Chapter 9
Duke Bonaparte sighed at the expression on Charles’s face as he watched the scene with amusement.
“What is it, Your Majesty? What’s so unfortunate?”
“She’s the wife of an ugly, philandering, selfish man. That’s unfortunate.”
“…But aren’t you usually disgusted by physical contact, especially with others? Are you okay being touched by the Duchess of Fontaine?”
Charles had always avoided physical contact to the point where people suspected he had obsessive-compulsive disorder. That was also why he never showed interest in the opposite sex.
But perhaps because his body had changed—or maybe because Eve was special—her touch didn’t bother him. It was a little awkward, but not unpleasant.
“You don’t need to worry about that. More importantly, why did you stop me?”
When Charles asked curtly, Duke Bonaparte replied in frustration.
“Why did you come here of all places? We need to find a way to get your body back as soon as possible! Tiago said you were acting like you were on a full-blown vacation. And now I see it’s true! Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for me in the imperial palace because of that degenerate Duke?”
Charles tilted his head slightly, as if seriously considering his closest aide’s complaints.
“Hm. But… why do I need to know that?”
“Oh, come on, Your Majesty! I know this is typical of you, but the situation is serious!”
Charles, who had been letting the words pass through one ear and out the other, suddenly asked something else.
“By the way, what’s going on with the Duke of Fontaine? I heard you’ve tied him down pretty tightly. How long is he going to be content playing the scarecrow?”
“I’ve rallied several noble houses to intimidate him. He should be quiet for a while—unless some unexpected variable occurs.”
“A variable… I see…”
Charles murmured, eyes lowered, before suddenly lifting his head. His gaze now gleamed sharply.
“If anything happens, cut off his head.”
“……”
“Don’t think of him as me. Kill him. Got it?”
“Your Majesty…”
When Duke Bonaparte called him softly, Charles tilted his head with a smile.
“What’s with that face? Haven’t we always done things this way?”
And so stood the man who had climbed to the seat of absolute power. Duke Bonaparte, who had been staring at him, let out a long sigh.
“…Forget it. Just focus on the Duchess of Fontaine instead.”
“I’m already doing that.”
Bonaparte shook his head, guessing Tiago was in for a rough time.
“Since we’re on the topic, I’d better get going. I shouldn’t leave Eve alone for too long.”
“I’m off.” Charles waved his hand lazily and walked away. Duke Bonaparte offered a respectful bow toward his retreating figure.
Eve exhaled deeply. The world spun slightly before her eyes. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she was clearly drunk.
Fortunately, the garden was sparsely populated. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.
‘I should sit on a bench or something.’
Just as she was thinking that and stepping down the stairs, her vision blurred and she lost her balance.
‘Ah…!’
She instinctively shut her eyes, bracing for a fall—but a strong arm caught her waist.
A soft scent hit her nose.
‘That smell…’
Opening her eyes, Eve was shocked to see who it was.
“Arsen…?”
It was her husband—no, her sworn enemy—smiling brightly while holding her in his arms.
‘But the scent is different.’
The usual overpowering cologne wasn’t there. Had he changed fragrances? But why?
Eve stared at her husband in confusion. Whether from the alcohol or something else, he felt strangely unfamiliar. Almost like a completely different person. He’d been acting that way all day.
“Eve? Are you okay?”
“……”
She stared silently at Charles, who was starting to look genuinely concerned, before finally speaking.
“Why are you speaking formally to me? You’ve never done that before.”
“……”
Charles looked momentarily flustered, then let out a soft chuckle.
“Do you want me to speak casually, then?”
Eve shook her head firmly.
“No. Who do you think you are to speak casually to me?”
At her words, Charles laughed again. This unexpected side of the normally poised Duchess was amusing.
Charles found the whole situation quite entertaining. He looked at the slightly tipsy Eve and asked:
“Then why do you speak informally to me, my lady?”
“Because I’m Yvonne de Laurent. The eldest daughter of the Laurent family and sole granddaughter of Marquis Bernard.”
“I know that. And?”
“And Fontaine is…”
“Fontaine is?”
Eve blinked, as if she didn’t understand. Then, realizing what she was about to say, she quickly corrected herself.
“Fontaine is just my current name. Laurent is my maiden name. That’s all.”
No one must know about her desire for revenge—especially not Arsen, the target of it.
Charles looked disappointed not to hear what she’d been about to say but let her go and spoke gently, as if nothing had happened.
“You really should go easy on the alcohol, my lady. If someone else had caught you in their arms like that, it would’ve been a disaster.”
Eve silently adjusted her clothes and took a step back. That was dangerous—but worth the risk. A deep breath helped clear the fog in her head.
“…That was embarrassing. I apologize.”
