Chapter 116: The Truth About the Father
While Aracila and Damian were away in the west, Oscar had come to the capital. And not just for a brief visit—he’d purchased a mansion and settled in.
The recent surge in women claiming to have met Damian in the Fourth District coincided precisely with Oscar’s arrival.
Neither Aracila nor Damian, preoccupied with the assassination attempt and out of touch with the Vandermir ducal family, had any idea Oscar was in the city.
Well, that’s a proper blind spot I’ve been hit in, Aracila thought, chagrined.
Even when investigating the Ken incident, her focus had been on the Duke and Duchess, not Oscar.
The unexpected blow from someone she’d underestimated made her briefly reflect on her own complacency.
Still, she could guess why Oscar had been impersonating Damian. It was almost painfully obvious. He didn’t want his parents to hear about his debauchery in the capital, so he used Damian’s name as a shield.
He’d been clever enough to target only commoner women, knowing they wouldn’t easily see through his ruse. A noblewoman would have recognized Oscar immediately. Claire’s pregnancy was likely an accident, not intentional.
The scheme lacked the precision of a deliberate attempt to smear Damian. A little digging had already turned up enough clues to point to Oscar as the culprit—hardly the work of someone orchestrating a calculated scandal. Besides, an illegitimate child tied to Damian wouldn’t exactly be welcomed by the Vandermir family either. It made more sense that Oscar had accidentally gotten Claire pregnant and impulsively pinned it on Damian.
But this alone isn’t enough to prove Oscar Vandermir is the father. If he denies it outright, I’m stuck.
The best approach would be to get a confession from Oscar himself or to convince Claire to set the record straight.
Given that Claire had told Mia she suspected the man she’d been with wasn’t Damian, it was likely she had at least some inkling of Oscar’s true identity.
Even if she didn’t know it was Oscar, she almost certainly knew it wasn’t Damian.
So, persuading or coaxing Claire to tell the truth might be the way to go.
After mulling it over for a long while, Aracila made up her mind. For Damian’s sake, she’d have to get a little—no, quite a bit—underhanded.
Since the scandal broke, Damian had been working from home. Reporters hounded him relentlessly, making it impossible to step outside. The judgmental stares from passersby didn’t help either. Half-confined to the house, he exuded a heavy, brooding aura, as if he were a prisoner under house arrest.
Unable to stand watching him wilt like a flower deprived of sunlight, Aracila insisted he take walks in the garden every morning, noon, and evening. He complied without protest, eating his meals on schedule and strolling through the garden as instructed.
That morning, after finishing breakfast and a short walk, he returned to find Aracila at the front door. Noticing she was dressed in casual clothes rather than her mage tower uniform, Damian raised an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes, I’m meeting someone,” she replied.
“Who?”
“Claire.”
Her calm answer made Damian flinch slightly, the name stirring unease. Unsure how to respond, he worked his lips silently until Aracila spoke again.
“Can I ask you something, Damian?”
“Of course, ask away,” he said, nodding with a grave expression.
She looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you happen to prefer women with sweet, puppy-like faces and… well, voluptuous figures?”
“…What?”
The unexpected question threw him off balance, his golden eyes flickering with confusion. He’d braced for something about Claire, not a probe into his taste in women. Seeing the dead-serious look on Aracila’s face, he cleared his throat and answered with equal gravity.
“No.”
“Then what is your type?”
“Well, if I had to say…” His gaze softened as it settled on her. He blinked slowly before continuing. “I like someone who’s like a rabbit—cute, but elegant like a deer, and bold like a tiger.”
“…That’s awfully specific. Got someone in mind?” Aracila replied, her tone unintentionally sharp. She hadn’t expected such a detailed answer. Honestly, how does one person embody three animals? Imagining a rabbit-faced, deer-bodied tiger soured her mood.
While her expression turned faintly pouty, Damian’s cheeks flushed faintly. Had he been too forward? Embarrassed, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway, be safe out there.”
“Got it,” she said curtly, nodding and turning to leave.
Damian stepped in front of her, his voice low and earnest. “Please, don’t push yourself too hard for my sake. There’s no need for you to wade into this mess with me.”
“That’s for me to decide,” she shot back. “We’re married, Damian. How could only one of us get covered in mud?”
She paused briefly before adding, her voice steady but firm, “We’re in this together.”
“I’m not about to stand by and watch you wallow in the mud alone,” Aracila said firmly. She was the one who’d promised to clear his name, urging him to trust her and leave it in her hands. Damian hadn’t even hinted at asking for her help—she’d offered it freely. Because she couldn’t bear to let him be ruined by this disgrace. Whether it was because of their contract marriage or the bond they’d built over time didn’t matter. What mattered was her resolve to not leave him to face this alone.
“I’m off now,” she said with a bright smile. “I might come back with good news, so sit tight and wait for me.”
“…Alright,” Damian replied, a faint laugh escaping him like a sigh as he nodded.
Moments later, the carriage carrying Aracila rolled out of the mansion with a spirited clatter. There was a certain majesty in the way it departed, as if heralding her determination.
Claire’s home was tucked away in a quiet corner of an alley. After revealing her pregnancy, she’d been hounded by reporters almost as relentlessly as Damian, forcing her to relocate to this secluded spot.
“Hello, Claire. Have you been holding up alright?” Aracila greeted.
“…Hello, my lady,” Claire replied, her complexion noticeably pale.
Aracila studied her anxious, fidgety expression before stepping inside and settling at the kitchen table.
“Let me get you some tea,” Claire offered, moving toward the kettle.
“No need for tea. Just sit. We have a lot to talk about.”
Claire hesitated but took a seat across from Aracila. Her face looked even more drawn than it had during her visit to the Vandermir estate. One would think she’d feel lighter now, having unburdened herself of the secret of her pregnancy, but she seemed the opposite—tense and weary.
