Chapter 13
“If I stay, it’ll just be awkward for you two to talk. I’ll take my leave first.”
Eve was staring intently at Charles, seemingly more shocked than she had expected—she didn’t even offer the usual polite question of whether he’d really be okay.
‘Does she still see me as her husband?’
Charles simply responded with a bright smile and turned around.
“Well then, have a good time.”
Once Charles was gone, Eve smiled awkwardly.
“See? He treats me well now. We even went to the tea party together.”
“…”
“Noah.”
Suddenly, Noah’s expression grew darker and darker until he let out a long sigh.
“Sister.”
“Yes?”
“I just want you to be happy. If you’re truly happy, I don’t care what kind of scoundrel you marry.”
“…”
“But please don’t pretend to be happy. Neither I, nor Aunt and Uncle, want that.”
Eve was momentarily speechless.
Happiness. That word… she thought she’d forgotten it long ago.
“Noah, I…”
She had sworn revenge. To inflict the same pain—no, even greater pain—than what she had endured.
How could she possibly forget the resentment that had pierced her chest, even as she coughed up blood and lay dying?
But… she couldn’t ignore the sincere eyes of her younger brother, who only wished for her happiness. More than anything, that man wasn’t Arsen.
—
‘Eve, I’m back.’
—
The man who smiled like that at the tea party, and the one who had just stepped aside for their sake—neither of them were the object of her vengeance. There was no need to make him suffer.
‘Then what am I doing this for?’
What should she do now? She had been so focused on exposing the imposter Arsen that she hadn’t thought beyond that. But now, thanks to Noah’s words, Eve found herself lost in thought.
‘Should I now focus on finding the real Arsen? And once I find him? He’s not even my husband anymore—do I really need to go out of my way to make him miserable? Should I waste my energy and time just for that?’
At this rate, Arsen and Cecilia wouldn’t be able to reunite anyway. He was trapped in a body that wasn’t his, without his appearance or the power of House Fontaine. There was no way he could roam around freely as before.
Then another voice whispered inside Eve.
‘Isn’t that enough? Maybe me being happy in my own way is the real revenge. Spending the rest of my life with Mother, Father, and Noah… living as the lively daughter of House Laurent…’
Eve’s expression softened with longing as she recalled those happier days.
If she could return to that time, she wouldn’t hesitate to give up anything. Maybe the best revenge on Arsen and Cecilia—who would be miserable anyway—was to simply not care about them at all.
But how?
She was still the Duchess of Fontaine. How could she return to being Eve of House Laurent?
‘Even if I’ve returned to the past… is there even a way…?’
At that moment, a word she had once considered even in the past flashed through her mind.
“Divorce.”
What if she got a divorce? What if she escaped from House Fontaine and regained her freedom?
If she could cast off that wretched shackle and burden and return to her warm, familiar home…
Ah, yes.
“Noah, I…”
A tear slipped down Eve’s cheek at that moment.
“I’m going to divorce him.”
✦✦✦
The Emperor—or rather, Arsen—felt as though he were trapped in an invisible prison. Even after finally entering the Emperor’s body, there was nothing he could do as he pleased.
“Damn it, I have to live like a monk with this face?”
He sighed, staring into the mirror at the unbelievably beautiful face.
His long blond hair was so radiant that even gold paled in comparison. The translucent lashes and the sparkling eyes beneath them looked like they had sunstones embedded in them.
His marble-white skin, well-defined nose, and sharp jawline made one question if he wasn’t some sculpture crafted by a divine artist.
Arsen had always considered himself handsome—but even after a month of seeing the Emperor’s face daily, he still found himself in awe. It was the very embodiment of beauty.
And when that face frowned, it was as if the entire world turned gloomy.
—
‘You are not permitted to speak during meetings. I will relay your thoughts on your behalf.’
‘Issue commands only through your attendants—all of which will be reported to me.’
‘Please refrain from leaving your chambers.’
—
Arsen hadn’t forgotten the cold parting words of the Duke of Bonaparte. It was only now that he realized the Emperor had essentially been a puppet of the Chancellor all along.
All those achievements attributed to the Emperor were undoubtedly the Duke’s doing. Even in council meetings, the nobles would growl at the mere hint of his voice—there was no way the Emperor had actually governed.
Of course, Arsen had once wondered why Bonaparte insisted on crediting the Emperor for his own accomplishments, but Arsen was never one to dwell on matters that didn’t interest him.
