✦ Chapter 3 ✦
Hold what?
“What?”
I replayed the moment in disbelief. My features a mixture of shock and confusion, while Cerulean regarded me with unreadable calm. He placed his hand over his heart and spoke quietly:
“I swear by my name that I harbor no ill intent toward Miss…”
“No—no! Don’t swear!”
What did he mean, invoking an oath because I touched his hand? Why bind his name to such a pledge?
I offered my hand back awkwardly. Cerulean withdrew at first, then gently curled his fingers around mine.
Wow… his fingers are exquisite.
Long and slender, more fitting for cello strings than a blade. I imagined them gliding over mahogany with grace.
My goodness—what am I thinking?
I flushed in embarrassment and pulled back. He stared at my fingers for a moment before whispering in a strained voice:
“…Then it was not my fault, after all.”
What did he mean by “it was not my fault”? Before I could find the look in his expression, he pulled away, slipped his glove back on, and rose.
“My purpose here is fulfilled. Thank you for your time.”
“Wait—please, just a moment!”
How could he leave without saying anything about Luar? I matched his strides to keep up.
“Please—give me just a bit more time. I still have questions.”
“I have nothing further to say.”
It was like talking to a glass wall. He didn’t look back—only stepped forward with impressive speed, as if I never existed.
He’s even colder than the rumors said.
Despite his striking appearance, I couldn’t fathom why anyone pursued this emotionless man.
His long strides carried us out of the newspaper office. Outside, a horse stood waiting—it must have been his.
If I lose him now… I’ll lose my only lead.
I couldn’t let him go. Even without information on Luar now, I needed to stay in contact—with him, the sole thread to follow.
I’ve searched long and hard for truth about Luar. He’s my only chance.
Memories clashed with the present:
“Idel… your mother…”
“Don’t mourn too much—for such is life.”
My stepmother’s face flickered in my mind. Now, only this man remained as a glimmer of hope.
“Then… goodbye.”
I saw Cerulean’s handsome profile as he turned to depart. In a surge of boldness I hardly recognized as mine, I reached out and grabbed his coat.
“Just—wait! I have something important to say—please.”
“What is it?”
His voice still measured, still calm.
I gathered courage and said the words that would change everything:
“…Will you marry me, sir? Even if only briefly, so you can claim your title.”
“What?”
He paused, the first real sign of emotion flickering across his impassive face—astonishment.
What have I said?
My face burned. His expression mirrored mine.
Strange as it sounded, I continued without waiting for response.
“I know you need marriage to secure the inheritance. And that your stepmother—Princess Barinen—introduced a rule to delay your claim unless you were wed.”
Yes. She had forced that rule to secure the title for her own son.
Smiling with fierce determination, I pressed on.
“So please—marry me. I will wholeheartedly help you gain the title.”
“…Please let me go.”
He looked at my hand gripping his coat, confusion and restraint in his gaze.
I sighed in frustration.
“I won’t let you go. If I release you, you’ll run—won’t you?”
“It seems I chose poorly.”
“No—you chose well. I’m the one who’ll give you the title.”
At that moment, all my years as a journalist sharpened my resolve.
If I become close to Cerulean Luc, doors will open. I’ll no longer be the oddball in the newsroom.
A chance to hear whispers about Luar, and to confront Barinen herself.
If Cerulean wins the inheritance, Barinen loses her grip on the Duchy.
That is the scene I hunger to see.
To watch Barinen fall—the woman who shattered so many lives to feed her ambition.
“If that happens, divorce or anything else won’t matter.”
My eyes glowed, a fierce gleam. Cerulean glanced at my fiery hair, then studied me curiously, and touched his gloved mouth.
“I find this deeply unwise. Let me go, please.”
Unwise?
What have I done wrong?
He’d called me unwise? His words perplexed me.
He seemed eager to escape the awkward moment. But I held his coat firmly and pressed onward.
“If you’ve read my pieces, you know I have a talent.”
“A talent?”
“Yes! My specialty as a journalist is uncovering social secrets—especially the drama between wives and mothers-in-law! All the wicked mothers out there, and all the stepmothers—it’s all in my mind.”
I stared at him fiercely. These were the first words that came to me with my pen in hand. I never thought I’d use them like this.
“Even better—I’ll use my talent when I drive your stepmother out! You’ll have the chance to unclutter a mess you didn’t make.”
“…That’s a rather crass expression.”
