12
Pretending
Edmund’s driver left the party with them, saying that Colt would bring Langston back.
Vivienne glanced briefly, half expecting Edmund to light a cigarette in that fleeting moment, but he only checked his watch once. Dressed in her evening gown, she shivered, yet he didn’t drape his jacket over her shoulders. Just the face looked the same—otherwise, he was entirely different.
Perhaps sensing her wandering gaze, he looked at her briefly.
Vivienne quickly averted her eyes. Even in the biting air that made her hands and feet tingle, her face burned. She had never struggled to hide her emotions like this before, and it flustered her.
Feeling his gaze persist, Vivienne tried to ignore the pounding in her chest and looked at him with feigned composure.
His eyes lingered near her neck.
“That’s a beautiful necklace.”
Even though Vivienne knew he wasn’t referring to her, she felt a flush rise to her face. She hesitated for a moment, staring at Edmund’s large hand, then muttered:
“…Thank you, Edmund.”
Did he notice the slight tremor in her voice?
“I received it as a gift. It was delivered anonymously to my home around the New Year.”
The necklace was designed with scarlet diamonds intricately encircled by white diamonds, even the pendant loop studded with white gems.
Vivienne had once imagined, however absurdly, that the gift might have come from the man she had longed for. She knew it was improbable—the agent could never have afforded something so lavish. But her fiancé had been indifferent, and no one else could have given her such a gift, so she allowed herself a brief, happy thought that it might be him.
Those thoughts led to a fleeting hope: could the man who gave her this necklace be standing next to her now?
She had met a disguised agent before, but he looked so much like him.
A ridiculous thought even crossed her mind: perhaps the agent had a reason unknown to her, and he had come to rescue her once again.
Then the man shattered her expectation with an indifferent tone.
“The person who gave this must have cared for you greatly, Lady. The color is identical to your eyes.”
“Ah…”
Vivienne felt a jolt of reality in his words.
“Yes. I wore it every time with gratitude.”
“Good to hear.”
Edmund responded while staring straight ahead. Vivienne didn’t notice the strange undertone in his voice.
“It must have looked lovely on you.”
In the dry atmosphere, Vivienne lowered her gaze and answered,
“Yes…”
Even his fingers, hard and beautiful as if sculpted, with veins protruding over the back of his hand, resembled that agent.
Her gaze drifted to his hands and refused to fall, yet he didn’t reach out to hold hers.
By then, his driver had arrived with the Langston limousine in front of the estate. With a word of “Shall we go?” he escorted her toward the car.
The driver silently opened the rear door. As Vivienne carefully got in, she shifted to make room for him. The door closed coldly, and Edmund moved outside the window before climbing into the passenger seat.
Noticing her awareness, he turned his head and said,
“Please, sit comfortably. I’ll take you to the Medwick family residence, where my father stays.”
Vivienne, secretly hoping to sit closer to him, hid her disappointment and said politely,
“Thank you.”
“To Medwick No. 3.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, the car began to move.
In the cold darkness, Vivienne recalled the voice from her increasingly fading memory:
“That won’t be a problem. I don’t live in the residence, so that’s settled.”
Then the agent had guided her to the car when she called him “fake.” Seeing her insist on the front seat, he chuckled, stepped out of the driver’s seat, and opened the door like a proper chauffeur. That night, he addressed her as a young lady, not a lady of rank, showing his usual cynicism.
The “real” one had not been like that.
He had courteously escorted her to the front seat and offered to take her to the Prime Minister’s residence. Without a doubt, he felt like a young nobleman—his tone, his choice of words, even his absence of cigarette smell and different perfume. People would call him “prince-like.”
Such qualities could be acquired, reinforced, but could never be faked by someone of a different status.
“So… it must be someone else.”
Vivienne suppressed the aching longing in her chest, enduring the suffocating silence.
Soon, the Prime Minister’s residence came into view.
❖ ❖ ❖
Vivienne arrived for the first time at Medwick No. 3, the estate she had only seen in newspapers. The wooden doors opened, and a uniformed man holding the handle greeted her politely. She stepped lightly on the marble floor.
She was guided to the Prime Minister’s reception room, offered warm tea and simple biscuits. As Edmund filled her cup whenever she put it down, she ended up drinking twice as much as she intended. Her body warmed slightly, her hands thawed.
Edmund slid the plate of biscuits toward her and offered them.
The reception door opened, and the Prime Minister entered. Vivienne stood to greet him. He seemed tired, more than in the photographs, though his eyes were sharp and experienced. Without a glance at Vivienne, he seated himself on the sofa across from them.
Only when Edmund took her fingertips and guided her to a seat did Vivienne compose herself. Her gaze shifted to the Prime Minister’s hand resting on Edmund’s knee. Her fingertips tingled again, as they had when he first held her hand.
