Chapter 113: Conflicting Claims
The physician’s examination confirmed that Claire was two months pregnant.
“Look, I really am pregnant!” Claire exclaimed.
“Yes, I see,” Aracila replied calmly.
“I don’t ask for much,” Claire continued, her voice trembling. “I just want my child to be acknowledged as Sir Vandemir’s and to grow up with the rights they deserve.”
She slid off the sofa and dropped to her knees, her simple attire betraying her modest circumstances. Explaining that she lacked the means or confidence to raise a child alone, Claire clasped her hands together and pleaded with Aracila.
“Please, my lady, I beg you. Don’t reject or hate my child. They’ve done nothing wrong…”
Watching this, Damian felt a volatile mix of frustration and rage threatening to erupt. But, mindful of her condition, he clenched his fists, about to retort, when Aracila spoke with a serious expression.
“Claire, don’t get ahead of yourself. I haven’t said I believe you yet.”
Her gentle but icy tone made Claire flinch. She returned to the sofa, eyes darting nervously. In the stifling silence, Aracila spoke slowly.
“When did you first meet Damian?”
“About two and a half months ago,” Claire answered. “I met him at my usual tavern, his face hidden under a hooded robe.”
According to her, Damian had been drinking alone, his expression dark with some unspoken trouble. Intrigued, Claire had approached him first, and they spent the night together. They met a few more times after that, though he always left quickly after their encounters, never lingering long.
When he ended things, she hadn’t seen him again until she noticed something was off with her body. A visit to a doctor revealed her pregnancy, leaving her stunned.
“I can tell you exactly when we met,” Claire added. “I marked the dates on my calendar, hoping we might become something more and I could celebrate anniversaries. Later, I realized it was a foolish dream, but I kept the record.”
She pulled a small desk calendar from her pocket and handed it to Aracila, who carefully examined the heart-marked dates.
Hmm, this was around the time before the duchess’s birthday, Aracila thought.
Back then, both she and Damian had been swamped with work, preparing for a trip to the duchy. They often worked late, barely seeing each other except in the mornings. If Damian had done something behind her back, she wouldn’t have noticed.
The brief affair, lasting less than ten days, conveniently ended just before they left for the duchy—an almost too-perfect timeline. It could easily seem like Damian, stressed and seeking a distraction, had tidied up loose ends before their departure.
Setting the calendar on the table, Aracila asked calmly, “I’m sorry to ask, Claire, but is there any proof this child is Damian’s?”
Claire hesitated, startled by the straightforward question, but slowly nodded.
“Of course. Here, I have the handkerchief he gave me.”
She carefully produced a handkerchief embroidered with the Vandemir Duchy’s crest, made of expensive, high-quality fabric not easily obtained by a commoner, making it hard to dismiss as a fake.
“Damian, is this yours?” Aracila asked.
“…It’s the same as mine,” he admitted, his face grim as he pulled an identical handkerchief, also bearing the Vandemir crest, from his pocket.
He carried such handkerchiefs to remind himself of his ties to the Vandemir Duchy, despite his strained family relations. With several spares kept for loss or damage, it would be difficult to notice one missing.
“My lady!” Claire cried, her voice thick with emotion. “I know it was wrong to meet Sir Vandemir in secret, but I didn’t know he was married!”
Her trembling lips and pale eyes evoked sympathy, as if she were the wronged party.
“It’s my fault, but please believe me—this child is Sir Vandemir’s!”
“I don’t know how she got that handkerchief, but I swear I’ve never strayed!” Damian countered, his tone urgent as he looked to Aracila, desperation in his eyes.
With both their gazes fixed on her, Aracila broke the long silence.
“I’m not going to jump to conclusions. I’ll look into this carefully to ensure no one is wronged.”
She stared at each of them in turn before adding, “And to find out who’s lying.”
After sending Claire home for the time being, Damian hurried after Aracila as she headed to their room.
His heart was heavy—not just with frustration, but with a deeper fear. He dreaded the thought of hurting Aracila the way his father had hurt his mother.
More than anything, he feared she might truly believe he was capable of such betrayal. The judgment of others meant little to him, but the idea of Aracila seeing him that way cut deeply.
He couldn’t bear the thought of her despising him, and that urgency drove him forward.
“My lady!”
With quick, wide strides, Damian stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
Aracila looked up, startled by his towering presence filling her view. Their eyes met, and he pleaded with a fervent expression.
“I swear, my lady, I’ve never done anything to shame you.”
His entire being seemed to beg for her trust as he continued.
“This child isn’t mine. I didn’t do this. I’m truly innocent.”
“I know,” Aracila replied, her face calm.
Her blue eyes, steady as a tranquil summer sea, met his with unwavering honesty.
Damian, caught in her gaze like a man submerged in gentle waves, forgot to breathe for a moment.
“I believe you, Damian,” she said.
Chapter 114: Unwavering Trust
“Very much so.”
Aracila reached out, gently patting Damian’s chest, where his breaths rose and fell unevenly.
From the start, she hadn’t believed a word Claire said. Throughout their conversation, her mind had been focused on deciphering the woman’s motives and whether someone else was pulling the strings.
