Chapter 14: Dinner Party and Predators
On the day of the dinner at the Senowick Duke’s residence.
The century’s actress, Carolina Russella, met a tragic end at a Daatro villa.
A bold, eye-catching headline dominated the front page of the newspaper. The sheets of paper sprawled on either side were soon carelessly folded in half and placed next to a man. Sitting in the luxurious saloon with his legs spread, his reddish-brown hair catching the light, he spoke in an arrogant tone.
“Damn it, can’t we go any faster? At this rate, walking would be quicker.”
“Apologies, Lord Kingsley. We’re doing our best, but the smog is heavy… and there are memorial processions for that actress everywhere, so speeding up isn’t easy.”
The man in the car was Kingsley Sheldon. His mother was the widow of the second son of the Senowick dukedom. He was notorious in many ways, chief among them for his personality.
“Why should I care? Just pay some compensation if someone dies. What’s so important about some woman from across the ocean dying that it’s causing a fuss in broad daylight?”
“…I’ll do my best, my lord.”
“If I get blamed by that foreign lawyer for being late, it’ll be your fault. I’ll tell my father to fire you, so think carefully. Honestly, even when I want to hire someone competent, all the new arrivals are idiots who can’t even perform basic duties.”
“Understood, sir.”
“When I finish here and go to my uncle’s Duke residence, what time will it be?”
“You’ll be there before five o’clock, sir.”
“Prepare a gift suitable for the dinner for my aunt, and one for the lady staying there as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make them as expensive as possible. And for Lady Merghville… something with a nice fragrance, maybe a liqueur that gets one pleasantly tipsy. You understand, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Soon, the car arrived at the meeting location, the Salener Hotel. Kingsley was promptly shown into the conference room, where he could meet the notorious foreign lawyer rumored to be tied to the underworld.
A long table faced the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river that cut through the islands. To the right of the head seat, one place was left empty, while the remaining seats were filled with representatives of various factions. Only the family members, including their lawyer, stood to acknowledge his arrival.
At that moment, Icarus, who was seated across the empty seat, rose and approached him.
Kingsley felt a subtle sense of being overpowered as he observed the handshake offered. It was clearly the posture of a superior, yet he could only respond reluctantly.
“You are Kingsley Sheldon, heir of the Sheldon estate and co-chairman of the Sheldon Small Arms Consortium. Is that correct?”
“…Yes.”
“I’ve heard that your ancestors leased the land to the founders of weapons factories instead of selling it outright, demanding massive equity in place of rent, allowing them influence over every company in the consortium. The Sheldon estate is practically revered like a deity in the region.”
“That’s correct, though…”
“Due to restrictions on weapons production and export, companies temporarily pivoted to aircraft and vehicle engines, but results were poor, and the prolonged recession hindered business. I understand the problems arose because Baron Sheldon ousted a competent designer and replaced him with a friend?”
“……”
“Recently, it seems you’ve been selling off family gold at a low price… suggesting you see the resumption of business as a distant prospect. Labor unions constantly cause trouble, and cheap firearms illegally imported from abroad have led to ongoing doubts about corporate futures in the consortium. I hear you tried to find a solution.”
That illegal gun distribution—your doing, Kingsley ground his teeth silently.
“And then you came to see us, I understand,” Icarus said in a low, measured voice amidst the tense atmosphere.
“I assume you’ve already heard reports from those who have dealt with our syndicate companies,” he continued.
“…Shall we sit and discuss the details?”
Kingsley forced himself to maintain a composed expression as he took a seat.
After all, to these people who believed a continental war might erupt within the next decade, brokering the sale of arms companies or liquidating equity seemed a profitable move.
The world was in a global depression. Stock prices had hit rock bottom after repeated crashes, and there was no money left for lobbying. No breakthrough technologies existed.
Rumor had it that the underworld had acquired valuable military intelligence from various countries, which could potentially boost industry. Whoever exported competitive weapons first would effectively hold a gold mine.
Still… in this era of peace, what practical use did all these small arms companies and the already-acquired military corporations serve?
It was a question, but not one for Kingsley to answer.