The important thing now was that he was being toyed with in the Chancellor’s hands—and if he wanted to use this magnificent body for something worthwhile, he had to escape that control.
So, for the past several days, Arsen had been pestering the Chancellor every time he came to visit.
“Duke, couldn’t you at least let me step outside?”
Bonaparte, sitting on the sofa in the Emperor’s study as he handled imperial affairs, glanced briefly at Arsen, who was sprawled on the couch.
“The palace is quite spacious. The gardens are beautiful too.”
“I’m tired of garden strolls! I don’t mind if you accompany me—just let me go beyond the palace!”
“I have to finish work and return home to see my wife.”
“…”
He was still the Emperor, and yet he was being treated like a nuisance. Arsen felt a sudden surge of indignation.
“Then can I at least go outside alone?”
“…No, Your Majesty.”
“Am I the Emperor, or your puppet?”
Bonaparte stifled a yawn as he thought:
How can the same face feel so powerless? The real Emperor had that terrifying charisma, even in a different body.
“Fine. Then I’ll allow you exactly thirty minutes to tour the imperial capital by carriage.”
“Thank you!”
As Arsen gleefully called for his attendants and began preparing to leave, Bonaparte sighed.
About a month ago, he had gone to the imperial palace as usual, only to notice something strange about the Emperor.
—
“I… I’m the Emperor?”
—
That arrogant man had mumbled such foolish words in a daze.
Charles Louis de Frisé. Bonaparte could claim partial credit for placing him on the throne—he knew everything there was to know about him. But the man before him now… didn’t feel like the Emperor.
That very afternoon, a letter arrived in familiar handwriting:
—
“I think I’ve switched bodies with the Duke of Fontaine.”
—
Just one sentence—but Bonaparte knew instantly that it was from his true liege.
Since then, Bonaparte had assigned Thiago to watch over Charles and searched the empire for a way to reverse the body switch. But even after a month, there was no clue—let alone a solution.
He had already reviewed all records from the past hundred years. Anything older than that was nearly impossible to track down.
As if I didn’t have enough headaches…
And yet the current “Emperor”—who had zero sense of responsibility—was behaving like this.
If things got out of hand—
—
If it comes to it, I may have to cut off his head.
—
It might be necessary.
He was the one who put the Emperor on the throne. For the sake of the empire and its people, he had sacrificed, bloodied his hands, and forged the ideal monarch. He couldn’t let all that go to waste over something so absurd.
But just as it was difficult to seize the throne, it was equally difficult to take it away. This Emperor had ascended by beheading the last one—how could they repeat such a thing?
To do that, I’ll need the support of the old noble houses.
At the very least, he needed the backing of the Three Founding Dukes—the houses that had helped establish the empire alongside the first Emperor. House Fontaine, though a duke family, was not one of them.
One was Bonaparte’s own house. Another was House Chescon—which he might be able to influence. But the problem was…
Laurent.
The house that neither helped nor hindered Charles when he ascended—but still held overwhelming influence. A noble house of the Empire, one of its oldest and most respected.
If he could secure their powerful support, House Chescon’s influence wouldn’t even be necessary.
The Duchess of Fontaine is their only daughter.
Charles must have realized this already. That if he wanted to overturn the political landscape, he needed Laurent’s support. In fact, he might have been several steps ahead all along.
It’s a waste to behead such a handsome face…
Maybe exile would be enough.
With that trivial thought, Bonaparte stood up to accompany the imposter Emperor—who acted more like a tantrum-prone four-year-old than a ruler—on his outing.
✦✦✦
“Shouldn’t the Emperor at least leave like a thief sneaking away?”
At Arsen’s whining, Bonaparte reminded himself to stay patient.
“When His Majesty goes out, the entire imperial capital must prepare. Do you have any idea how much labor and financial cost that entails?”
“I used to be a D—no, never mind.”
Arsen had nearly slipped and said “Duke.” He hurriedly changed the subject, unaware that Bonaparte had already caught on that he wasn’t the real Emperor.
“Well then, can we visit the western district? I heard it has some rare attractions.”
Rare attractions, huh? More like trying to sneak into the pleasure district.
In Bonaparte’s mind, the real rare attraction would be seeing Charles frolicking in a red-light district. Not that he’d ever allow such a thing.
Still, if he refused outright, this man would just throw another tantrum all day. Bonaparte gave it some thought and then replied…
(To be continued.)
