Episode 3
Grace massaged her right wrist—the one she’d swung the bottle with—as she made her way back through the dark corridor.
Should’ve wrapped my wrist before swinging it—real fight is nothing like practice.
Steeling her fierce thoughts, she halted when her reflection flickered in the blacked-out window.
Her long, curling blonde hair framed a narrow, delicate face and pale green eyes; her slender frame made her look smaller than she was. Though the maids often praised her beauty, Grace had never been comfortable with it. She’d once tried heavy makeup to look “stronger,” but only ended up looking like a child pretending to be grown-up.
Her mentor, who had taught her hunting, once told her:
“You already carry a powerful weapon.”
“A weapon? My looks?”
“Yes. When facing a bigger opponent, you must look harmless. They relax—and then you strike.”
From that day, she used her looks as a weapon—appearing innocent, demure, and unfazed by insults, which masked her true resolve. The Duke and Duchess saw her as a useful tool but nothing more. They left critical paperwork to her hands—and within their complacency, she quietly gathered information, waiting for the right moment.
As she stepped forward, laughter echoed down the corridor:
“Your husband is quite something, isn’t he, Grace?”
House Taylor’s Lady Rosette, inheriting the Duchess’s cruelty, approached with a mocking grin.
“You’re marrying the Empress’s nephew tomorrow—it’s quite the match!”
Grace gritted her teeth, translating Rosette’s venom into meaningless noise, then smiled faintly:
“Thank you, Rosette.”
Her gentle tone twisted Rosette’s smug face in anger.
Rosette snarled, “Keep smiling like that your whole life—suitable for the husband you deserve, serving him forever.”
Grace thought of the wine bottle she’d just swung at that same man.
“Don’t ever come back to Taylor alive or dead, Grace. This isn’t your home.”
“……”
“It’s mine.”
With a final poison-laced whisper, Rosette turned away. Grace watched her go, unmoved. She quietly murmured as she walked:
“Everything here—people, land, wind, even a drop of river water—none of it belongs to you.”
Meanwhile,
A stranger arrived at House Taylor’s estate: tall, with glossy black hair and sharp eyes so imposing even the guard handed over the credentials without meeting his gaze. His companion complained:
“Why bring a forged invitation? The wedding invitation would have been enough.”
Walter Richmond smiled and revealed a card:
To the esteemed Duke Richmond—
From Grace Taylor.
The elegant handwriting matched the sender perfectly.
“Well, I wasn’t sure it was real.”
“A wedding invitation is a wedding invitation.”
Walter slipped it back into his pocket, gazed up at the castle, and murmured:
“They say any secret I bring to the wedding will get the sharpest blade to protect it—if that’s true, is this really just an invitation?”
His companion scratched his head, while Walter stroked his chin in thought—wondering exactly what secrets Grace held.
The Next Morning
At dawn, the massive doors of the chapel opened. Silver-white banners and lilies for purity and love shone throughout. Staff busied themselves with final preparations, while priests offered prayers. Nobles drank deeply of anticipation: a Taylor wedding—and the groom was a nephew of the Empress!
But then—
“Where is the master?!”
The sharp voice of the Countess of Saxony flared as she slapped the steward’s cheek—twice!
“Sorry,” he gasped.
She turned bitterly to her son:
“A bruise like that on your face—today of all days!”
Jack of Saxony slumped, wine-bottle bruises mottling one eye and his forehead. The best healer’s ointment only made them glow darker. He pounded his fist in frustration, retorting curtly:
“I remember nothing.”
His mother glared at him:
“Do you not care whether the bride sees you like this?! You collapsed over the table with your wine bottle—this is disgraceful!”
She stormed out, fan flaring with her outrage:
“When we return to the Saxony estate, I’ll teach that imp some proper manners!”
Even the other ladies tiptoed around her fury as she marched on. But as she entered the long corridor—a history-laden gallery leading to the chapel—everyone’s eyes fixed on one approaching figure:
The bride herself.
Is this our ML?
I think so