The decision-making rested with the underworld bosses and their advisors. On paper, those acquiring the assets were imperial citizens, functioning as quasi-operatives of the syndicate, so there were no legal issues.
❖ ❖ ❖
“…And again, news from the Emmerheim Republic. Confidence in the provisional cabinet has bottomed out, and the public desperately seeks a charismatic leader capable of navigating these turbulent times. While this sentiment grows, it seems unlikely that loans or economic aid from the great powers who previously supported the republic will be forthcoming…”
“Wow…”
7:00 PM, Senowick Residence
Martha, a maid who had hurried from the islands, marveled a second time—after the temporary dressroom—at Miss Vivienne’s composure. Vivienne, standing before a full-length mirror, looked slightly embarrassed as she toyed with her neatly arranged hair.
“…Does it look strange?”
Today, Vivienne wore an evening gown of pristine white satin. Her black fur coat draped over her shoulders seemed warm enough.
The Marghville Marquis and Marchioness had always ensured their only daughter drew attention wherever she went, dressing her to accentuate curves or reveal glimpses of skin according to fashion trends.
This often made it difficult for Vivienne to dine comfortably in formal settings, leaving her sipping wine on an empty stomach. But today was different.
The dress hugged her warmly, giving her a lively appearance rather than a pale one. The careful attention to her diet had given shine to her black hair and added a healthy fullness to her figure.
Martha thought to herself that someone here had truly nurtured this young lady.
“No, I guess I was just lost in thought. You look dazzlingly beautiful, miss.”
“Do you think the people at the dinner will agree?”
“Of course. Don’t worry. Tonight will be completely different from last time.”
Vivienne didn’t reply. Martha knew well that the cold reception at the engagement announcement had left a deep scar on her. Her calm expression conveyed more than words ever could.
“Yes. I suppose so.”
Vivienne nodded and allowed Martha to slip white gloves onto her hands.
“Shall we swap your necklace for something more extravagant? The Duke said it would be fine to borrow the lady’s jewels.”
“No, this is fine.”
Vivienne fiddled with a gemstone necklace that matched her eye color.
“This is enough.”
“Good. Now that you’re dressed, shall we read the letter from the lady of the house?”
Martha offered gently. She had come to deliver a polite refusal from the Marghville Marchioness regarding Count Colt’s dinner invitation.
On the surface, their daughter was engaged to the Rex family, and regardless of investigation outcomes, they weren’t in a position to reverse course like bats, so the refusal had to be formal—but they still sent someone in person as a courtesy.
Separately, a letter had been sent to Vivienne as well. She had wanted to hold onto Martha, and though she didn’t express it outright, she chose to read the letter after completing her preparations.
Vivienne nodded and unfolded the letter. It contained only a single line:
Your fiancé will return.
It was a guess, yet at the same time, a certainty.
❖ ❖ ❖
At the same time, in the Duke’s banquet hall, the same radio broadcast as in Vivienne’s room filled the space. Most news concerned the Emmerheim Republic. Attendees mostly treated it like background noise, exchanging casual greetings among themselves.
The two seats to the right of the Duke’s seat remained empty—Edmund and Vivienne were absent. Kingsley held the conversation at the table.
“I don’t know why they broadcast every minor detail about a defeated nation. The Emmerheim Republic—banks in crisis, industries declining, the cabinet unstable for years.”
His mother silently sipped wine beside him. It had been a gift he gave to the Duke, who placed it on the table. His father listened quietly.
“I recently met alumni, and all agreed that now is the perfect time to sell arms companies. Representatives in the Small Arms Consortium all reacted positively.”
He tried to sound humble.
“So here’s my thought: the seemingly endless wars on our continent are finally over, and the Daatro government will insist on a peace policy under any circumstances.”
At the end of his words, the Senowick relatives applauded.
Edmund arrived then. Kingsley noticed his presence as the applause waned.
As Edmund stepped forward, the family held their breath. When their great-grandfather had been the senior elder, they asserted their belonging by opposing Edmund. The patriarch approved, granting them their current positions.
Now, circumstances had changed.
