Episode 2. A Perfect and Overwhelming Man
It was when Michelle and I were fourteen, and Clifford was fifteen.
Around that time, Clifford was completely obsessed with the arena.
“I want to go to the arena too!”
“I said no.”
“Is it because I’m not royalty? Because I’m just a nanny’s daughter? Because I’m the youngest daughter of a poor rural baron family?”
Michelle would often prod at Clifford’s conscience like that.
She did it even more often after she wasn’t invited to our wedding.
“It’s not a place for a girl.”
“You would’ve allowed it if Stella asked! Stella! You want to go to the arena too, right?”
Michelle’s eyes welled up with tears, so I had no choice but to nod.
To be honest, I also wanted to spend more time with Clifford.
“I want to go too.”
“See! Stella wants to go too!”
Beaming triumphantly, Michelle looped her arm through mine and stuck her tongue out playfully.
Of course, the nanny and maids never saw us like that. When we were out of adults’ sight, we acted like children who knew nothing of royal etiquette or status.
Just having a friend to share small secrets with made life in the imperial palace feel breathable.
Back then, I had no idea—why Clifford could play freely and attend lessons only when he felt like it,
and why I had to constantly study politics, diplomacy, economics, theology, five foreign languages, and ancient scripts without rest.
Would it have been different if I had known? No. As a girl, I was bound to Clifford—my husband and my first love.
“Shel, don’t cry. Ever.”
“Don’t treat me like a coward, Cliff!”
“You cry even when there’s thunder.”
“I said I won’t cry!”
Despite her words, Michelle burst into loud sobs the moment the gladiator slaves entered.
Irritated, Clifford tugged at my long braided platinum hair.
“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t insisted on coming.”
“But I…!”
“Be quiet. Shel isn’t strong like you. She’s delicate at heart.”
The way Clifford gently patted Michelle was so tender it made me envious. Michelle whimpered like a rain-soaked puppy and buried herself in his arms.
The maids said Clifford was at a sensitive age.
They said I, as his wife, should understand him.
“Then who understands me?”
The maids awkwardly looked away. I felt deeply wronged, but if I voiced it, I would surely be scolded to maintain dignity as the future empress.
Rumors spread that Clifford would inherit the throne as soon as he came of age.
He gained more and more freedom—and openly favoring Michelle was one of those freedoms.
The maids worried that the crown prince’s love, meant for me, would be stolen by a low-born beauty.
“That won’t happen. Shel is just a childhood friend.”
Back then, I truly didn’t know—
that this “childhood friend” had been coveting my husband for a very long time.
—
It had been ten years since I last saw a gladiator match.
A man receiving thunderous cheers caught my eye.
“A ‘black bug’? That name doesn’t suit him.”
He was no insect—he was a beast.
He stood a head taller than most men. His black hair covered half his face. His muscular body, gleaming bronze under the late afternoon sun, shone with vitality.
I had seen many elite knights in the imperial palace, but none with a physique as superior as his.
Was he perfect? Or overwhelming?
Frowning slightly, I watched the man called the “Black Bug.”
I couldn’t claim to know the male body well, but I was certain—there was something uniquely beautiful about the way his muscles and bones formed together.
Just one flaw: he was covered in scars.
It felt as if someone had damaged a priceless work of art.
Though he wasn’t mine, it irritated me as if something of mine had been ruined.
“Why isn’t that gladiator slave fighting?”
The man kept running away, repeatedly getting cut and bleeding.
His only defense was pressing his hands against his wounds to stop the blood.
As if he had never learned swordsmanship—
or like a young boy afraid of fighting.
“That is the charm of the Black Bug.”
“He’ll die soon. He’s taken multiple fatal wounds.”
“He won’t die unless his head is cut off. I’ve seen many gladiator slaves, but none as tenacious as him!”
As if proving the manager’s words, the man dodged attacks with beast-like agility.
The opposing gladiator, who had been relentlessly attacking, collapsed first.
“Wooooah!”
The crowd roared in celebration of his victory.
A gladiator who didn’t fight, yet won by not dying—it was a bizarre sight.
But my interest ended there.
Just as I was about to turn my wheelchair, I happened to glance back.
The man lazily wiped blood from his face.
Through his disheveled black hair, golden eyes—shimmering like honey—were revealed.
“Dewey…!”
Dewey was dead.
How could I forget the day I lost my only friend and my only younger brother?
The day everything precious in my life vanished.
The loneliness of the one left behind—
and the miserable continuation of life that followed.
I didn’t know why a gladiator slave had the same eyes as Dewey.
Golden eyes were so rare that it was hard to find even one person in a nation with them.
Those who possessed such rarity were destined for short lives.
Like Dewey. Like me.
“Is there a healer in the arena?”
The manager looked at me in confusion.
“That one doesn’t need treatment. He’s a truly remarkable—”
“Answer the question. Is there a healer?”
“I’ll summon one immediately!”
