BVIB 30

Chapter 30

To him, money was something he could easily earn whenever he wanted. Spending ten or twenty billion was barely a tickle.

The same could be said for the ducal house, no doubt.

Gueran Wilbred hadn’t always been interested in Roselyn. In the beginning, whenever she resisted or fought back, her only weapons were anger and irritation—a sign of her immaturity back then.

Because of that, she’d earned a poor reputation in high society, and since Gueran had no patience for fools, she’d simply never caught his attention.

He first took real notice of Roselyn when she fled the ducal estate and endured the backlash of the nobility. One day, she intercepted one of Gueran’s own business ventures.

More precisely, she sold information about one of his projects to a rival earl who disliked Gueran. Unbeknownst to him, the earl siphoned off key people linked to the venture and seized control under even better terms.

For the first time in his life, Gueran had been blindsided—his nose cut right off his face, so to speak—and at first, all he could do was let out a hollow laugh. By the end of the day, though, he found himself genuinely amused.

At first, he assumed the earl had orchestrated everything and set out to uncover the truth and exact revenge. But a month later, another noble house was struck with misfortune, and three months after that, yet another family found themselves in crisis.

The brilliance of Roselyn’s strategy was that she never sold information in a way that would truly harm her buyers. Nobles had their pride, after all. None of them would want it known that they’d bought secrets from a disgraced Noble Lady.

Besides, the ventures that started with her information generally thrived, giving those buyers no reason to complain, and certainly no reason to talk. With everyone keeping their mouths shut, the houses that suffered had no way to trace the source of the leaks.

Still, Gueran Wilbred was nothing if not persistent. At first, he was motivated by rare irritation, but as the number of victims grew—himself included—his curiosity took over and he kept digging.

Eventually, after a relentless campaign of threats and persuasion, Gueran managed to corner the earl who had stolen his business. When the earl finally confessed, the name “Lady Bellion” slipped from his lips for the first time. The revelation delighted Gueran more than he could have expected.

It was the first time since his wife’s death that Gueran Wilbred had truly laughed—loud and unrestrained.

From that moment on, his interest was fixed on Roselyn.

Yet even after narrowing his search to her, tracing her movements proved no easy feat. He learned that her life had not been a pleasant one. In the first year or two after leaving her family, she’d suffered greatly.

But instead of giving in, she gritted her teeth and endured. Rather than submit or bow her head, she chose to bite back—using the information she’d collected to turn the tables on her tormentors.

Thrown into a harsh world, Roselyn’s quick wits blossomed. She became adept at evasion, spinning a web of connections so that only unaffected houses received her information; no one was left with cause to retaliate.

With the money she earned selling secrets, she hired bodyguards and built herself a comfortable life.

What surprised Gueran most was discovering that even after leaving home, she continued to meet with the Third Prince. Or, more accurately, the prince sought her out, meeting with her regularly.

No doubt some of her information came from him, Gueran mused.

That was how Roselyn survived—transforming herself from a Noble Lady into a dealer of secrets, clawing her way up from nothing. She survived, biting him and the other nobles, lashing out at those who had cornered her, and, in the end, throwing filth back in the faces of her enemies.

Thinking back on it all brought a fleeting sense of amusement, but as Gueran stood before the closed door, jewelry box in hand, his heart grew heavy.

He straightened his jacket, composed himself, and knocked quietly.

Knock, knock.

“Come in,” came the voice from inside.

Gueran opened the door and stepped into the room. The woman inside, with hair the color of clear water, looked up and froze, eyes wide with surprise when she saw him holding the box.

“…What brings you here at this hour?” she asked, her voice uncertain.

Gueran glanced at the remnants of tea and pastries on the table, feigning disappointment. “Ah, I see you’ve already had your afternoon tea. I’d asked you to save that time for me, you know.”

He gestured to the half-finished desserts, his tone light, as if mildly chiding her for starting without him.

She cast a reluctant glance down at the demolished sweets, then back up at Gueran, lips pursed in mild embarrassment.

“So, when are you finally going to grant me a divorce?”
Her question had become so routine, it was almost a greeting.

