Chapter 4
The savory taste lingering in her mouth and the bitter-herb smell drifting from the man made it impossible for Soran to think straight.
…Gulp.
Even so, the saliva that pooled in her mouth slid down her throat on its own.
Gyohum’s eyes grew even more incredulous.
In the end, Soran chose chicken over manners.
Munch, munch.
Her small, dainty lips moved busily, her expression faintly sulky.
It was so delicious she could cry.
***
Gyohum quietly looked down at the woman who was supposedly his wife.
Her cheeks were puffed out like a greedy squirrel stuffing itself with acorns.
For a moment, confusion flickered in her dark eyes. Then the ends of her brows drooped weakly.
Thud.
The chicken leg slipped from her hand and dropped to the plate.
Her wide eyes trembled with shock as she looked up at him.
After the wedding, Gyohum still had a mountain of obligations. Every time relatives saw him, they congratulated him; every elder had a word of advice:
— “Since Sahum is gone, you’re the pillar of this family now.”
— “For your father’s sake, you must do well.”
— “You have to take responsibility for Sahum’s share, too. You can’t live foolishly anymore. Understood?”
He heard the same nagging so many times his ears ached.
When he was finally released from the elders’ grasp, it was already deep into the night.
Only then did he remember his bride, who was surely waiting alone in their chamber.
He regretted not sending a servant ahead, but it was too late now.
— Tsk.
Clicking his tongue softly, Gyohum headed toward the detached quarters where his room was located.
Unlike the lively main house—still buzzing with celebration—this place was silent, almost lifeless.
Crunch, crunch.
Dry grass crumbled under his feet.
The wind brushing past his ears was cold and sharp, though it carried a faint trace of spring. Even so, his eyes remained as frosty as midwinter.
As he’d told his father, he had no intention of dancing to the minister of the center’s schemes.
She may be the minister’s illegitimate daughter, but even so, she was still one of his people—someone who could freely enter and leave that house.
You couldn’t ask for a better spy.
“To use her, I should win her favor first.”
Muttering under his breath, Gyohum put on a gentle smile he didn’t mean and opened the door.
He spoke words of apology he didn’t feel.
He thought she would be sitting there with a sorrowful expression.
Or maybe glaring with wounded pride.
But his expectations shattered spectacularly.
Her cheeks were stuffed to bursting as she happily tore into a chicken leg.
A quick glance at the table told him everything: one rice bowl completely empty, and the second more than half-finished.
Gyohum stared at small, skinny Soran with a doubtful expression.
Surely she didn’t eat all that rice alone?
His slow, sweeping gaze was cold enough to make the air drop in temperature.
But the room held no trace of another person.
His eyes returned to Soran.
“…”
Soran stared down at her rice bowl gloomily. If she’d known this would happen, she wouldn’t have touched his bowl as well.
— Gluttonous thing.
Maybe Madam Munhyeon had been right.
Her once-puffy cheeks deflated like a balloon losing air.
Gulp.
She swallowed the last chicken in her mouth and peeked up at him nervously.
“Um… would you like to eat…?”
“Do I even have any food left to eat?”
“It’s still there… I mean—! I can bring out a fresh bowl!”
Soran started to get up, but Gyohum stopped her with a gentle wave of his hand.
“No need. I had some drinks with the elders and filled my stomach a bit. I forgot to send a servant to tell you to eat first. My mistake.”
“!”
Soran’s eyes widened.
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
Normally, a thunderous scolding would have come flying by now.
People always called her a pig who only knew how to eat.
A rat sneaking into the granary to steal grain.
Lazy. Worthless.
But Gyohum wasn’t angry.
The strangeness of it made Soran hold her breath.
Gyohum smiled kindly.
“I’m glad the food suits your taste.”
“Yes, it’s very good!”
Soran nodded so hard her whole upper body moved. The cook must truly be skilled—this tasted almost as good as Paju-dae’s cooking.
Gyohum let out a small laugh and stepped toward the table.
“At this rate, people might think the minister starved his daughter.”
“Sometimes I only ate once every three—Hahp!”
Soran clamped a hand over her mouth as her eyes rolled in panic.
Right before she left the minister’s residence, Paju-dae had grabbed her hand and pleaded:
— “Forget everything about this place once you marry, miss.”
Soran had stared blankly at her.
She had been exhausted from the ceremony, so tired that even seeing her father again for the first time in ages didn’t spark joy—only fatigue.
Paju-dae’s voice sounded strangely distant.
When Soran finally nodded, Paju-dae squeezed her hand tightly.
— “Remember this, miss.”
— “Yes… please go ahead.”
— “If they find out you were mistreated here, your new family will mistreat you too. Having someone to back you up is more important than you think. The stronger your family is, the better your in-laws treat you.”
But Soran had no one to rely on.
Her father ignored her.
Her mother abandoned her.
Seeing something in her expression, Paju-dae shook her head.
— “Even if you have no support, you must act as if you do.”
— “…But…”
Soran hesitated.
— “Everyone knows how I was treated here…”
She remembered the stares whenever she stepped outside.
The whispers behind her back.
Paju-dae’s expression hardened.
— “Pretend they adored you—especially the Minister. If you don’t, your in-laws will look down on you.”
“…”
— “Fortunately, General Mo’s family lives in the northern quarter, far from this place. Even if they heard rumors, they won’t know them in detail. So deny everything.”
Soran could only force an awkward smile.
— “Do you understand?”
— “I do… but…”
She deflated.
She was terrible at lying.
She wasn’t slick or quick-witted, and her tongue wasn’t sharp.
But more fundamentally…
How does someone pretend to have been loved?
How does someone pretend they grew up cherished?
It was like pretending to live a life she had never known.
Still, the instructions kept coming:
— “And don’t treat servants with respect anymore. Here, the servants acted boldly because of Madam Munhyeon, but that is not how things should be.”
— “O-okay.”
Just the night before, Madam Munhyeon had summoned her and delivered her own “warnings”—if that word even fit.
— “Don’t think you can escape my palm just because you’re marrying out.”
Soran forced a terrified smile.
— “Yes, madam.”
— “If you dare spread anything about this house and embarrass me, I won’t sit still. Behave yourself.”
Madam Munhyeon smelled like fish left out in midsummer—rot and malice.
The stench of someone who hated her deeply.
Facing that hatred always made Soran feel like her insides were being dug out.
Her roots were so thin and weak that even a breeze could tear them from the earth.
No—did she even have roots?
Abandoned by both parents, wasn’t she more like duckweed drifting endlessly wherever the current took her?
— “Why are you quiet? Are you deaf now?”
— “…Yes, I’ll keep it in mind.”