Having a socially active son-in-law was no longer a flaw for the Sheldon Marchioness, who had been fortunate in choosing a husband.
“You’ve gathered the whole family,” Edmund said first, implying that the dinner had been accepted by the Duke but requested by the family.
Kingsley responded.
“No, it’s my doing. Competitive spirit. The son of the re-elected Prime Minister comes from the islands to see his father. We need a grand welcome, or we’d feel left behind.”
His gaze fell on the fourth and fifth Sheldon children. One of them spoke up.
“Besides, we hear we might meet the rumored lady. How can one focus on work?”
Edmund’s eyes scanned them slowly. Kingsley spoke teasingly.
“Since you’re here, what do you think of the Emmerheim Republic?”
“Well, what would I know, brother?”
Edmund walked forward with a hand in his pocket, heading toward where Kingsley sat.
“But if you insist on asking, perhaps I can give my opinion,” he said, lighting a cigarette. The spark made some family members flinch.
“Bank crises. Industrial decline.”
The words left his lips as casually as the cigarette burned.
“An unstable cabinet.”
“….”
“Public sentiment. Pride… When such things pile up like these logs—”
He tossed the cigarette onto the firewood. Newspaper scraps and oily sawdust ignited, flames roaring vividly.
“Even a small spark can ignite a flame.”
The flickering light reflected on his face as he slowly turned to the family, especially to Kingsley.
“This is only speculation, of course,” Edmund murmured expressionlessly.
“Of course, it’s important to follow international affairs, but Daatro seems barely able to handle its own problems. Have you heard? In this frozen financial climate, a syndicate-backed force is actively acquiring arms companies indiscriminately through investment banks. The movements of their asset managers are significant. So I ask, why do they need these guns?”
Vivienne, trying to escape the suffocating cold and silence after Martha left, listened to the radio. After a long hesitation, she threw her mother’s letter into the fireplace.
As the ink burned, so did her heart. Nothing could erase the certainty that Ludvik would return.
Vivienne had accompanied Ludvik to multiple business sites and knew which syndicate controlled them. Though she couldn’t read the contracts in detail, she had overheard enough.
One day, a foreign lawyer appeared before the collapsing investment banks and asset managers of the empire, offering a solution: these companies should function like underworld subordinates, obeying their boss.
With the empire in economic decline, those on the frontlines accepted the demand readily.
The underworld then seized control of military corporations with inexplicable funds, offering company heads reliable researchers and revolutionary technology. All under the guidance of the syndicate leader, who operated alone as if running national projects abroad.
Vivienne shuddered at the thought of submitting to such a man. In ten years, he could be negotiating with the Prime Minister about the empire’s fate—or aiding a new power to threaten it.
She desperately hoped the syndicate leader would choose the former.
Yet she was furious that such a man had taken her agent.
Her frustration over a stagnant era, indifferent family, and the helplessness of being left alone boiled into anger. She didn’t understand the paradox of creating purpose in a life otherwise lost.
Was killing such a man even feasible, or should she simply wait for Ludvik’s release? The thought made her shoulders slump.
A knock at the door startled her.
“Mrs. Grinson?”
But it wasn’t Louisa, the head maid. Sensing Edmund’s presence, Vivienne shrank. Not just his imposing figure, but the fact she hadn’t seen him in some time.
He kissed near her lips in greeting, holding her hair to prevent her from stepping back—was that a greeting?
“…I was about to leave. You didn’t have to come.”
Vivienne cautiously distanced herself, raising her guard. She knew how sharp his words could be. This time, she had no idea what torment he might bring.
Her body was unusually sensitive these days; her period was approaching, and his scent felt unusually stimulating.
“You’re beautiful. Especially today.”
She tried not to acknowledge it. For the first time, he held her hand—
The hand she had watched during the engagement announcement. She tried to rationalize it as the environment, and that he resembled the agent’s appearance.
❖ ❖ ❖
Voices drifted from outside the banquet hall. Normally, two footmen would guard the door, but this time, maids were watching Vivienne.
As the door opened, she quietly observed Edmund’s broad back, momentarily forgetting the presence of others.
