His gaze, which had lingered on her lips, slowly traveled upward. Curtis met that gaze in silence—fiery red hair that looked like it could ignite.
Though her hair only reached her shoulders, its intensity was captivating. Her purple eyes, which matched her red hair perfectly, shimmered mysteriously under the moonlight.
Even while miserably kneeling in the mud, she had stared straight at him with those same eyes, concerned only for Youngmin’s safety.
Roxana Dalton had been a fleeting, rotting crush—one that decayed before it even bloomed. He had lost too much, broken too much, to ever fall purely in love again.
“…Who knows.”
That was why he hated those brilliant purple eyes. The clearer they were, the filthier and more grotesque he looked reflected in them. He didn’t want her to be happy. He wanted her out of his sight—or if she had to be near, then miserable.
Instead of waiting for her to show an ugly side, wouldn’t it be faster to destroy her?
Just as his hand reached for her soft cheek—
“Ah.”
Roxana, who had been lost in thought through the long silence, finally spoke.
“You must really love dancing, huh?”
“…What?”
Curtis blinked. Caught off guard, he was at a loss for words. Interpreting his silence as confirmation, Roxana smiled slightly.
“I didn’t realize you liked dancing so much you’d do it with a woman you hate.”
“……”
“Thanks for the information. Well then.”
Roxana gave a polite bow to the stunned Curtis and turned to leave.
“Curtis.”
Someone approached the dazed Curtis, still standing alone in the empty backyard. It was Greg—his old friend—who had set aside the master-servant dynamic to spar with him like old times. Curtis was bowing his head, covering his face with one hand as his shoulders trembled.
“You okay?”
“…Ha.”
Suddenly, Curtis burst into laughter, shoulders shaking. “Ahahaha!” Startled, Greg looked at him, puzzled. Curtis wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes and muttered:
“Ah. I really do hate Roxana.”
She shook him endlessly. Wearing the face of a saint but capturing his attention like a witch—she never let him go. The electrifying sensation down his spine felt good, but also horrifying enough that he never wanted to feel it again.
“Is it possessiveness?”
Greg, who had been watching him quietly, suddenly asked.
“There’s no way you’d ever marry a Dalton girl, right?”
“…Greg.”
The relaxed air instantly tensed. A chill ran down Curtis’s neck, raising the hairs on his arms. But Greg didn’t back down. His father had been a knight of the former border duke. When the House of Russell fell, Curtis wasn’t the only one who lost everything—so did Greg.
“Don’t forget. The attendant who died in your place that day… was my cousin.”
“…I know.”
Curtis replied in a low voice, brushing back his disheveled hair. As if he could ever forget. Whenever he regained his senses, ghosts surrounded him. Even in sleep, they stood around his bed and never left him.
“Then promise me. Regarding your title—say this is just another one of your whims. A fleeting amusement, nothing more. And…”
“And?”
“Roxana Dalton… she’ll end up either locked in a convent for life or dead by your hand.”
Their gazes clashed fiercely in the air. After a moment of silence, Curtis smirked and answered.
“I promise.”
For some reason, a corner of his chest itched. Quietly, Curtis crushed the odd sensation—like stepping on an ant.
—
—
The bet went in Frey’s favor. Her dance was flawless. One wouldn’t have guessed she was blind. The result of blood-sweating effort.
“Congratulations, Lady Russell!”
“Thank you!”
Frey, brimming with confidence, fully basked in her victory.
“Now the only thing left is to get your dress made! Aren’t you excited?”
Even before the smiling dance instructor could finish, Frey jumped up and rushed to Roxana.
“That’s right! We need to get measurements right away. There’s not much time! Do you think the seamstresses can handle it? What do you think, Roxana?”
“Well, I’m not sure…”
Roxana replied with a troubled look—just as the door silently opened.
“No need to worry, Frey.”
“Brother?”
“There’s a dress from last year. Just needs some adjusting.”
