Chapter 23
Even Lizzie, who knew better than anyone how horribly Rickman had treated Agnès, had begged her not to go back to him.
And yet, Agnès hadn’t even said she would. She had simply stayed quiet.
Still, even she was shocked by the decision she had made.
After all, wasn’t Rickman offering her the easiest path to get what she wanted most?
All she had to do was sign that marriage document, and she would once again be Noah’s mother.
But Dylan spoke as if her refusal were the most natural thing in the world.
He seemed absolutely certain that Agnès would reject Rickman’s offer.
Setting his teacup down, Dylan crossed one long leg over the other. The motion looked effortless — elegant, like a figure captured in a painting.
With a calm, confident expression, he nodded.
“You made the right choice. Returning to that household would only repeat the same misery. I trusted that you wouldn’t make such a foolish decision.”
“…I’m surprised by my own decision,” Agnès admitted softly. “But Your Grace seems to have more faith in me than I do.”
“Yes,” Dylan replied with quiet conviction. “Because I think you’re a wise woman. And that’s not something I say often.”
That proud certainty made Agnès laugh faintly.
If Dylan believed in her that much, then maybe she could be brave too.
She gathered her courage, fingers tightening around her skirt.
She had practiced what she wanted to say all through the carriage ride, yet now that she was finally speaking, her lips trembled.
She didn’t want to disappoint him.
But she also knew — staying silent would disappoint him even more.
“Your Grace,” she began, “please use this marriage document.”
If she had said that to Rickman, he would have scoffed — told her not to speak nonsense, that a woman had no business giving advice.
But Dylan didn’t interrupt. He listened quietly, waiting for her to continue, his steady gaze telling her she could take her time.
Agnès swallowed hard and went on.
“In noble trials, the most important thing is public opinion. The nobles may not be moral, but they pretend to value marriage — they say that a man who is faithful to his wife is a true gentleman.
This document can prove how little Count Overhan respects that idea. Everyone sees him as the perfect gentleman, but this shows that he’s impulsive, self-serving, and doesn’t treat marriage seriously.”
Expelling an unruly wife wasn’t enough to ruin a man’s reputation — that sort of gossip was common in noble circles.
But to then try to take her back with a single sheet of paper? That would show the whole world just how reckless and arrogant he truly was.
“You’re right,” Dylan said, his tone thoughtful. “If this becomes public, Count Overhan’s honor will suffer a heavy blow.
It won’t be enough to win the custody battle outright, but it’ll turn public opinion in our favor — a perfect start.
However…”
He tapped the envelope with one finger.
“How likely is it that Count Overhan already anticipated this outcome? If he’s prepared and manages to twist public opinion first, things could get complicated.”
Agnès let out a small laugh.
“He would never imagine it. For all I know, he’s probably back at his mansion right now ordering the maids to clean up my old bedroom.”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed slightly.
He hadn’t expected her ex-husband to be that foolish. Rickman might have been despicable, but he was still a young count — and should have had at least a little common sense.
Agnès, however, explained in her usual calm way.
“I’ve spent years pretending to be obedient — I’m good at it, better than anyone. He still believes I’ll always submit to him. That’s why he’ll never see this coming.”
It was the quietest rebellion in the world —
and one that only a woman who had endured years of humiliation could carry out.
Hearing her words, Dylan finally understood — at least a little — the kind of life she had endured.
But instead of pitying her, he smiled — a smile that was full of respect, almost admiration.
“Then,” he said simply, “we’ll do it your way.”
***
During the social season, countless parties filled the capital.
Servants from every noble house ran through the streets carrying invitations from one mansion to another.
But not all parties were the same.
Some were small family gatherings, attended only by close relatives and friends.
Others were grand events — dazzling spectacles that could rival the imperial banquets themselves.
Among them, the one considered closest in prestige to a royal event was the party hosted by the Marchioness of Norris.