Near the head seat, he pulled out the chair to the right for her. A footman hesitated, unsure of what to do.
No one criticized his manners. Vivienne adjusted her skirt and sat gracefully.
Across from her was the Duchess, looking even thinner than Vivienne, with a sharp, alert demeanor. Kingsley sat beside her. As she glanced at him, another chair was pulled back, and Edmund sat opposite Kingsley.
“According to the seating arrangement set by the Duchess, Miss Vivienne should sit facing me,” Kingsley remarked arrogantly, unlike the others who watched their manners carefully.
“Is that so? I wasn’t aware. I lack formal etiquette, so please forgive me.”
“Ha, you remain humbly charming as ever.”
“….”
“So, don’t you think Miss Vivienne would be more compatible with someone like me?”
“Brother, aren’t you thirty-four this year?”
“So what if I’m three years older than you?”
“Always polite yet sarcastic. Thank you for pointing that out, noble sir.”
Vivienne glanced at Edmund, subtly delivering a hint of cold irony.
Edmund seemed uninterested, as if a fly were buzzing in front of him, which only frustrated Kingsley further.
The harsh gaze shifted to Vivienne. She was uncomfortably familiar with such “twisted looks.” It returned to Edmund.
“Still, you’re living off your father’s money. Isn’t the new responsibility overwhelming by comparison?”
Edmund stared silently at Kingsley.
“You’d do better if you let me handle it.”
Then Kingsley addressed the Duchess opposite him.
“Hasn’t my aunt always wanted me to settle down?”
“….”
“How about introducing me to that lady? We haven’t even talked yet.”
Proper etiquette—suddenly, the tedious manners of high society came to mind.
The frail, sharp-eyed gazelle-like woman looked back and forth between Vivienne and Kingsley. Vivienne sensed that the prospective wife of this man would have two mothers-in-law.
The four chairs away sat Kingsley’s mother and a duchess who seemed like a godmother figure, with three sisters-in-law farther away.
Vivienne was secretly impressed that he had six women despite such circumstances. Wealth was terrifying.
“So?”
The Duchess’s jeweled earrings jingled.
“I just don’t know the young lady.”
Not exactly a friendly welcome. Kingsley naturally looked left—
“No, that girl is connected to the underworld!”
The Sheldon Marchioness rose. Kingsley’s mother.
“Sit, madam,” said the Sheldon Marquis, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief after the aperitif, placing it back on the table. She reluctantly sat.
“Where’s the appetizer?”
The Marquis asked a footman, who bowed politely and disappeared. As food was served from the head seat, Kingsley leaned back, muttering arrogantly:
“Those underworld scoundrels… are we the kind to fear them?”
Crash! His chair tipped backward, colliding with a footman carrying food. Astonishingly, the airborne appetizer landed safely on the eldest daughter of the Sheldon Marchioness.
Kingsley stood, wagging a finger at Edmund.
“Mother, that brat kicked my foot under the table.”
“Really? I thought you were a lightweight, even with aperitifs.”
“See, mother? He sneaks around cunningly…”
“Kingsley, in formal settings, remember to call my mother ‘mother.’”
The Sheldon Marquis’s warning was ignored as Kingsley rose, tripping another footman, and resumed his seat once helped back.
Vivienne recalled the night she first met Edmund, their conversation, and the ridicule of her naivety.
“…as if I were some pure, untouched socialite.”
“…I just thought it was boring,” he replied.
‘And he somewhat resembles that agent.’
Vivienne watched Edmund eat, then turned to the food before her.
The appetizer included quiche and salad. The quiche was a tart filled with vegetables, bacon, and a rich mix of eggs and cheese—visually appetizing.
Seeing her eat, Edmund sent a footman to quietly bring her a small bowl of onion soup. Steam curled from the bowl beside her plate.
He seemed fully focused on her eating, ignoring Kingsley’s chatter. She was distracted by his gaze yet too delighted by the food to resist, savoring both the soup and quiche.
The potatoes were plentiful and suited her taste.
Only after ensuring she was eating properly did Edmund begin his own meal.
Vivienne’s portions were modest, as she usually