She wasn’t ignorant of Damian’s family history or the anger he harbored toward his father. Besides, their marriage was a contract—if either of them had fallen for someone else, they could have been honest about it.
Given Damian’s character, he would have sought her understanding beforehand, not snuck around behind her back only to be caught like this.
And above all—
“You’re not the kind of person who would easily betray someone’s trust,” Aracila said, her voice steady, as if reciting an indisputable truth.
“I believe in the Damian I know. I will believe in you. I do believe in you.”
Damian’s throat tightened, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.
She… really trusts me.
The realization hit him like a wave, sinking into his skin. It was as if gills had sprouted underwater, allowing him to breathe again, and he let out a trembling exhale.
His racing heart gradually calmed, the tension in his furrowed brow eased, and his tightly clenched fists relaxed.
Seeing him regain his composure, Aracila continued.
“But the calendar and the handkerchief—those make it seem like Claire isn’t entirely making things up.”
Her evidence was compelling enough that, had Aracila known Damian less or trusted him even slightly less, she might have been swayed.
“So, starting now, we’ll investigate to prove it’s not you. Is that okay?”
“…Yes, that’s fine,” Damian replied, nodding slowly but firmly.
Confirming the trust she held for him made him feel, astonishingly, fearless. He had nothing to be ashamed of, so whatever she did was fine by him.
Seeing Damian’s expression soften, Aracila resolved to herself: she would uncover the liar, no matter what.
Aracila began by investigating Damian’s whereabouts on the days marked in Claire’s calendar.
During that time, he had often returned home past midnight due to late-night work. The estate’s staff could confirm his arrival times, but his departures from the knights’ headquarters were another matter.
He always stayed late in the near-empty building, meaning no one had witnessed his movements.
There’s the coachman, but he only came when Damian called for him…
If Damian had secretly indulged and then summoned the coachman afterward, the man wouldn’t know any specifics.
Of course, Aracila believed Damian hadn’t done anything, but if someone challenged her on this, she’d have little to counter with.
Ultimately, she set aside Damian’s porous alibi due to his late hours and turned her focus to Claire.
To that end, she visited a small theater called Flare on the outskirts of the bustling district.
Claire was a former employee there, occasionally taking on minor roles as an aspiring actress. Though she had recently quit, there were surely people at the theater who knew her well.
To avoid drawing attention, Aracila concealed her identity, wearing a wide-brimmed hat to hide her face and lavender hair, and draping herself in a thick robe. Gathering information discreetly was best without revealing her status.
To smoothly approach the theater’s staff, she brought along Roberto, the owner of the Parksian Theater Company.
“My lady, you said to ask about a woman named Claire, right?”
“Yes, get as many details as you can.”
“Leave it to me,” Roberto replied with a confident grin.
Thanks to Aracila’s investment, his theater company was thriving, surpassing even the Stella Theater Company. Roberto’s name was now well-known in the performance world, and he was regarded as a successful theater owner.
As expected, when he introduced himself at Flare , the theater’s owner came rushing out.
“Goodness, Mr. Roberto! What brings you here? Are you interested in our little theater?”
The owner, perhaps thinking this was a chance to sell his modest venue to a major theater company, rubbed his hands eagerly, eyes gleaming.
“Well, I won’t say I’m not,” Roberto replied, letting out a calculated cough to keep the man hopeful. He knew this would make the owner more cooperative.
Aracila shot him an approving glance from under her hat. Roberto subtly flashed a thumbs-up before lowering his hand.
As anticipated, the theater owner ushered them into the drawing room with utmost courtesy, serving tea.
“Our theater may be small, but it has a rich history. Joining forces with the Parksian Theater Company would surely be a fruitful partnership.”
“Is that so? Then can you answer a few questions honestly?” Roberto asked.
“Of course! Ask away!”
“There was a woman named Claire who worked here, correct?”
The owner’s earlier enthusiasm faltered at the mention of Claire’s name. He glanced nervously before responding cautiously.
“C-Claire? Why do you ask…?”
“I’m just curious,” Roberto said. “But if it’s difficult to answer, we can leave.”
He half-rose from his seat, as if ready to walk out, prompting the owner—who couldn’t afford to lose a potential sale—to raise his hands in a panic.
“Yes, Claire worked here! But she quit last week!”
“Why did she quit?”
“She got pregnant,” the owner said, clicking his tongue with a hint of pity. “She dreamed of being an actress, but with a baby on the way, she couldn’t keep working here.”
He added that Claire, with her middling talent and looks, had struggled to achieve her dreams and now faced a pitiful end leaving the theater this way.
As Aracila listened, she whispered something to Roberto. He gave her a slightly puzzled look before turning back to the owner.
“Do you know who the father is?”
“Well… I might…”
“Who is it?”
The owner licked his lips nervously, his tone uneasy. “Why do you want to know?”
He seemed to worry that Roberto, despite his interest in Flare , might back off if a former employee’s scandal tainted the theater’s reputation. Hesitant to speak freely, he feared jeopardizing the potential deal.
Aracila, sensing his concern, spoke up.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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