Chapter 22
【 Contract Signed 】
Kyrie flinched and turned her gaze away.
“……”
A sharp arrow, shaped like a pointed skewer, had pierced through the solid wall. It was the moment Kyrie involuntarily sucked in a breath.
“A guest, after so long!”
“Aaaagh!”
A gruff voice rang out, followed by the coachman’s scream.
Whiiinny!
The carriage bolted forward uncontrollably at a reckless speed. Kyrie gritted her teeth.
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
“Brother, is something wrong?”
“…No, nothing.”
Elise tilted her head as she looked at Johanssen, who had joined them belatedly. Since he’d always been particularly weak to her, she could easily pry something out of him with a little pressing.
“Elise, my love.”
“Your Highness.”
Before she could say more, a group approached from a distance, Crown Prince Lexion and Duke Haswell at his side.
“Your Highness.”
The Duke, Baron, and Johanssen all greeted him properly. Elise stood at the entrance of the dressmaker’s, smiling.
“What brings you here?”
“I told you, let’s go somewhere else to have them made. Aren’t there royal court designers?”
“I’m not officially a member of the imperial family yet. His Majesty the Emperor…”
“Father would allow it.”
Rexion grumbled. He was a man who never felt the need to hide his moods. Because of his elevated status, there lingered in him a childlike belief that the world revolved around him.
‘Which is why he’s tiresome.’
Even so, Elise had no reason to push away Rexion, who showed her favor. Not when it was Kyrie Ehrenberg, of all people, who longed for him.
Kyrie.
At the thought of that name, Elise’s smile deepened.
“This place is perfectly fine. I’m having clothes made here for Sister Kyrie as well.”
“Clothes for that woman?”
Seeing Lexion’s frown, Elise beamed.
“Yes. She’ll need something to wear at the convent. She left this morning.”
“……”
Lexion’s face twisted a little more, but Elise paid it no mind. Her gaze cautiously slid to the man behind him, the Duke.
As though disinterested in the conversation, he had turned his head, silently gazing at the scenery around him. When he stood still like that, he looked like a sculpture.
Only after seeing his reaction did Elise exhale softly.
‘For a moment, I was worried when he caught Kyrie, but…’
There would be no complications from him.
Once she reached that conclusion, her smile turned even more natural.
“Please, don’t be like that. Sister is—”
“A pitiful woman, yes. Just as you’ve always said.”
Pitiful woman.
Elise liked the sound of that.
The peculiar sense of displeasure that always arose when she thought of Kyrie would fade whenever she uttered those words.
‘Poor thing.’
‘…’
‘No matter how pretty a girl born without means might be, it’s worthless.’
Her mother, the prima donna of the opera house, had given birth to her out of wedlock and repeated those very words to her.
And yet, while saying such things, she’d never stopped tending to her own appearance, nor Elise’s.
Why, Elise had often wondered, would a woman who claimed beauty was meaningless for someone of their station obsess so much over it? Why did she rail against the nobility’s petty formalities, only to come home and study society’s etiquette, relentlessly drilling it into Elise as well?
‘A girl in your position can ruin her life in an instant if she meets the wrong man.’
And yet, why would she say such things while bringing home men as frequently as she did?
That question was only answered the day her mother dressed her up as prettily as possible and presented her to Duke Ehrenberg.
‘From now on, you’ll live like a princess, Elise.’
‘A princess?’
‘Yes. Like the Duke’s daughter.’
‘…’
‘I’ve worked so hard to make this happen for you.’
The Duke’s daughter.
Elise could still remember the moment her mother finally secured a place at the Duke’s side.
Whether it was good fortune or a cruel twist of fate, they said her mother bore a striking resemblance to the woman the Duke had once loved dearly.
Years of her mother mimicking that long-dead Duchess mixed into it.
On their first day at the Duke’s manor, the Duke, his face cold but voice gentle, had spoken.
‘So you’re Elise.’
‘Yes, Duke.’
‘You should call me Father from now on.’
‘…Yes, Father.’
‘Lariette, come. Show Elise to her room.’
Lariette?
Hearing the Duke call her mother by a name she’d never known, Elise was puzzled. Her mother’s real name had been something utterly plain and common, fit for a woman born a commoner in the Empire.
