Chapter : 68
Anna, who had turned around wondering who it was, widened her eyes.
It was Amelia Marsden.
She was wearing a dazzling dress made of purple velvet trimmed with white lace—the color of her own eyes and a signature from her days as an actress—and carried a parasol elegantly in her hand. True to her former life as an actress, her presence drew immediate attention.
“It’s Amelia Marsden.”
People murmured, this time in a different sense than before. Even if they didn’t want to speak to someone of common birth, she was the recipient of a title personally granted by the Emperor. Whether they liked it or not, they had to maintain a pleasant rapport with her. Still, there was a certain vulgar excitement in the eyes of the nobles who still found her distasteful.
It was a clash between a former actress rumored to be the Marquess’s mistress and a newlywed bride. If people claimed not to care, it would have been a lie.
Surprisingly, it was Amelia Marsden who spoke first. She assumed her usual composed air and, in her characteristically languid tone, said:
“Belated congratulations on your marriage, Marchioness Marcus.”
Anna responded calmly:
“Thank you for your congratulations, Miss Marsden.”
Miss Marsden? Her finely made-up eyes twitched slightly, as if she didn’t like the form of address. Someone nearby quietly explained to Anna the etiquette behind the “Lady” title.
“My apologies for the oversight. I am not well-versed in high society and didn’t realize. Please forgive my ignorance, Lady Amelia.”
“……”
Amelia bit her lip but did not show anger. Her obedient blue eyes seemed to say, I am not the type to pick fights over something like this. Anna understood: Amelia genuinely hadn’t known.
“If that’s the case, what more can I say?”
Amelia raised her chin and replied with a twist of her words, but Anna remained unfazed. A sudden doubt had crossed her mind.
“The fact that I was told to come here today…”
Anna glanced at Amelia once, then dismissed her suspicion. Surely, Louis wouldn’t have done anything of the sort.
“I’m now fully integrated into Marcus.”
Deep in thought, Anna didn’t notice the flush of excitement that crept across Amelia’s face as she had scanned Anna as if to strip her bare.
Amelia laughed softly, striking a teasing pose. The sudden ease in her manner piqued the curiosity of onlookers. Anna, a little late, finally focused on her.
In a low, sensual voice, Amelia spoke slowly:
“Marchioness Marcus, you really are still so… inattentive…”
Though phrased as a private mutter, it was meant for all to hear. The meaning was clear: she knew far more about the Marquess than this naive new bride.
Anna’s mood naturally dipped. Perhaps sensing this, Amelia waved her hand and smiled:
“Oh, don’t misunderstand. I’m just surprised that the new bride hasn’t even been given her wedding ring yet.”
All eyes turned to Anna’s hand. On it, a single, simple silver ring shone lonely and unadorned.
Amelia Marsden raised her hand and sensuously stroked the exposed cleavage of her white gown. A brooch at the base of her neckline sparkled in the sunlight.
“Those who know will understand—the amethyst brooch was a gift from the Marquess himself. Why would the considerate Marquess give such attention to a has-been actress’s birthday, but not this?”
She then sighed dramatically:
“To see only a plain silver ring on the finger of the great Marchioness… truly regrettable.”
“……”
Hearing this, faces—including that of the Viscountess—showed disappointment and condescension. Those who had praised Anna so highly just moments ago had instantly shifted their stance.
Such was the life of women in the Empire: losing a husband’s love meant endless contempt.
Anna, who had quietly been observing, finally spoke:
“I had kept silent, thinking it unnecessary to explain… but I suppose I have no choice.”
Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd and found unsettling figures at the edges—they appeared to be journalists. Anna understood who must have called them here.
“If this situation can be used, I can do the same.”
Anna raised her hand wearing the ring into the air. As the sunlight caught the silver, the crowd’s attention fixed on it. Anna spoke:
“This is the Marquess Marcus’s mother’s ring. It was given to me long ago by the Marquess.”
“!”
“It is a gift of great significance…”
Anna smiled faintly at the crowd.
