YATED 21

By now, the marriage between Grand Duke Lusenford and Princess Ostein had become the talk of the town.

The groom was handsome, and the bride was beautiful. The groom had endured many tragic trials, and the bride was the pampered only daughter of a wealthy family and a wealthy heiress.

And on top of that, the groom’s close friend was the queen of high society—and she had quarreled with the bride?

Moreover, it was said that this queen of high society had gone to see the Grand Duke, only to be angrily thrown out moments later?

This was no different from the world’s most thrilling spectacle—miss even a single detail, and you’d be the fool.

Just the Duchess Monde alone would have been entertaining enough, but with Beatrice Lavalle stepping in personally, Krain was in absolute chaos. Everyone was practically dying of curiosity, wondering what would happen next.

Had Duchess Monde apologized to the princess? What had Lady Lavalle and the Grand Duke discussed that made her storm out after only two minutes? What had the princess and the Grand Duke talked about afterward? They were utterly, desperately curious!

Everyone has a bit of a voyeur in them—even the Emperor, whose face was half-ruined because of the Empress, was on the verge of asking. Out of propriety, he couldn’t ask his nephew, who had fainted outright upon hearing the marriage order, so Pheon was the easy target.

The fact that people were turning to him despite this happening within the Imperial Palace suggested that this time, the Emperor’s ‘ears’ hadn’t done their job properly. Pheon had faithfully committed every detail to memory.

“This marriage was arranged by His Majesty, so I must remain faithful to it.”

Pheon spoke calmly, meeting the Emperor’s gaze with eyes that silently asked, “Isn’t that right?”

The Emperor—who had previously invoked the Empress and spouted nonsense about “tainted blood,” betrayal of loyalty, and coveting what belonged to others—had no retort to this.

He simply realized that Beatrice Lavalle was no longer a useful hostage to Pheon. But that didn’t matter; the hostage had now shifted to House Ostein, so the Emperor was indifferent.

“Yes, now that you’re getting married yourself, your mindset must change.”

The Emperor merely nodded, thinking to himself, “So this brat’s changed too now that he’s marrying.” He felt slightly gratified.

There wasn’t much Pheon could say in front of the Emperor. He couldn’t even bring himself to ask about his mother’s condition—the very thing he was most curious about—because doing so would surely provoke the Emperor.

Yet if he asked too little, the fickle Emperor would accuse him of being an unfilial son. It was exhausting, always having to cater to the whims of this absolute ruler who was forever capricious and self-centered.

“This marriage must go well. Caella must be heartbroken. You should comfort her properly.”

Ah. It still wasn’t the right time to ask about his mother’s condition. The fact that the conversation kept circling back to Caella and his marriage clearly meant there’d been no change in the Empress’s state.

Since this was what he’d expected, Pheon didn’t press further and took his leave. His mother’s condition probably wouldn’t improve anytime soon. Setting that aside, once outside Solei Palace, Pheon let out a quiet sigh.

‘Comfort her, huh.’

Even if he went to Caella now and apologized again, all he’d end up saying was, “I’m sorry my mistress upset you.” He’d lived a thoroughly wretched life, just as trash should. Leaving the loathsome Solei Palace behind, he began walking aimlessly.

He was exhausted too. Since returning through regression, the only proper rest he’d had was that single time—when he’d hidden in the conference room preparing to receive the Kerujan envoys and stayed by Caella’s side.

Caella, blushing as she met him barefoot after he’d carelessly kicked off his shoes, had been utterly endearing. Had he been too blinded by affection back then to notice? In hindsight, even then, Caella had already been different from before.

His throat tightened, his breath caught, and Pheon kept walking without direction.

‘Is she crying again?’

If she was, what would he even do? Someone ought to comfort her—but he was instantly disqualified. He had no right.

When they were children, Caella had clutched his sleeve, collapsed on the ground, and sobbed uncontrollably.

He’d wiped her tears, held her tightly, and even brushed off her clothes before she’d finally taken his hand and stood up. But since arriving in Lusenford, she hadn’t shed a single tear in front of him. That crybaby young lady couldn’t possibly have gone without crying—she must have hidden somewhere to weep in secret.

“How vulgar…what is this…”

Yes. Exactly like this.

Pheon immediately stilled himself. Behind the Empress’s palace—a place once filled with children’s laughter—now stood only overgrown trees. From this spot, untouched by human footsteps for nearly twenty years, came frustrated sobs.