Gueran only smiled in response, wordless.

“I’m afraid I won’t be doing that,” he said gently.

She let out a sigh. “You’re suffocating me.”

“Then perhaps a walk in the garden would help,” he suggested, smoothly steering the conversation away.

The Marchioness pressed her lips into a thin, stubborn line, unimpressed by his evasiveness.

“I’m telling you, being around you makes it hard to breathe,” she said, her eyes—clear as water, just like her hair—fixed on him with open resentment.

“That’s why I only visit once a day, at tea time,” Gueran replied, placing the jewelry box on the table. “Isn’t that considerate?”

She looked at the box, then back up at him, frustration simmering beneath her calm exterior.

“I don’t understand you at all. For years, you buried yourself in work and never spared me a single thought. Why the sudden interest now?”

“I’ve told you before—I like you,” Gueran said simply.

“What game are you playing this time?” she demanded. “Please, just leave me alone. If you’re not going to divorce me, then go back to ignoring me like you used to.”

For once, the Marchioness, usually so calm and gentle, squeezed her eyes shut and raised her voice.

Gueran remained silent, his smile as carefully composed as ever. Instead of responding, he gently pushed the box toward her.

“There’s a child I’d like to adopt,” he said. “They asked me to give this to you.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “…What do you mean, a child you want to adopt?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. If you share tea with me next time, I’ll explain the details,” Gueran replied, a faint hint of amusement in his tone.

The Marchioness pressed her lips together, clearly displeased, but finally reached for the box. As she opened it and caught sight of the shimmering jewelry inside, her eyes went wide in disbelief. She looked from Gueran to the jewelry and back again, at a loss for words.

“Marquis… why are you really doing this?”
Her voice trembled with confusion and exhaustion.

Gueran offered no answer, his silence stretching between them.

“It was my idea, this marriage. I never blamed you for being distant. But I’m only human. It was hard. I finally managed to let go—truly let go…”

She trailed off, her hands gripping the jewelry box.

“If you hated hearing ‘let’s divorce,’ I won’t say it anymore. I never wanted to damage your honor. So please… just stop.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, her plea almost desperate. Gueran’s eyes flickered, betraying a rare hint of emotion.

He sat across from her for a long, silent moment, simply watching the fear and sadness in her expression. At last, he stood.

“I’ll come again tomorrow, at the same time,” he said gently.

She did not respond.

“There’s so much I want to say, but I’ll wait until you’re ready. Whenever that is—just let me know,” Gueran added quietly.

The Marchioness pressed her lips together, refusing to meet his gaze.

“That jewelry was bought by Lady Bellion,” Gueran said, gesturing to the box. “Even if you dislike me, she bought it with you in mind. So don’t throw it away.”

“Have a good day, my lady,” Gueran said softly.

He lingered a moment before quietly closing the door behind him.

Left alone, the Marchioness sat in silence, her lips pressed tightly together. Even long after Gueran had gone, she remained perfectly still, staring down at the jewelry in her hands, lost in thought.

“W-what… what did you just say?”

Ian Bellion gaped at her in stunned disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

One of his eyes was swollen shut, a bandage covered his cheek, and his face was so puffy it was hard to even recognize him.

So those rumors about him getting daily ‘training’—which was really just the Duke beating some sense into him—must have been true.

“I said you should quit the Makluksa,” Roselyn repeated flatly.

“No, before that!” Ian wailed, his words slurred by his battered face.

“Oh.”
Roselyn let out a nonchalant sound, her expression unmoved.

“If you don’t quit, you’re going to die soon.”

“No—not that! Before that! And can’t you at least call me uncle properly?!”

He jabbed a swollen finger in her direction, his face a comical mess of outrage and swelling. Roselyn frowned, thoroughly annoyed.

Before that…? Ugh, what a pain.

Deciding to just repeat herself, Roselyn said, “I saw a future where Uncle dies, and because of you, the whole family is ruined. Grandfather, Father, you—everyone dies.”

“…”

Her voice was as flat and unfeeling as before, her gaze steady and cold.