Chapter – 11
I’ve always been inherently slow and lazy.
One of my life principles is: “Never get involved in troublesome things.”
Of all troublesome things, I hated group activities the most. When people gather, they inevitably forget the original purpose and get wrapped up in incidents and drama. I hated that.
So you think my life before transmigrating must have been quite boring? Well… I died in a car accident while working overtime before I even had the chance to get bored, so there’s not much to say…
Even in my second life, I glossed over anything bothersome. Isn’t it great when you can solve things in the most efficient way possible, all at once?
‘But no matter what, anything involving Author Yvure is different.’
In my imagination, my heart rolled off the neatly paved sidewalk like an apple, tumbled across the street jammed with horses and carriages, and got run over.
Normally, I wouldn’t have been this shocked.
However…
Anything involving Author Yvure is no ordinary matter.
“…Is that true?”
At my question, the man with a clean-cut face broke into a pure, sincere smile.
“Haha, why would I lie about something like that?”
I had to tightly grip my fan with both hands just to keep them from shaking.
This man knew very well that I sent fan letters to the author whenever I had the time.
“And my letters all this time? Did… did they perhaps feel burdensome to the author?”
Marquis Orelleno paused for a moment and looked down at me intently.
I wasn’t clueless enough to not understand what that meant.
And just like that, my heart was crushed under the heavy wheels of a carriage.
“You may be shocked, but there’s no point in sugarcoating it.”
Marquis Orelleno spoke gently, as if trying to soothe my emotions.
“The author worries that being emotionally swayed by readers’ letters might affect their writing. So they don’t read fan mail. You know that Author Yvure avoids communication with readers.”
Then where is all of that affection supposed to go?
My heart—nothing more than a red smear on the road—wanted to leave those words as its final will. But rationality bit down hard and held me back.
What good would asking do?
“By the way, as a lovely young lady, I assume you must’ve received many marriage proposals.”
The marquis abruptly changed the subject, as if he couldn’t read the situation.
I had been using all my strength to hold back my urge to ask for the truth, so in a way, the derailment was a relief.
“…You’re asking that quite boldly—borderline rude, even.”
“Not many heirs would be fond of a lady who clings to Shell Yvure, you see.”
“…Excuse me, what?”
Is he adding fuel to a burning house?
“If a man were to have an honest conversation with you and learn of this, I doubt many families or heirs would be broad-minded enough to accept it. So, treat your attachment to the author as a fleeting memory and lock it away in a precious little keepsake box. You’ll be marrying soon, after all.”
The suddenness of this topic was absurd.
I gripped my fan to suppress my irritation and snapped,
“If someone truly loves me, they wouldn’t care about a hobby of mine. But… I’ve never once expected to meet someone like that, so you don’t have to worry. I’ll handle my own marriage.”
No response came for a long moment.
For a man who had been talkative, the silence was suspicious. I glanced at him.
The marquis stared at me as if studying me, then asked a question so honest that even a friend of ten years would hesitate to ask.
“Why?”
“…Why what?”
“From what I’ve seen, you seem like someone who would never marry unless it was a love straight out of a novel—so if you couldn’t feel that passion, you wouldn’t marry at all.”
“We’ve talked for a bit and now you think you can get that personal? Are you like this with everyone?”
I picked the wrong person to interact with.
A sigh—almost my raw inner voice—slipped out. Fine, I’ll say something vague and run away. You shouldn’t deal with weird people for too long.
“…Love is fundamentally a fairy tale—an illusion.”
Counting both my past life and this one, I was now at an age where the idea of a fiery, life-risking romance like Romeo and Juliet sounded exhausting.
Those things… I’d like to enjoy through fiction now.
Sure, it would be nice to fall in love with a wealthy, handsome, morally sound man and marry him. But realistically, would that ever happen? Even in a world where you can date freely, finding your person is hard.
That “fated love” nonsense. It’s all fantasy. Plenty of couples with bad compatibility live perfectly well.
I muttered weakly, staring at the marquis’ wide-eyed expression—like he’d expected me to be some naive noble girl.
“You look like you’re thinking it’s strange that I, of all people, would say something like that.”
“Well, yes. Quite unexpected.”
“…Haah. Anyway, my family allowed me to simply make an appearance at this year’s debutante season and delay marriage for a while. So I’m not pressured right now, that’s all.”
A hobby is a hobby. Reality is reality. Of course, Author Shell Yvure is my life but…
‘He said it felt burdensome.’
I understood the author’s feelings. But then… what was this ache in my now-hollow chest, threatening to overflow?
The noisy crowd filled the silence between us. Then the marquis casually asked,
“What is that heavy thing your maid is holding—quite unfitting for her delicate wrists?”
“It was a gift… that I’d hoped to give the author if I met them.”
Silence. The kind that clearly meant: Go on.
Feeling pathetic for talking about the author like this, I bit my lip. But his silent urging continued. Meanwhile, the carriage with the Loire family crest was still crawling toward us at a snail’s pace.
I sighed inwardly and spoke halfheartedly.
“Since today’s the opening night of the play, I thought… maybe the author would have enough interest to attend. That we might… run into each other by chance. Well…”
The red wine in the basket glimmered under the orange streetlamp. I hadn’t even taken a sip, yet bitterness filled my mouth.
The author found my letters and support burdensome, so I shouldn’t give this, right? A gift that doesn’t consider the recipient’s feelings is the worst kind of gift.
Fine. Better for me to drink it all myself crying in a corner than to have it remembered as a horrible gift…
“I’ll take that wine.”
His bold request was so rude that it shocked the sadness right out of me.
“…Why would you take it?”
He replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I just helped you avoid a crisis. If I let this go, who’s to say I won’t bring it up someday and claim you owe me? Are you fine with that?”
I was speechless.
…Fair enough. Debts should be cleared properly.
With a cold heart, I snatched the wine basket from Tasha and shoved it toward him.
Seeing the marquis’ brows tighten slightly, I spoke firmly,
“Fine. Please take it. Even if there’s no proof you passed my words to the author, there’s no reason for you to lie this much just to deceive me.”
And if you did lie—may the smell of grapes haunt you forever.
The marquis took the basket promptly. The sudden emptiness in my hands felt bigger than expected.
The sadness I’d barely locked away began rattling the cage again.
The marquis glanced toward a servant waiting near a carriage and signaled. The servant hurried over to receive the basket.
“Since it’s come to this, may I offer some rude advice?”
“No.”
Ignoring my firm refusal, he spoke gently like scolding a child.
“Forget about Author Yvure now. Find an heir who will make you happy and marry him.”
Why did everyone think the right moment to lecture a wounded fangirl about marriage was now?!