The Marchioness was a lively, sharp-tongued old lady, beloved by everyone — men and women, young and old alike.
People often joked that if she hadn’t been born a noblewoman, she would have started a business empire herself.
She was clever, practical, and always in tune with the latest trends.
The late emperor had once given her the honorary title of Mirseta — a distinction reserved for the sovereign’s closest friends.
Even after his death, that title made her one of the most respected and sought-after hosts in the capital.
Rickman, of course, was among those invited — and he accepted without hesitation.
As always, he intended to enjoy himself — to show off his wealth, charm, and intelligence to everyone watching.
Rickman had no interest in hiding behind curtains with unfamiliar women, but he did enjoy the attention — the hungry gazes, the admiration, the envy.
Suppressing a smug smile, he greeted a familiar young lady standing nearby.
“Lady Hardin,” he said smoothly, “it’s been too long. The book you recommended to me last time—”
“Count Overhan.”
Before he could finish, Lady Hardin’s mother — the formidable Lady Hardin — stepped in and grabbed her daughter by the wrist.
“My daughter’s had too much to drink,” she said briskly. “I’m taking her home.”
Then she whisked the girl away into the crowd.
Rickman frowned slightly. Lady Hardin hadn’t looked drunk at all.
He smoothed his expression, forcing down his irritation.
Her behavior must have had nothing to do with him — perhaps the mother was just overprotective, or hiding some embarrassing family issue.
There were plenty of other women who looked at him with interest — and now that word of his divorce had spread, even more noble families were likely eager to win his attention.
Straightening his posture, Rickman picked up a cocktail glass from a passing waiter’s tray and took a sip.
His next target was Baron Weger.
Though the baron held only a minor title, he had built his fortune from nothing — a self-made man who had raised his house to prominence through talent and effort.
Rickman respected that kind of man — he reminded him of himself.
The two had even visited each other’s estates in the past, when relations were warmer.
But that friendship had cooled — not because of Rickman, of course, but because of Agnès.
Rickman had never wanted to reveal his son’s speech condition to society.
But Agnès, in her foolish sentimentality, had arranged for Noah to spend time with Weger’s son, saying that it would help him open up to others.
Ridiculous.
So, Rickman had distanced himself from the baron’s family for a while — but now, that could change.
“Baron Weger,” Rickman said pleasantly as he approached.
The baron startled a little, then quickly forced a laugh.
“Count Overhan! It’s been far too long. I heard your recent investments have done splendidly. You should’ve let me in on the opportunity — I’m quite hurt!”
Rickman smiled — exactly the reaction he liked.
So, Lady Hardin’s earlier behavior had indeed been unrelated to him.
The admiration in Weger’s eyes confirmed it — Rickman still commanded respect.
“I’ve been quite busy lately,” Rickman said smoothly. “Next time, I’ll be sure to include you.”
“Ah, generous as always! Hahaha! So, what brings you to tonight’s party? Perhaps you’re looking for a new countess? I know a few young ladies who—”
“Absolutely not.”
Rickman cut him off sharply.
“I don’t need a new countess.”
“What? But didn’t you always say that your son needed a good mother?”
“There was a misunderstanding with Agnès,” Rickman said coolly. “We’ll be reconciling soon.”
At that, Baron Weger’s face went pale.
“A-ah… but I heard that she…”
“You must mean the rumor about her engagement to Duke Basteron. That wasn’t her will. She’s being used — manipulated.”
“R-Really?” the baron stammered.
Rickman spoke with such absolute confidence that Weger couldn’t help but believe him — or at least, be confused enough not to question it.
“I see… then I suppose things must be difficult for you. Still, I heard…”
He hesitated, glancing past Rickman’s shoulder — and suddenly froze.
“Baron?” Rickman asked, frowning.
“Haha! Forgive me, Count, but—ah—suddenly, I’m not feeling well. My stomach—excuse me!”
And before Rickman could say another word, Baron Weger turned on his heel and rushed off into the crowd.