Vivienne looked at Edmund; Edmund looked at his father, and the Prime Minister spoke in that charged atmosphere:
“All the people at the party must owe you five epone each, for the lady at your side couldn’t take her eyes off you. Congratulations.”
Vivienne, feeling exposed, quickly averted her gaze.
Edmund, relaxed, opened his mouth:
“Don’t you eat the meals arranged with such money? It isn’t your uncle’s money, so there shouldn’t be a problem this time.”
“Is this youthful boldness, or an attempt to best me?”
As the Prime Minister snorted, Edmund pulled a letter from his pocket and placed it on the table between the three of them. He slid it closer to his father.
It was the letter Vivienne herself had written.
The Prime Minister furrowed his brow, raising one eyebrow.
“I brought the gift.”
Vivienne alternated her gaze between Edmund and the Prime Minister, realizing the letter she had once written to a criminal underworld figure had been passed to the Prime Minister. A cold shiver ran through her body. Had the party not been salvation after all?
What would happen to her now? The Chairman of the Nobility? In an instant, she had become an informant.
Thankfully, the letter hadn’t revealed everything—the underworld strategist was neither her nor her fiancé, but a third party.
The underworld was ruthless regarding informants, whether the truth weighed heavy or light.
“I believed it would be destroyed.”
At the party, the facts had leaked through words, not direct evidence.
Now, the Prime Minister knew everything. This letter was enough to verify information the agent had tried to obtain. The Dartro Empire’s legal system was rotten.
Vivienne had expected the kindness of a man identical to the agent—but she had been mistaken. The warmth she had counted on cooled her mind.
Edmund’s voice continued:
“I trust the driver has relayed the party details. This letter proves it was indeed written by Lady Mergobill. According to its contents, Lady Mergobill was merely a decoy to identify the true underworld strategist.”
“…”
“Furthermore, we confirmed that the Rex family had involvement with the underworld. The evidence might not be enough to dismantle their schemes, but it allows you to determine the direction of the investigation.”
“How did you plan to infiltrate the Mergobill household?”
“When your uncle first briefed me on the intelligence operation, he said the Mergobills had nothing useful—just land, debt, an expensive estate, and a daughter to sell.”
Vivienne’s chest ached. Everything was true. These were cruel words, even more so coming from a man who looked identical to the agent.
She realized her position: no longer a suspect, but merely a witness.
Edmund continued:
“So I had those at my residence work for half the salary of the Mergobill servants.”
“Everything in this letter is true, my lady?”
The Prime Minister looked at her. Vivienne nodded.
“Yes.”
Two pieces of information were clear: the Rex family served the underworld head, and she was only a decoy. These were facts already within the police’s awareness and didn’t seriously damage the underworld.
Vivienne wanted to live. She had asked for help, and he had extended it—this was her chance to comply and survive.
The Prime Minister asked:
“Then do you know who the underworld strategist is, according to the press?”
“No.”
“Your fiancé?”
Now she had to respond cleverly.
“I don’t know much about my fiancé. Occasionally I accompanied him on business, signing contracts he presented, though I was never shown the contents. All I can confirm is what’s written in that letter.”
“Thank you.”
The Prime Minister nodded, gesturing at Edmund.
“Though you may not have formally met, this is my son. We sent an agent resembling Edmund last winter, and they lived together, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Interestingly, the newspapers lack photos from that period. Despite their conspicuous activities—dining at the Salenner Hotel, wandering upscale shopping districts—there are no photos. Strangely, the checks the agent scattered all trace back to my son’s account.”
“…”
“All evidence, circumstantial or conventional, points to your fiancé as the underworld strategist—but recently, I had a thought. Could the underworld have replaced the agent? And there was only one perfect substitute.”
“…”
“Lady Vivienne, tell me—was the man beside you the same as that agent?”
Vivienne felt Edmund’s gaze. Her heart raced at the contact of his eyes, but she finally knew for sure.
“No.”
This man was not the agent.
The Prime Minister’s seasoned gaze swept over her; he must have sensed her sincerity. Vivienne continued:
“Even his tone and habits differ. I liked the agent, so if it were the same person, I would have recognized him. Having spent time in high society, I wouldn’t mistake someone of a different class for the same person.”
“Right. How foolish of me to think that even for a moment… my son…”
The Prime Minister smiled wryly. Then he spoke again:
“If you ever discover who the strategist truly is, tell me. I’ll grant any request. My son seems to have left a good first impression, so if you want to help me, there’s no reason to prevent a close relationship from developing.”
“I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but the temporary lapse in my behavior was only because your son resembled that man.”