It was a dress he had made, hoping she might leave the cave someday. Upon hearing his sincerity, Frey stood on tiptoe and hugged her brother. Watching the siblings embrace for the first time in years, Robert, standing nearby, became teary-eyed. After releasing the hug, Frey spoke in a playful voice.
“Since I’m asking anyway… Can I make one more request?”
“Anything.”
“I want to bring Roxana to the ball with me.”
“…What?”
The room froze. Curtis, barely managing his expression, gently took Frey’s hand.
“Frey… unfortunately, the chaperone has already been chosen.”
“I’m not talking about that. I want to bring her as my friend.”
“That’s…”
Curtis sighed inwardly, looking troubled. Even if it had been two years, Roxana was still the daughter of a high traitor—the Marquis Dalton, who had embezzled national taxes and conspired with a foreign power.
“If it’s any other request, I’ll grant it.”
“No, this is it. You said you’d do anything, right? Please?”
Though she’d come this far out of courage and stubbornness, Frey still feared diving alone into the vast sea that was high society. Her brother would escort her, but there were spaces where men couldn’t enter—places only for women.
“I want to go with Roxana.”
At Frey’s firm insistence, Roxana repeatedly told herself in her mind: No, he won’t allow it.
But then—an unbelievable answer struck her ears.
“Her hair stands out, so a wig should do.”
All eyes turned to Curtis in shock. Meeting Roxana’s trembling purple gaze, he shrugged nonchalantly.
Sure, there wasn’t much to gain from showing her off, but now that he thought about it, the risk was minimal. The Marquis had never brought Roxana into society. Since she had a fiancé, he had kept her out of the public eye, saying it was improper for an unmarried lady to socialize.
As such, Roxana had never properly debuted, and had been reclusive for so long, few knew her face. Most nobles only knew her through rumors—ugly, unrefined, and unwanted.
More importantly, that flustered look reminded him of a recent incident. She had blindsided him with unexpected words—paying her back didn’t feel bad at all. Besides, Roxana was just a toy he had placed in Frey’s hands. So why not?
If she ended up humiliated at the ball, maybe he’d finally grow tired of her. With that, Curtis called for Robert.
“We’ll need to get her measurements redone. Hire only the most skilled seamstresses.”
“Understood. I’ll begin the search immediately.”
“Oh.”
Looking leisurely at the pale-faced Roxana, Curtis added another command.
“A wig would be good too. I prefer blondes, after all.”
It was a precaution—for any unexpected situation.
—
—
Three days later, the Baroness Philomena’s ball began late at night. As the sun dipped below the horizon, four-wheeled carriages bearing family crests rolled into the inner city one by one. A wealthy widow and socialite of the southern circles, the baroness’s events were popular monthly affairs.
The large hall, decked with flowers and tapestries, was already overflowing with well-dressed guests. In the chaotic crowd, Frey clung to Curtis’s arm like a lifeline.
“The Duke of Russell and his sister have arrived!”
The doorman, having confirmed their identity, called out in a booming voice. Guests chatting loudly turned their heads in unison.
“Oh my! The Duke is finally here!”
Baroness Philomena, draped in white ermine and adorned with pheasant feathers, welcomed the siblings warmly.
“We were taking bets on when you’d arrive. And to think you’ve brought such a lovely sister!”
“Thank you for the invitation, Baroness. This is my sister, Frey Russell. Frey, this is Baroness Philomena, our gracious host.”
“A pleasure to meet you.”
“My, what a delicate flower! Welcome, Lady Russell.”
While the baroness’s words were friendly, her gaze hungrily swept Curtis up and down.
He was the infamous border duke—young, handsome, incredibly wealthy. And above all, the greatest part of his legend was his revenge—waiting years to avenge his parents. From a ruined boy, he had risen to lead a vast mercenary force, repelled countless barbarian invasions, and become a national hero.
His epic tale, popularized by a famous bard, was even known in neighboring kingdoms. His only flaw? A lack of interest in social activities.
If she could just see him often, build a connection—maybe, just maybe, she could make herself the future Duchess.
Clicking her tongue in disappointment, the baroness’s gaze slid over to Roxana, who followed behind.