‘Mom, the Duke just…’
The moment Elise began to speak, her mother’s gaze turned desperately toward her. Elise immediately understood its meaning.
It was the same look she would give whenever Elise made the slightest noise while being trained in etiquette or made mistakes during their endless grooming sessions.
‘Be quiet, Elise. Keep your mouth shut. Do as you’re told.’
Sensing it instantly, Elise said nothing more.
Only years later did she learn that the name the Duke had spoken was that of his deceased wife.
Not once had she ever seen the Duke call her mother by her real name. And her mother, every time, had smiled — pretending to be a dead woman.
Most of all, it was because of her mother’s relentless efforts to make her live the life of the Duke’s daughter.
Even before meeting Kyrie, Elise had been curious. What kind of girl must she be, for her mother to debase herself so thoroughly, to trample her own dignity into the dirt just so Elise could live like ‘that girl’?
When Elise finally met her, it was some time after meeting the rest of the family. The Duke had so resented the sight of the girl that it had delayed their introduction.
‘Nice to meet you, Lady Kyrie.’
But the anticipation shattered in an instant the moment Elise laid eyes on the wretched, unkempt girl.
Far from aristocratic, she was worse off than any street child Elise had ever seen.
And yet, her mother desperately sought to win the girl’s favor. When Kyrie declared she didn’t need a mother, her mother wept through the night as though her very existence had been denied.
It was laughable.
That her mother, who borrowed names and slathered on skin-burning cosmetics to climb the ranks, should lose herself over a girl like that.
Elise could never understand it, and for that, she despised Kyrie. Even after her mother died, wasting away while clinging to the act of being a Duchess.
People whispered of poison, but Elise knew.
What had started as a performance of love for the Duke became real, and that love had killed her mother.
If it was poison, it was the kind her mother had cultivated in her own heart.
‘Farewell, Mother.’
Elise had once stolen Kyrie’s necklace through the maids and placed it on her mother’s corpse. At least let her wear a true noblewoman’s adornment in death, and to get under Kyrie’s skin while she was at it.
And so the incident at the funeral had erupted.
But Kyrie hadn’t crumbled. She’d grown furious, fought back, and in the end, reclaimed her pendant.
Since that day, Elise’s hatred had only deepened.
Her mother’s relentless etiquette lessons and sacrifices, all rendered meaningless in the face of that ragged girl’s defiant pride.
The shamelessness of holding her head high while weathering all manner of insults.
As if, no matter how she lived, she would always be a noble.
‘Disgusting.’
It wasn’t hatred born from Kyrie being genuinely aristocratic and graceful, but from the contempt and rage of watching someone so unworthy act as though she were.
‘Loathsome sister of mine.’
It gave Elise some satisfaction to pity her. If someone had to be pitiful, it should be Kyrie Ehrenberg, not Elise herself.
And now, at long last, Kyrie was gone.
Elise smiled again.
She would not live as her mother did, trembling with anxiety. If she became Crown Princess, she would never have to endure such a life again.
It was a thoroughly pragmatic decision, and Elise chose Lexion.
Lexion gazed down at her as though she were adorable.
“Anyway, stop dwelling on things that are over.”
Johanssen, standing nearby, nodded.
“He’s right, Elise. Kyrie’s already gone. She should be leaving the capital by now.”
“They say bandits have been running rampant in the outskirts these days. I do hope she reaches safely.”
At those words, Johanssen’s expression stiffened slightly. Rexion casually slipped an arm around Elise’s shoulders.
“I told you, stop thinking about it.”
“All right. Would Your Highness care to come in? I’d like you to see the dresses I set aside in advance.”
Lexion nodded, then glanced over at the Duke, who had stood like a statue all this time.
“Wait here, Dominique.”
Though it was far too informal to be spoken to the First Duke, the man only gave a light nod in return.
There was a flicker of ennui in his gaze.
Feeling relieved, Elise entered the dressmaker’s.
‘He’ll handle it now.’
There was nothing left to worry about. She’d already given instructions to her messenger.
‘They say the mountains are crawling with bandits these days. If we send her that way… you never know.’
A part of her hoped for a genuine ambush.
Dominique, staring impassively at Elise’s back, slowly turned his gaze elsewhere.
“It’s ready, my lord.”
Not far off, his steward approached.
