Chapter 33
This was something from my past life.
If I ever became Empress, I wanted to be a good helper to the Emperor.
So I studied everything—economics, politics, administration—by hiring private tutors.
And Leonie was never the type to just sit back and watch me get ahead. Whenever I started learning a new subject, within a week at most she would catch up on her own and join the lessons.
Our rivalry grew so intense that our lessons expanded beyond imperial studies, diplomacy, and military science—eventually even into the study of kingship itself.
Eloise, watching us from the side, once laughed:
“Even the Crown Prince doesn’t study as much as you two sisters!”
Anyone who saw us would have thought we were the ones trying to become Emperor.
The point is, back then I had no free time to read novels.
So why am I bringing this up now?
Because despite that, there was one novel I had actually read—or rather, had read to me. Passing by the novel section of Kennith Bookstore reminded me.
“Ah, there’s a book I want to find.”
At my words, both Owen and Arne stopped walking. At some point, Arne had rejoined us.
“What book?”
Owen signaled to a clerk nearby to help.
“The problem is, I don’t know the title. It had a thick cover, decorated smoothly with gold-like designs…”
It was when I had been poisoned by Leonie in my past life and lost my sight.
Someone had read that book to me—calling it an old bestseller.
I still remembered faint impressions: the man’s low, steady voice, the rocking chair I sat in, the cushion’s softness, the scent of milk tea filling the room. The feeling of safety still lingered faintly even now.
Both Owen and Arne were watching me curiously. The clerk asked:
“Could you tell me what you remember about the story?”
I thought carefully. It was definitely a romance novel. And it had a happy ending.
The heroine was a noblewoman. She had an arranged fiancé, forced on her because of her family’s situation.
She had a younger sister too. Their relationship wasn’t good, but in the end it turned out to be a misunderstanding, and the two reconciled.
“And then… there was a man who truly loved the heroine. In the end, she ended up with him.”
When I finished explaining, the clerk looked doubtful.
After thinking for a while, he asked again:
“Do you remember any of the characters’ names?”
“…Lena. I think there was a Lena.”
He tilted his head even more.
“Do you recall any specific lines from the novel?”
Yes. Of course I did.
When sight is taken away, hearing becomes sharper.
I remembered sitting with a blanket on my lap, swaying in that rocking chair. Despite being with a stranger, I had felt strangely at peace.
The man who read aloud to me had a low, resonant voice.
“I hope you never know I exist. That way, I can love you all my life in peace.”
And another line:
“If not for you, I would have died long ago. But if not for you, I wouldn’t have even wanted to die.”
I hesitated to say those lines aloud. They sounded far too sentimental on my lips.
Still, I recalled one more:
“Don’t try to understand them. Just try being them.”
And another:
“Don’t worry anymore. I’m here now.”
“Ah! I think I know which one it is!”
The clerk clapped happily. He climbed a ladder and brought down a book with a dark brown cover and silver trim.
“This must be it.”
The book was thick. I accepted it with trembling hands.
The only novel I remembered from my past life. Finally, I was seeing it with clear eyes.
What was the title?
I slowly turned it over.
[The Fiancé Murder Case]
“…?”
I stared in shock, then asked the clerk:
“Are you sure this is the one I meant?”
The clerk beamed.
“Yes, milady. It’s actually a detective novel—the Detective Lena series, very popular among enthusiasts these days. From what you said, it matched closely, though not exactly.”
“How is it different?”
“Well, yes, the heroine does have a younger sister and a fiancé. But in the story, she loves her fiancé—and the novel begins with his death.”
“…Oh?”
“Then the heroine, Detective Lena, works to uncover the killer.”
Ah. That explained why I remembered the name Lena—it was the heroine’s name.
“You said the sisters reconciled, but in truth, they stayed estranged to the end. And the twist was—the younger sister was the one who killed the fiancé.”
The clerk gasped, covering his mouth.
“Oh no! I just spoiled the ending! I’m so sorry!”
Arne frowned seriously and nodded.
“That’s unforgivable.”
Owen added, even more sternly:
“I think spoiling endings should be considered a crime.”
“Don’t worry. Ignore them,” I told the poor clerk.
For me, the exact ending didn’t matter. The important thing was that the story I remembered had been different.
The clerk reassured me again and again that this must be the right book. Even the lines I quoted were indeed from Detective Lena.
So I bought it. The clerk, still apologizing, gave me extra gifts from Kennith Bookstore as compensation.
On the way to the counter, I kept thinking.
Owen noticed.
“It’s bothering you.”
I sighed.
“…Yes, actually.”
“Understandable. It is strange. How did you know the story, Sophia?”
I froze. I should have prepared for this question.
Quickly, I lied.
“A… friend told me.”
Owen hesitated, then asked carefully:
“That friend—were they blind?”
“!”
How did he know?!
My heart pounded. Cold sweat trickled down.
To cover, I snapped, voice trembling:
“Are you insulting my friend, saying they lacked taste?”
“Not at all, Sophia!”
For the first time, Owen looked flustered, waving his hand.
“I only meant—your friend might truly have been unable to see. You described the cover’s texture, the embossed design, but didn’t know the title. That suggests someone else read it aloud. The silver decoration mistaken for gold fits too.”
He spoke in one breath.
He was right. He could have been the star of a Detective Owen series himself.
“Most likely, someone read it out loud, but altered the story.”
“…Seems so.”
My mind reeled.
First—so the warm, safe memory of that unknown reader… had been built on a lie.
Second—Owen had realized I must once have been blind. (Though he didn’t know the “friend” was actually me.)
“Why would someone change the story?” I asked faintly.
“My guess? For your sake. Detective novels can be cruel, even triggering. Perhaps they softened it so you wouldn’t be hurt.”
“…Maybe.”
In the real novel, the younger sister killed the fiancé. But in the version I was read, the sister wasn’t guilty—and even reconciled with the heroine.
Did that man know about my bad relationship with Leonie? Was that why he changed it?
“Of course, that’s only my theory. Still, changing the genre entirely—that’s unacceptable.”
I gaped.
Unacceptable?!
Owen’s face didn’t even twitch as he added calmly:
“But sometimes, what shouldn’t be done must be done. Whoever read to your friend probably cared about them very much.”
I quieted.
…Maybe.
But now, I wasn’t even sure if my memories were real anymore.
I’d have to reread this novel later to confirm.
Owen’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
“My youngest sister also loves detective novels. We might even have a copy at home.”
