17. The Returning Woman
2023.11.17.
“Then why do you keep staring if you’re not interested?”
This time, it was Ian who lifted his head. His pale, delicate eyes caught hers.
Startled for a moment, Helena dropped her fork.
Clatter, clang.
The fork hit the table and fell to the floor with a loud noise. It was loud enough to stand out even amid the surrounding chatter, at least to her ears.
It sounded as if hundreds of plates were shattering at once—crash after crash.
With each plate that broke, black blotches appeared in her vision. They grew quickly, until the darkness completely surrounded her.
⌜So this is how you pretend to be a duchess.⌟
A sharp, brittle voice cut through the darkness, brushing past her ears like an arrow. The touch left a stinging sensation, as if it drew blood.
Her fists clenched tightly, trembling. Her spine felt icy. She couldn’t even bring herself to look around, only rolling her eyes.
‘Ugh.’
Her breath caught in her throat.
All the people in the restaurant seemed to be staring at her.
Each one loomed like a black shadow, grotesquely tall, their eyes glowing red, as if they were about to devour her.
The shadows began rising from their seats, moving closer.
⌜Grip it again, Helena!⌟
The same voice, the same mouth shape, shouting in the same timing.
⌜Straighten your back. Again.⌟
The dark voices pecked at her from all sides.
⌜Do it again. Again.⌟
The sound of breaking plates grew louder.
⌜Again. Again.⌟
They shattered relentlessly, thundering like a storm.
⌜Again!⌟
“Enough noise!”
“…Ren. Helen?”
A soft human voice reached her.
A living voice, one that didn’t choke her.
At the same time, she felt warmth brushing her hand. The breath she had been holding burst out all at once.
The black void vanished like a candle snuffed out by a gust of wind.
Helena, breathing heavily, opened her tightly shut eyes. The coarse wooden table gradually came into view.
Only then did she realize the warmth spreading across her hand belonged to someone’s body.
“Are you alright? I still think you shouldn’t—”
“I’m fine.”
Helena quickly withdrew her hand from Ian’s grasp. Before he could say more, she hurriedly called for the waiter.
“Um…”
Her voice cracked slightly while asking for a new fork. She frantically glanced around the table.
Ian poured water into a cup and quietly conveyed the request to the waiter. After she drank, he spoke her name softly.
“Helena.”
The tone was firmer than usual, almost urging her to look at him, but Helena kept her gaze fixed downward.
If she looked now, he’d see.
Every flaw, every incomplete monster she carried inside, would be exposed.
He was someone adept at reading people. She had already shown him her lowest point; she could not allow him to see any weakness. She had to give nothing away.
After a deep breath, she tried to hide her unease, narrowing her brows as if in anger.
“I was annoyed because of the noise. I know you have many talents, you know? Just your voice alone can irritate people.”
“….”
Strangely, he didn’t reply. He simply stared at her, piercingly. Her skin felt exposed under his gaze.
She expected a joke, a retort, anything—but he didn’t react. Did he actually feel angry with her this time?
Helena felt uneasy, reflexively searching for some sign in his reaction. She nervously chewed the inside of her lip as the waiter brought a new fork.
Clink—the sound of metal on wood—and Ian finally spoke.
“I’m glad you noticed. I do have a tendency like that.”
He said it plainly, almost too casually. The words felt drier to Helena than a cold, tough piece of meat.
Despite her efforts, it seemed he had read her again—but he didn’t show it. She could sense his intention to steer the awkward energy as he wished.
Was he going along with her, or did he have another plan?
She didn’t know—but if he wanted her to find him irritating, he succeeded.
Helena continued to frown, locking eyes with him. This time, it wasn’t a façade; she was genuinely displeased.
“What exactly is so amusing to you?”
“Seeing you angry like this. And knowing it’s because of me makes it even better.”
“I don’t particularly want to understand, but you are truly incomprehensible.”
He clearly had strange tastes. Otherwise, he couldn’t tease her so relentlessly while keeping that smile on his face the whole time.
“No need to understand. Don’t bother trying to read my expression. Isn’t that exhausting? Just see what’s in front of you and get angry.”
“Then you’ll enjoy it again? What a nasty hobby.”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
Her voice rose. Other diners began to glance at her.
This wasn’t a hallucination this time—it was real—but she didn’t care.
She was too irritated to notice anything but the man in front of her.