“There’s no need to apologize between husband and wife. Let’s head back. We’re done here anyway, right?”
“Right.”
“Can you walk? Or should I carry you?”
“…I’ll just take the sentiment.”
Charles grinned, apparently pleased, and turned away. Eve watched his back for a moment before her eyes turned icy cold again.
‘That man… might not be Arsen.’
A shocking conclusion.
No matter how strangely Arsen acted, Eve had never seriously doubted he might not be him. Up until now, it had only been a fleeting thought—a silly joke in her mind when his behavior felt too off.
But that day at the tea party, too many strange things had happened. And when Duke Bonaparte stopped Arsen, her suspicions reached their peak.
Why would a statesman like Bonaparte, who had no friendship or business with Arsen and avoided courtly affairs, pay attention to him?
Acting on impulse, Eve had pretended to walk toward the garden, instead hiding behind a pillar to observe the two.
And what she saw was even more bizarre—they looked like old acquaintances.
Sure, Arsen might’ve had friendships she didn’t know about. In fact, he probably had many. But Fontaine’s Duke being close with the Prime Minister?
Impossible. If such a thing had ever existed, it would have been the talk of the empire.
And then seeing Arsen smirk coldly at Bonaparte, Eve knew:
That man wasn’t the Arsen she knew.
They’d been married—albeit in name only—for five years. Including their engagement, they’d spent nearly their entire lives together.
So her instincts told her: this man might not be Arsen.
To test her suspicions, she had feigned drunkenness. And sure enough, he treated her like something novel and amusing. Like a child who’d found a fun new toy.
There had already been plenty of red flags. His disinterest in women. The new nickname. His sudden interest in state affairs. The list went on and on.
All of it added up to one conclusion:
He wasn’t Arsen.
But even if her heart told her so, it wasn’t enough. She needed more than gut instinct—she needed proof.
As Eve pondered how to confirm the truth, her eyes landed on an invitation.
“Looks like Madam Le Rouen is after your treasure again this year, my lady. She wrote, ‘It would be an honor to see the Duchess’s pink diamond ring.’”
“…Ah.”
Countess Elise de Rouen—known simply as Madam Rouen—was a wealthy collector of rare items. Every so often, she would hold private auctions featuring her treasures. And an invitation to this year’s event had arrived at the Fontaine estate.
But Eve had no interest in such things. Not auctions, not luxury goods. And she wasn’t planning to attend.
After all, the only reason Madam Rouen wanted her there was to get a closer look at the pink diamond ring Eve had received as a wedding gift when she married into the Fontaine family.
She’d been so persistent that Eve made a habit of checking whether Rouen would be at an event before deciding to go.
‘Arsen always attended those auctions, though.’
That’s because he loved extravagance—and because he’d often buy gifts for his mistresses there.
Sometimes, like with Countess Dubois, he bought her something cheap, like a 50,000-gold trinket. But if he was truly interested, like with Cecilia, the gifts were lavish.
Arsen had never missed a single one of Madam Rouen’s auctions.
‘…Wait a second.’
A clever idea suddenly struck Eve.
‘What if that pink diamond ring is put up for auction, and Arsen doesn’t recognize it?’
The ring wasn’t even that important. Nothing she’d received from the Fontaine family held meaning for her—not when they’d taken so much from the Laurents.
She had never worn the ring, so Arsen hadn’t seen it since the wedding. It was a rare pink diamond, engraved with a unique symbol—something unforgettable once seen.
But if this man wasn’t truly Arsen, he might not recognize it at all.
And if he failed to notice it at the auction…
‘…It could be proof that he’s not really Arsen.’
She wasn’t sure what she’d do if that turned out to be true—but first, she needed confirmation. Everything else could come later. She held the advantage of knowing.
…How had things gotten to this point, where she was worrying about all this instead of just focusing on revenge?
“My head hurts…”
Startled by her mutter, Emma hurried over.
“Is your head hurting, madam? Shall I bring you some medicine?”
“No, it’s fine. I just need a little rest.”
“Then how about some sweets to lift your mood?”
Eve hesitated for a moment before shaking her head and standing up.
“No, I’ll fetch something myself. I need some fresh air anyway. You go take a break too, Emma.”
Sending Emma off, Eve walked alone toward the kitchen. She didn’t feel like summoning another servant just for some leftover cookies or snacks.
Maybe it was because in her past life—even the servants had ignored her. Ordering others around still felt awkward. Every time, she’d vividly remember how they used to treat her.
‘You’d think I’d have forgotten by now.’
“Oh, here it is.”
Eve found a box of cookies and shook off her thoughts, placing a few on a plate. Just then, she heard murmuring voices coming from the dining room connected to the kitchen.