Leaning against a massive oak, Caella had indeed kicked off her shoes and was clutching a bowl brimming with strawberries and blueberries.

Fuming, she glared sideways, sniffled, then grabbed the cream pot—meant for dipping—and poured its entire contents straight into the bowl.

The sharp, irritated sound of her palm smacking the cream pot’s base grated on the nerves. Though somewhat lacking in decorum, it hardly mattered—she’d brought the whole pot anyway, not just a serving.

“…Looks delicious.”

Caella sniffled and wiped her tears. She knew it wasn’t worth crying over—after all, she’d won this time.

It annoyed her that she’d shattered every principle she’d upheld until now, shamelessly calling Beatrice “older sister” and Pheon “older brother” to secure his recognition as her consort. And yet, ending up engaged to Pheon again felt simply inevitable.

Her mind understood, but her eyes seemed broken—tears kept falling anyway. She scooped up a large bite of berries soaked in cream and focused on chewing and swallowing.

Spring strawberries and candied blueberries—exclusive to Krain—paired with rich, velvety cream were the ultimate comfort.

Especially for someone who’d once starved to death in the cold, yearning for foods she couldn’t eat—nothing could soothe her more.

“It’s delicious.”

Truly delicious. The fragrant strawberry aroma, the sweet-tart blueberries, and the entire pot of thick cream stirred together—nothing could beat this.

That a soon-to-be bride would devour an entire bowl of such fattening food was unthinkable in Krain’s high society, but Caella didn’t care. She’d decided to do everything she wanted before dying.

Like matching Beatrice tit for tat, openly lashing out at Pheon instead of holding back, or eating everything she’d ever craved before starving to death.

After scraping the cream pot clean with her wooden spoon, Caella peered into her bowl of fruit and muttered,

“No peaches?”

It would’ve been incredibly tasty if peaches had been sliced in too.

She recalled the peaches from Lusenford’s chilly northern tower—fragrant, dripping with juice—and the plums, perfectly ripe and nearly devoid of tartness. She’d have to eat them all before being dragged off to Lusenford again.

At that thought, Caella set her spoon down with a clack. Having starved so severely her life had hung by a thread before finally succumbing to poison, she now went wild for any food.

But just thinking about returning to Lusenford instantly killed even her ravenous appetite.

Her heart soared to the heavens and plunged into the earth several times a day. Too weary to gather herself, Caella leaned against the tree and closed her eyes.

In the end, it all seemed to be her fault—for not being Beatrice, for not being as bright and lovely as Beatrice, for not being from Lusenford…for simply being Caella.

But what could she possibly do about how she was born? If this was how she existed, shouldn’t she still be allowed to love someone or fulfill her duties to the best of her ability?

Caella frowned deeply, opened her eyes, and stared ahead.

“What is it?”

Without realizing, she’d snapped in a sharp voice at the figure who’d quietly emerged from between the thick trees.

The usual Caella would never have done such a thing—but her face was puffy from crying, her shoes were flung haphazardly aside, and she was slumped on the ground hugging a bowl of fruit and cream smeared together. Meeting her unwanted fiancé in this state, her words couldn’t possibly come out gently.

“Did you come to confront me? Did ‘older sister’ go find ‘older brother’ and say something again? Is that why you’re angry?”

Having used that address with Beatrice once, she found it surprisingly easy—this time, it slipped out effortlessly. She switched terms freely and clipped her previously deferential endings sharply—but so what? Caella was being willful.

“…Want some peaches?”

Pheon stared at Caella, red-eyed and huffing, with an unreadable expression—then unexpectedly held up what he’d been carrying.

In his bare, dewy hands sat a neatly cleaned heap of peaches. They were so large and perfectly ripe that their fragrance drifted to Caella several paces away.

With a childlike look, she glanced back and forth between the peach bowl and Pheon. Once again, he’d matched her way of speaking. Caella, looking as if she might burst into tears at the slightest touch, replied,

“Yes.”

Whether he still saw her as a little sister, Pheon couldn’t say—but he smiled faintly and came over to sit beside her. The bowl piled high with peaches was generously sized, and within it lay a fruit knife.

“Shall I slice them in for you?”

“Mm-hm.”

Caella held out the bowl she’d been hugging. Since the princess had never handled a knife herself, Pheon took the blade and began cutting the juice-dripping peaches into small pieces.