Sensing the cold shift in my tone, the manager straightened.
“No need. I’ll buy that slave.”
“My apologies, but he is not for sale!”
“How much?”
“He is the treasure of our arena, Your Majesty!”
“I’ll pay three times the original price.”
“How could I dare bargain with Your Majesty?”
“Then ten times.”
“I beg you! I’ll give you anything you want, just not the Black Bug!”
Ignoring his near wailing, I stated the final price.
“I’ll pay 500,000 gold.”
The finest slaves sold for about 5,000 gold—this was one hundred times the market price.
It was enough to buy a luxurious castle, but to me, it was pocket change.
Even if the empire went bankrupt, the empress’s private funds remained untouched.
Money meant little to someone who would soon die—
unless something caught their impulsive desire.
“Will you sell the slave? Or face a month-long special investigation under anti-slavery and anti-human trafficking laws?”
—
We returned to the palace.
I had bought an unusual slave—that was all.
Joan asked, “What shall we do after his treatment?”
“Handle it yourself.”
I was satisfied enough that a man with golden eyes wouldn’t become a spectacle.
I hadn’t intended to buy a plaything, but at least I didn’t return empty-handed.
That’s why I was surprised when I overheard the maids gossiping.
“They say Her Majesty bought an incredibly expensive male concubine!”
A concubine? What nonsense was this?
“They say she hides him in a secret place and calls him every night!”
“They say he’s as handsome as a fairytale prince! Some even say he’s a foreign royal!”
“They say he’s a barbarian who can’t even speak! Maybe Her Majesty is building a harem? Hohoho!”
It had only been a week since I visited the slave market. They worked fast.
Joan flushed in embarrassment.
“I’ll have them all punished.”
“No need. They’ll get bored soon.”
“I fear it may tarnish Your Majesty’s reputation.”
“When has my name ever truly been honorable?”
“Your Majesty is the Star of Anghel.”
Yes, a star.
One that neither sparkled nor shone.
The Star of Anghel must not cry, must not hurt, must not waver.
She must not neglect her duties or grow jealous of her husband’s mistresses.
Clifford and the ministers drained me dry, yet always demanded more.
The Empress of Anghel was no different from a slave—used until death.
A headache surged.
From my tightly styled blonde hair, and the heavy crown placed upon it.
“Your Majesty, would you like to see the slave?”
“No.”
“He has already healed. At least physically.”
So his mind was not intact?
I recalled his strangely familiar gaze.
Melancholic—or perhaps weary.
Eyes that hid loneliness beneath indifference, much like mine in the mirror.
I sighed, thinking of the maids’ chatter and Clifford’s collection of pretty things.
I should assign him some task, shouldn’t I?
I couldn’t let him idle like the women in the harem.
That meant I had to go see that strange man.
“Joan. Where is he?”
Before Joan could answer, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the eastern corridor.
—
“Stella!”
Michelle waved her slender arms with a bright smile.
Her soft pink hair fluttered like waves. Even her simple dress, out of place in the palace, and the crooked ribbon at her waist only highlighted her beauty.
“What brings you to the Empress’s palace?”
“I came because I missed you!”
She smiled innocently.
A maid speaking casually to the Empress without honorifics—
the former consort Michelle at least used to imitate etiquette.
Before my regression, Michelle had been a simple, transparent woman.
But now, I couldn’t read her gleaming green eyes.
“Lady Michelle, please mind your words.”
Joan spoke sternly.
“Oh, sorry! I said I’d be careful…”
Michelle clasped her hands in apology. It seemed sincere—for now.
“Your Majesty, are you busy? Too busy to have tea with me?”
“I am. The delegation from Autonia will arrive soon.”
“You shouldn’t overwork yourself.”
“I wish His Majesty thought the same.”
“I’ll tell Cliff! To give Your Majesty some rest!”
As if I couldn’t rest without his permission.
I suppressed a laugh, while Joan didn’t hide her disdain.
“Lady Michelle, please refrain from using His Majesty’s nickname before the Empress.”
“Why?”
“It is improper. And this is the Empress’s palace.”
“Cliff said it was fine…”
Michelle pouted.
“I guess Joan thinks the Empress ranks above Cliff.”
“What?”
“Comments like that make Cliff upset. No matter how great the Empress is, the ruler of the nation is the Emperor.”
“Lady Michelle, you seem to be misunderstanding something…”
“Whether it’s here or not, if Cliff allows it, it’s fine, right?”
Though she acted timid, her meaning was clear:
*Who are you, just a secretary, to question what even the Emperor allows?*
Michelle had a peculiar talent—she always became the victim.
The other person inevitably became the oppressor of the “fragile” Michelle.
I couldn’t let Joan become her prey.
“Michelle. Call him whatever you like. Just tell me why you’re here.”
The moment I allowed it, Michelle brightened.
“That slave you hid in the basement— is he really handsome?”
“…What?”
“So is that why you call him to your bedroom every night?”
