascade of stars, Danielle had said those words. Though he had joked that the only person certain about this marriage was his father, Cyril himself had never doubted the idea of marrying her.  

Perhaps marrying her would simply mean fastening an emerald necklace around her straight neck every morning after brushing her hair aside. Maybe, just like the past twelve years, it wouldn’t change much.  

They would see each other a little more often, argue a little more frequently… Cyril had never thought of that as bad or undesirable. Danielle was simply part of his world, whether they were engaged, married, or perhaps even if they didn’t marry at all.  

Then why on earth had she made such a remark, leading to such a big fight?  

Of course, by now, the reason might no longer matter. The two had fought so fiercely that they skipped the ball entirely, failed to reconcile even after the festival, and Cyril’s actions of “checking out other women,” regardless of his hidden motives, could not be undone.  

Cyril had no rebuttal or excuse for such a low accusation. The fate of an investigator often demanded such duplicity, and as a Royal Knight, Cyril Frey could not carry out his espionage without tarnishing himself.

Standing before Danielle in that state made him feel utterly exposed, as though she could see through him to his very core. He couldn’t predict how far he might unravel in her presence… just like the night he had fumbled several times with the necklace clasp.