Chapter 27
“You dare try to lecture me?”
Rickman’s eyes flashed dangerously as he stepped toward Agnès. A thin line of blood appeared on her cheek where his nail had scratched her.
“So, you’ve grown bold now that you’re about to become the Duchess of Basteron? Do you really think the Duke will keep you forever? A proud, uptight, insufferable woman like you?”
He shouted viciously and reached out to grab her by the neck.
But before his hateful hand could touch her, the sound of footsteps echoed outside the door.
Rickman froze, then slowly withdrew his hand.
“Just wait and see. You’d better hope that man really is a monster. Otherwise, no one like him would ever put up with someone like you.”
With one last threat, Rickman stormed out of the room.
The door slammed behind him, and once the sound faded, Agnès’s legs gave out. She sank to the floor, shaking.
She was terrified.
She had stood her ground and pretended to be calm, but inside, she had been trembling. Of course she had been afraid.
For six long years, Agnès had lived in complete obedience to Rickman.
She had raised Noah when he told her to, met whoever he instructed her to meet, and planned every event exactly as he demanded.
At the time, she thought that was how life worked.
Rickman had paid the Everchen family a large sum to “purchase” her as a bride, and she believed she had to be worth that price.
Looking back now, she realized how meaningless those years had been. But back then, she didn’t know any better.
It wasn’t until Noah lost his ability to speak that she finally realized how foolish she had been—and that was the first time she had ever defied Rickman.
Now, this was the second.
Agnès stared at her trembling hands, then slowly clenched and unclenched them, over and over, until she steadied herself.
Thankfully, the fear she felt toward Rickman was no longer something she couldn’t overcome.
Just as she was trying to calm her breathing—
Knock, knock.
A polite knock sounded on the door. It was quiet, but somehow, Agnès already knew who it was.
“I’m coming in for a moment,” came the deep, calm voice.
Before the door could even open, she stood up quickly.
She didn’t want to look pitiful in front of Dylan.
Folding her hands neatly in front of her, Agnès greeted him with a composed smile as he stepped inside.
“Your Grace, thank you for keeping your promise.”
At her polite gratitude, Dylan sighed and rubbed his forehead.
“You asked me not to interfere, after all.”
He clearly hadn’t liked it, but he had honored her request.
Even when he saw her trembling fingers, he didn’t comment. He simply placed a steady hand on her back and guided her gently to the sofa.
Thanks to him, she managed to sit down without showing how weak her legs really were.
His quiet consideration made her smile faintly.
“You must have been frustrated, yet you respected my decision,” she said softly. “Even though I couldn’t persuade Rickman in the end.”
Still, Dylan had stayed nearby until the end.
“You wished to prove yourself,” he replied calmly. “I had no intention of getting in the way of that.”
He spoke as if it were nothing, but to Agnès, his words meant more than any comfort or praise.
Looking into his clear blue eyes, she said quietly,
“Do you know something, Your Grace? When I’m with you, I feel like I have to stand up straighter somehow.”
Whenever she was near him, Agnès wanted to become a better version of herself. She didn’t want to look weak or foolish in front of him.
And the simplest way to do that was to hold her posture properly.
Dylan chuckled lightly. “I feel the same.”
Agnès blinked, surprised by his unexpected response. She was about to ask what he meant when he reached out and gently cupped her cheek.
He was looking at the small scratch Rickman had left there.
For a brief moment, Agnès thought she saw a flicker of red flash in his blue eyes—but she told herself it was just her imagination.
He’s only being kind, she thought. That’s just how he is.
Pulling back slightly, she covered the mark with her hand.
“It’s nothing, really. It’s not even serious.”
“The size of a wound doesn’t matter,” Dylan said coldly.
He called through the door, ordering an attendant to bring medical supplies.
Agnès waved her hands quickly in protest.
“Your Grace, you don’t need to trouble yourself with something like this. I can do it—”
But Dylan didn’t reply. He simply soaked a cotton pad with antiseptic and leaned in to tend to her cheek himself.
There was quiet strength and determination in his movements—an unspoken message that he wouldn’t step back, no matter what she said.
For someone of such noble birth, his hands were surprisingly sure and practiced. The ease of his touch made her shoulders tense slightly.
Then she remembered: he had gone to war at a young age. He must have treated plenty of wounds—his own and others’. Still, it felt strange to see such care coming from someone so elegant and refined.
The scratch wasn’t deep, so he finished quickly.
“Thank you,” Agnès said softly, bowing her head.
But Dylan didn’t look away from her cheek. His gaze stayed fixed there, intense.
“From now on,” he said quietly, “I’ll be the only one allowed to leave marks on your body.”
It sounded almost possessive—like a claim.
Yet Agnès believed he meant it differently. That he was promising to protect her, even if his methods were harsh.
And indeed, his tone soon returned to its usual composed calm as he began to explain their next steps.
“The public opinion against Count Overhan has already turned. The trial will begin soon. We’ll reveal that he built his fortune through illegal means—by threatening his servants and keeping them as slaves instead of paying proper wages.”
“But most nobles still think of servants as property,” Agnès said worriedly. “Will that really matter?”
“The nobles might not care,” Dylan replied, “but His Majesty does. He’s been working to abolish slavery. That’s what matters.”
His confidence soothed her worries instantly.
“Instead of exposing everything at once,” he continued, “we’ll pressure him gradually—forcing him to pay heavy fines and compensations. Eventually, he’ll give up custody out of greed, to protect what little wealth he has left.”
“And if he still refuses?” Agnès asked quietly.
Her golden eyes didn’t hold doubt, only trust.
She didn’t believe Dylan could fail—she simply wanted to know how he would succeed.
But before he could answer, a commotion echoed faintly from outside the room.
It wasn’t unusual at such a large party, but one of the raised voices was unmistakably Rickman’s.
Agnès glanced toward the door, then turned back to Dylan, waiting for his reply.
Instead of answering directly, Dylan extended his hand toward her with graceful ease.
“Does that man love his son more than himself?” he asked simply.
Agnès took his hand almost unconsciously and shook her head. “No.”
“Then everything will go as you wish,” he said.
Dylan raised her hand and kissed the back of it lightly before helping her to her feet.
Together, they left the resting room.
In the ballroom, Rickman was arguing loudly with a middle-aged nobleman.
“I raised my daughter like a jewel! There’s no way I’d give her to a cold-blooded man like you!”
“I already told you, my lord,” Rickman said through gritted teeth, “I have no such interest in your daughter. We merely shared a few polite words about a common interest.”
“Then stop talking to her altogether! Why can’t you just say ‘yes, I understand’ and walk away?”
“Do you not realize how rude you’re being? Everyone here can see how absurd this is! Is this how a nobleman behaves?”
Rickman glanced around the room, trying to gather support—but the other guests hid their faces behind their fans or looked away. No one came to his defense.
Yes, the older nobleman had been blunt and rude, but everyone understood why.
Rickman had thrown out a wife who had done nothing wrong—she hadn’t cheated, hadn’t shamed her family, hadn’t neglected her duties—
and yet he had humiliated her publicly.
And now, after all that, he had the nerve to hand her a paper and demand she come crawling back?
It wasn’t just cruel to his wife—it was an insult to her entire family.