The deeper her frown, the wider his smile grew.
“Because you’re alive. And that makes me happy.”
At that moment, something inside Helena snapped. The taut air vanished instantly.
Only then did she notice the stares around her. The focus she had poured entirely on him dispersed.
The déjà vu from last night returned—the feeling of stepping onto a path that could not be undone.
Helena picked up a knife and cut some bean sprouts, pretending nothing had happened. She focused solely on the task, as if the answer lay in the sprouts themselves.
“I… I…”
The knife clashed loudly against the plate. She tried to remain calm, but it was difficult.
“I’m not angry.”
She was angry.
Because, even for a moment, she had felt so vividly alive.
The duchy’s guest garden bloomed with flowers regardless of the season.
An elderly lady walked through the most lavishly decorated eastern garden.
She was admiring the brightly colored hydrangeas when she heard approaching footsteps and turned.
Eugene soon appeared.
“What brings you here?”
Perhaps coming during training, he wore a more relaxed outfit rather than a formal suit.
Through the loosely opened shirt, a long, jagged scar was visible, with sweat sliding down along it, tracing his chest.
A servant rushed to offer a towel, but Eugene waved everyone off, saying he would return before the sweat dried.
The lady sat on an ivory-colored stool with a displeased expression.
“You think you don’t even have time to speak with your mother?”
“What do you want?”
Eugene stood still, refusing to move. Christine frowned and tilted her head toward him.
He exhaled lightly through his teeth, finally sitting against the chair back. Christine’s frown softened slightly.
“You don’t need a reason to see someone’s face. If someone leaves, someone must come.”
“…Did you threaten Gordon again?”
“If you didn’t tell me, what else could I do?”
Unlike Eugene’s momentarily sullen expression, Christine laughed freely, as if a long-standing burden had been lifted.
“Finally gone. Five years of surviving quietly—what perseverance.”
Christine slowly turned her gaze around the garden, taking in the mansion in the background with satisfaction.
“Now it really feels like Evergale.”
It was a tone of relief, as if she had finally driven out an unwelcome insect.
Eugene’s mouth hardened. He suddenly remembered meeting Helena’s mother a few days before she left.
He asked, his tone harsh, revealing his anger:
“What did you say to Helena? What did you do to her all this time, Mother?”
His normally low voice was even rougher.
Christine widened her eyes in surprise, more baffled than angry.
She soon sneered coldly.
“You left that girl in my care, Eugene.”
“You kept invoking battles, etiquette, and social adaptation as threats,” Eugene retorted.
“You found it easier to pretend you didn’t know, didn’t you?”
“I won’t ever send Helena to you again.”
Eugene’s bright yellow eyes gleamed sharply. Christine’s previously calm face wrinkled slightly with tension.
“Again? That sounds like there’s a next time.”
“We are still married. We never divorced.”
“So you’re holding out without signing, huh? No matter how much I demanded alimony? Clever until the very end.”
Christine’s voice rose, and so did Eugene’s.
“I didn’t do it. And I won’t. The only woman who will ever bear the Evergale name is Helena.”
“You…!”
Christine opened her mouth as if to retort but then shut it.
A moment later, she tapped her fan sharply, folding it, and said in a more measured tone:
“I don’t understand why you’re suddenly like this. You weren’t pleased with her either, recently.”
“When was I—”
“Don’t deny it. I am the same kind of woman as her. I can tell just by looking at the face.”
“She is my wife.”
Eugene said firmly. She was unquestionably his wife.
Therefore, only he should know Helena. No one else should know more than him.
But why… why…
She remained so vague.
Christine, ignoring Eugene’s fierce energy, continued.
“And you are my son. You resemble him greatly, Eugene. You achieve, take, and tire easily.”
“….”
Eugene unconsciously traced the scar on his chest. Christine continued, unaware.
“No matter how harsh I was, one word from you could make her cry and laugh. But now there’s no expression. You no longer need to threaten her, and it seems unnecessary to call her at all. That’s how it ended.”
Christine stood up.
“Even if you haven’t finished, she has.”
After saying this, she turned and left, her pink hat decorated with glossy swan feathers fading from the garden.
Eugene sat alone, swallowing his silence. His body was cold; the sweat had long dried.
So in the chill, he repeated silently, almost to warm himself:
“No. She will come back.”
Helena Evergale. She was that kind of woman.
Even if he forgot.
Always, the returning woman.