Fine—I hadn’t earned my reputation any other way.
I smiled and made my proposal again, this time cool and elegant.
“Mister Luc—please marry me. I will be the most wicked daughter-in-law imaginable.”
“……”
Even this bold offer froze him. He looked as though he’d heard me—but wasn’t sure.
Concern flickered in me. His reply came smooth and polite, yet firm.
“If that’s the reason, wouldn’t it be better to hire a professional actress?”
Not someone to be dissuaded, I countered:
“But if you hire an actress for the contract, won’t the Duchess court her? You’d be enthralled by her. But I have a pure heart—my intentions cannot be bought!”
Mostly, though, my offer stemmed from a deep-seated resentment toward my stepmother.
Cerulean’s clear, sky-blue gaze bore into mine, searching. After a long pause, his lips finally moved.
“Why are you so determined to marry me this way?”
He looked at me, his eyes still and deep—no ripple of wind to disturb the surface.
Cerulean. The name suited him eerily well.
His gaze clashed with mine; suddenly I felt an icy wash extinguish my fierce resolve.
He will see through any lie.
If I simply confessed my Luar obsession, he would shut me down, deeming it too dangerous again.
So I chose measured truth.
“I have an old resentment toward your stepmother, Princess Barinen. I worked at the Imperial Palace when I first began—writing documents.”
I hadn’t lied—my words flowed without hesitation. But the old wound flickered behind my tone; my face paled.
I bit my lip and met his gaze again.
“She framed me and ruined my life. So—I want her to taste the despair I endured.”
I waited in silence. Cerulean watched me—silent, undisturbed. My chest tightened with worry.
If he heard me, he must respond—anything! Please.
Then he spoke in flat tones.
“Are you not reconsidering?”
“Never! My decision is unwavering!”
“When I inherit my title, I may ask for a divorce.”
“If you wish, I can render a promise in writing. I have no desire to hold the title of Duchess whatsoever.”
I answered quickly, without hesitation.
Cerulean frowned.
“I’ll consider this… But even if I agree, His Grace will not be pleased.”
He meant Duke Luc, of course. I’d heard of him: a man of few words.
I suspected Barinen’s interference stemmed from the Duke’s silent acquiescence to her schemes.
Of course, many ladies had tried to secure him for political marriage. Yet the Duke, the ultimate authority, would never approve.
“It’s beyond your authority. I’ll roll the dice too. I have nothing to lose. Please—to the point of engagement. If he rejects it—even then, no argument.”
“……”
“And if he agrees—then isn’t that our fate?”
“…Huh.”
Cerulean laughed quietly, surprised by his own reaction, and covered his mouth.
He thought. Then nodded.
“You made a promise.”
“I always keep my word. That is one virtue of journalists. So—may I have the engagement contract?”
“……”
What might be in his mind?
He might think it will never happen—so he humors me.
I wrote my details in my notebook, tore out the page, and handed it to him. Orphaned, I didn’t need a guardian’s signature—but he needed Duke Luc’s seal.
“Good luck to you.”
“Who can say.”
He walked away, his expression cold as ice, as though my earlier laughter never existed. I shrugged indifferently.
⇢ One Week Later
The weekly issue was finished. I lay across my bed, exhausted—but before sleep came, a knock at the door startled me.
I opened it to find a handsome blonde young man, brow furrowed, holding out a sealed engagement contract.
“What magic did you weave?”
I froze. He held the contract—stamped with Duke Luc’s grand seal.
…Dept. Secretary Sir Cerulean Luc.
Cerulean gazed at the girl before him—her eyes ablaze with hope.
“Mister Luc—please marry me. I will be the most wicked daughter-in-law imaginable.”
Her smile was bright as a sunflower; red hair spilling like the sunset.
The moment he saw her, recognition bloomed in his chest.
Idel Azean.
How ironic.
Though her face lay buried in his memories, her arrival today made it all feel like yesterday.
He inwardly scoffed at himself for retaining that memory.
I thought I’d forgotten everything.
“…You’ve won,” he said softly.
He took the engagement document bearing the ducal seal, surprised by the relief that washed over him.
Because a part of him—deep in his heart—had hoped for this outcome.
Curious.
He was never one for rash decisions—especially about matters like marriage.
Yet when faced with this determined woman, he could not resist.
If I cannot resist her… perhaps I must see where this whirlwind leads.