“So I didn’t feel the need to wear anything else.”
“……”
After a brief silence, eyes began to move, all ending on the same target: Amelia Marsden.
“……”
Amelia stood still. Yet her cold violet eyes were locked onto the ring she had just mocked. The amethyst brooch on her chest had already lost its shine.
Everyone could tell: it was her complete defeat.
The following day, the incident appeared in the newspapers. Louis exhaled sharply as he looked at a photograph of Amelia Marsden slipping through the crowd.
“Huh… even this sly fox can be humbled…”
His feelings were strange. If it hadn’t been Alliana Everklein, he might have welcomed her humiliation.
“But… is it really true?”
Louis studied the photo closely, focusing on Anna’s hand. The image was too blurry to be sure. He set the paper down with a disappointed expression.
“Well, even if it looks real, I can’t be certain.”
Who could know if it truly was Lady Raiden’s mother’s ring? Perhaps one person: Raiden Marcus, the one who had given it.
“The ring…?”
At Marcus Castle in the West, Raiden’s expression changed subtly as he examined the newspaper delivered from the capital. Though the print was poor and blurry, it was unmistakably the ring he had once given Anna.
He set the paper down and fell into thought.
“That ring should have been gone by now.”
At the Everklein mansion, which he had struggled to reach in his weakened state, the head maid Lisa—who had considered Anna like family—had personally told him.
“Was that all? I even saw her throw it away with my own eyes.”
He had been too distracted by Anna’s engagement to Prince Haimel to retrieve it, only trying to turn and leave that terrible place.
The memory made him clench his fists. He muttered, taking a deep breath:
“It is my mother’s heirloom.”
Ironically, the person who had helped cause his mother’s death now possessed her only heirloom. Raiden closed his eyes, swept away by memories of his mother. They had been lonely, poor, cold, and struggling—but also moments of warmth and happiness.
Tracing those memories, Raiden’s expression stiffened. Memories inevitably conjured pain as well.
The corpse of his mother, still marked with deep wounds, and the murder scene, consumed by fire—buried in the earth, their only sanctuary reduced to ashes.
Raiden muttered to himself:
“There was a will.”
His fingers tapped the table out of habit.
His mother had been close to a monk at the church where Raiden had registered as a trainee paladin. The monk, older than a grandfather figure, had remained a humble cleric to serve the faithful despite being eligible to rise to bishop.
“After my mother passed, the old monk came to help me…”
Normally, monks do not visit the homes of the deceased. Yet he had made exceptions for those who could not reach the church, offering prayers at home. He had been ill at the time, but upon hearing of her death, he struggled to come and pray. Though Raiden had been unconscious, he knew the monk had promised to deliver the will once Raiden recovered.
“But by chance, I rushed to Anna as soon as I regained consciousness, and left for the West.”
After settling in the West, when he contacted the neighboring elderly man, the monk had already died, and all his belongings had been burned along with the body. Recovering his mother’s will was now impossible.
The tapping of his fingers ceased.
“I don’t know how she got that ring back…”
Raiden muttered:
“Now, I must retrieve it.”
His mother would not have wanted the ring in the hands of her killer. Deep in thought, Raiden was interrupted by the acting steward at the estate, tapping the wall.
“Were you speaking to me?”
“…Jackson.”
Raiden frowned. Jackson grinned. A playful man, but Raiden knew how much he loved his home territory.
“You’ve worked hard.”
Raiden’s straightforward praise wiped the smile from Jackson’s face. He muttered begrudgingly:
“It’s not finished yet.”
“I know.”
Raiden frowned. The workers for the accident site had been secured, the mine’s restoration was proceeding smoothly, aid and compensation had been delivered with the help of the protectorate and the desert tribe state, yet one critical thing remained blocked.
“Finding the culprit.”
The mine explosion that killed over fifty people was not an accident—it was terrorism. And they all knew the perpetrator.
“The cadet branch of the Marcus Marquess family, the Wydecker brothers.”