“…”
“I am under personal threat.”
Vivienne rolled up her sleeve, revealing bruises to the Prime Minister. Edmund’s gaze lingered, but she forced herself to continue:
“I believe the car explosion on Coleman Street is connected to the letter. If your son intercepted it, then the incident makes sense.”
“You survived the explosion?”
“I saw the back of the photo handed by the branch director, written in the agent’s handwriting: ‘Come see me.’ The front showed someone else wearing the cufflinks given to the deceased agent. I assumed the agent had died and that they intended to kill me as well, so I got out of the car.”
“So the police released you after hearing this?”
“No. But when the Chief Inspector appeared with photos of my fiancé, the situation changed. That same day, my fiancé’s government official’s death might have been murder, according to the photos. Afterward, the inspector released me.”
“I’ll have to see those photos. Thank you, my lady. Very helpful.”
Vivienne nodded. The Prime Minister continued:
“This is a consulate, not a sanctuary. You cannot stay long. If necessary, I’ll request police or intelligence assistance to protect you.”
“But…”
“I’ll take responsibility.”
Edmund’s voice drew the Prime Minister’s gaze.
“You?”
“Yes. No need to make a fuss. My father will pressure the police and continue investigating the Rex chairman’s son. If there’s noise before that, it only raises suspicion.”
“Hm.”
“I will return to your uncle’s Senowick estate. There are plenty of rooms; one can be prepared for you.”
“We’ll hear the lady’s opinion as well.”
“Lady.”
Edmund scanned her. Realizing he was not the agent from her memory, she hesitated. He was a stranger, after all. Soon, she acknowledged she had no choice and nodded.
“Yes. I’ll follow.”
“Since you’re tired, why not stay here tonight? I’ll come for you tomorrow.”
Vivienne glanced at the Prime Minister, then spoke awkwardly:
“No. You emphasized this is a consulate, and by morning, reporters will arrive and make a fuss.”
“Very well. Edmund, take responsibility for looking after her.”
“Yes.”
The Prime Minister rose, Edmund followed, and Vivienne remained seated. Overhead, Edmund’s clear voice said:
“Congratulations again on your reappointment, Father.”
“Indeed.”
The Prime Minister left through the door, opened by an aide.
“I received your gift well.”
As the door closed, Vivienne realized she had been used by this young man all along.
“He approached me deliberately to be noticed alongside my father’s reappointment.”
Unlike the agent whose kindness had once warmed her heart, this man was utterly different. She inhaled, closed her eyes, and fatigue swept over her.
From afar came the chimes of the city clock.
A year ago, they had sounded like the collapse of her life. Now, they marked a solemn toll in honor of the deceased.
Even in her heart, the agent had died that day.
Her hope for his return had vanished.
❖ ❖ ❖
2:00 a.m., Senowick Estate, Ducal Residence
“…I don’t understand why they suddenly want to bring her here. She’s supposed to be an underworld strategist’s daughter, yet some penniless marquis’s girl? Selling her only brings shame…”
A young man’s voice leaked through the door. Vivienne, standing outside, bit her lower lip, gripping her evening gown tightly, regretting coming.
Edmund knocked, and the voices inside fell silent. He opened the door and guided Vivienne in. Under stark white incandescent lights, the young man sitting inside jumped to his feet, staring at her in stunned silence.
Vivienne moved slightly closer to Edmund. The Duke of Senowick sat at the table with a glass of whiskey, smoking a cigar.
“Kingsley, uncle.”
“You’ve come. I heard about it.”
“Yes. Thank you for seeing me at this late hour. As you know, this is Lady Vivienne Mergobill.”
The auburn-haired young man’s gaze lingered on her. As Vivienne followed Edmund to the sofa across from him, he slowly tilted his head, inhaling the cigar smoke.
Before Vivienne spoke, a whiskey glass was filled and slid toward her.
“Shall I offer you a drink to warm up after your journey?”
Vivienne looked uncomfortable; Edmund took the glass and drank it.
“The lady should have enough. I requested hibiscus tea for restful sleep.”
“Yes, please.”
The servants placed a silver tray before Vivienne. She sipped perfectly according to etiquette, and the tension eased. The auburn-haired young man couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Kingsley Sheldon. I thought six women would be enough for you,” said the Duke. Vivienne noted the young man’s name carefully.
The rest of the scene involved casual banter, family reprimands, and discussions of Edmund’s loyalty, protection of Vivienne, and the responsibilities of staying at the estate. The Duke’s words highlighted the strict hierarchy, the influence of noble bloodlines, and the ongoing vigilance required within elite circles. Vivienne realized she had no choice but to comply with the arrangements, remaining under Edmund’s supervision.