Unable to wait, Caella immediately popped a freshly cut slice into her mouth. It was sweet and melted right on her tongue—a heavenly taste.

Peach slices tumbled onto her wooden spoon. After accepting a few spoonfuls, Caella murmured,

“I don’t intend to interfere between you two.”

“There’s nothing to interfere with.”

Pheon, who’d been oddly accommodating of Caella’s mercurial moods, answered readily.

“I won’t mind even if you make Beatrice the heir.”

At that, Pheon’s hand—mid-cut—froze. Caella slowly lifted her gaze. He was staring straight at her.

“No. That won’t happen.”

Unexpectedly, he said it firmly, almost sternly. For someone of her status as Princess Ostein to utter such a self-effacing thing, she’d already swallowed her pride—and yet he had to respond with such seriousness? It was embarrassing. Caella lowered her eyes again.

“I just…want you both to be happy.”

Though her real motive was spite—knowing full well Beatrice would never allow it.

“That’s not the happiness I want, Caella.”

Caella didn’t reply, just scooped up more fragrant fruit mixed with cream and stuffed it into her mouth. Cheeks bulging, she chewed vigorously, then added,

“Anyway, it’s a marriage you don’t even want. I know.”

“And you don’t want it either.”

“Yeah.”

Caella, spoon still in mouth, nodded as peach slices tumbled into her bowl.

“Am I the only one glaring at Beatrice, whom I kicked out today, like some damn mutt?”

“Yep.”

Caella nodded earnestly—then belatedly looked up.

“I kicked her out?”

“You don’t deny the ‘damn mutt’ part, though.”

She even pulled the spoon from her mouth to ask,

“You said I kicked her out?”

Pheon didn’t answer. He just gazed at her silently—then neatly sectioned another peach.

“Why?”

His silence spoke volumes under her baffled, searching eyes. To her, he’d always just been that kind of man—a loud, attention-seeking mutt fixated solely on Beatrice, blind to everything else.

“Why make even more of a scene when we’re getting married anyway?”

“I don’t mind making a scene.”

“Then why were you crying?”

Pheon pointed to Caella’s reddened eyes.

“For turning into the kind of woman who fights over her consort.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

He’d inevitably ignore her, and she’d quietly fade away in Lusenford’s cold, unnoticed by anyone.

“It’s not your fault, older brother.”

The marriage itself wasn’t his fault.

“And it’s not my fault either.”

What happened after the marriage wasn’t Caella’s fault.

“There’s nothing we can do. Let’s just live however we can.”

No matter what Pheon did or didn’t do, Caella intended to live carelessly until she died.

“How ‘carelessly’?”

“Just…you know…His Grace the Grand Duke does what His Grace does…”

“And Her Grace the Grand Duchess does what Her Grace does?”

No. She’d just die.

Caella swallowed the words she wanted to say. She could never be honest with Pheon again.

She’d have to pretend to be a harmless, obedient little sister—powerless and non-threatening—so she wouldn’t die in pain. Though she was already cowering before him like this, her pride didn’t sting. Not in front of Pheon—she had no pride left.

“What would Her Grace the Grand Duchess even do?”

His voice was unexpectedly gentle—like an elder humoring a much younger sibling. But peel back one layer, and it was clear: his interest in her was nonexistent. He was merely assessing whether she was a useful card to hold. She knew.

“Nothing different from now. I’ll just stay quiet and show no interest in you.”

She wouldn’t do anything—so please, just don’t make her die painfully. Starving to death had been excruciating.

Caella was like a herbivore flopping onto its back before a predator, trembling and begging for a swift, painless end.

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t show interest in you either.”

“You’ve never been interested in me anyway.”

When had those eyes—once brimming with warmth, yearning, affection, and attention—followed her last? Pheon gazed quietly into her now-dry, green eyes.

Those eyes no longer clashed with his. Even meeting his gaze had become a privilege—one granted to him once, never to be given again.

“Caella.”

His cool, soft voice called to her like a temptation. No matter how hard she tried to break free, she’d always be completely hooked by the scraps of attention he tossed her like charity.

“You know better than anyone that I’m a damn mutt—so why are you so quick to judge?”

Caella held her breath, only her eyes lifting upward. His hand—damp with sticky juice—held out a generously cut peach slice. The sweet fragrance washed over her up close. Swallowing it would taste wonderfully sweet.

“If I showed interest in you…that’d be the most mutt-like thing I could do.”

Clack. The wooden spoon hit the bowl.