“What did you want to discuss?” Claire asked cautiously.
“I’ve decided to accept you,” Aracila said plainly.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m saying I’ll acknowledge your child as Damian’s, just as you wanted.”
Claire’s eyes widened in shock, her lips parting as her fingers fidgeted nervously. For someone who’d gotten what she claimed to want, her reaction was oddly bewildered, almost awkward.
“Thank you, my lady,” she managed, her voice unsteady.
“No need to thank me. But you might have to leave the capital for a while and live in the ducal estate. Is that alright?”
“Yes,” Claire nodded. “I’d heard you and Lord Damian mostly stay in the ducal estate anyway.”
Aracila’s lips curved into a faint smile as she regarded Claire. “Is that so? Funny, because Damian hasn’t lived in the ducal estate since he was a child. But the man you met—he said that’s where he resides, didn’t he?”
Muttering to herself, Aracila’s gaze sharpened, pinning Claire with a piercing look. “Then again, I suppose that makes sense if the man was a Vandermir.”
Claire’s already pale face drained of what little color remained, taking on an almost bluish hue. Aracila held her gaze, her smile unwavering as she continued.
“You knew all along, didn’t you? The man you were with wasn’t Damian Vandermir. It was Oscar Vandermir.”
Claire froze, her silence deafening.
“Why did you do it?” Aracila pressed. “Did Oscar put you up to it, or was it your own idea? Tell me.”
Claire’s limbs trembled, but she clamped her lips shut, stubbornly refusing to speak. Aracila let out a silent sigh. If this is how it’s going to be, I’ll have to play dirty.
“If you don’t want to talk, fine,” she said coolly. “But I’ll formally accuse you.”
“…What?” Claire’s voice was barely a whisper.
“You’ve slandered me and my husband with your lies, damaging our reputation. I’ll demand compensation for the emotional and material harm, and I’ll see you punished for defaming a noble.”
“No, please! Anything but that!” Claire shot up from her chair, shaking her head frantically, tears welling in her eyes.
Aracila regarded her with a cold, unyielding stare. “Then tell me the truth.”
“I… I can’t…” Claire stammered, her voice breaking.
“Claire, you don’t know how capable a mage I am, do you? You can resist all you want, but if I lock you in the mage tower’s dungeon and cast a truth spell on you, it’ll be over.”
In truth, no spell could directly manipulate someone’s mind, but Aracila leaned into the bluff to intimidate Claire. Unfamiliar with magic, Claire seemed to believe the threat, her expression crumpling as if all hope was lost. She collapsed back into her chair, eyes squeezed shut.
Softening her tone, Aracila placed a gentle hand on Claire’s shoulder. “If you tell me the truth now, I won’t touch you. I’ll even help you. I swear it.”
Claire remained silent, trembling.
“But if you keep lying,” Aracila continued, her voice low, “I’ll have no choice but to abandon any sense of compassion. Is that what you want?”
Claire took a shuddering breath and shook her head. Finally, her tightly sealed lips parted. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I lied.”
“Why?” Aracila asked, her tone steady but insistent.
“Lord Oscar… he threatened my life and my child’s. I had no choice,” Claire confessed, her voice trembling.
The day she’d gone to the Vandermir estate after discovering her pregnancy, Claire had caught a glimpse of Damian from afar and felt something was off. The man she’d been meeting, aside from his silver hair, was entirely different from Damian—his eye color, his demeanor, everything. Confused, she dug deeper and came to a realization: the Vandermir she’d spent the night with wasn’t Damian. It was Oscar.
Determined to confront the truth, Claire tracked down Oscar’s mansion. At first, he seemed startled but let her in. When she faced him and demanded why he’d lied, he responded with brazen denial.
“What nonsense is this? Who are you? I don’t know anything about this,” he said, his tone dripping with arrogance.
Stunned by his audacity, Claire impulsively blurted out the truth. “I’m pregnant with your child! Are you going to keep pretending you don’t know?”
“What?”
Oscar, who had been lounging casually on the sofa, shot to his feet, his face darkening with a fury that made Claire’s blood run cold. He stormed toward her, grabbing her shoulders with a bruising grip. “Don’t lie. That’s absurd. A lowborn like you carrying Vandermir blood? Impossible.”
His menacing demeanor made her shrink back, but the thought that he was the one in the wrong gave her a spark of courage. “You can say what you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m pregnant. You have to take responsibility—”
“Shut up!” Oscar roared, cutting her off. His eyes glinted with a wild, almost unhinged intensity as he muttered to himself, his voice low and frantic.
Claire watched him, her fear mounting. What if he kills me?
Oscar had never been warm, but he’d always maintained a veneer of gentlemanly charm. She’d hoped revealing the pregnancy might soften him, even just a little. But the man before her now seemed capable of anything—even murder—to protect his reputation. She stood frozen, shoulders hunched, trembling uncontrollably.
After a moment, Oscar seemed to collect himself. He grabbed her arm tightly, his voice low and menacing. “Say it’s Damian Vandermir’s child.”
“W-what?” Claire stammered, her heart pounding.
“You heard me. Say it’s Damian’s child if you want to live.” A cruel, twisted smile curled his lips, his eyes gleaming with malice.
Terrified by the murderous intent in his gaze, Claire could only nod. From that day on, she acted as Oscar commanded, desperate to protect herself and her unborn child. She marked the calendar with the dates Oscar provided—days when Damian was conveniently absent—and presented a Vandermir family handkerchief as evidence, all to drag Damian’s name through the mud.
But Damian’s staunch denials and Aracila’s unexpectedly measured response threw her plan into disarray. Anxiety gnawed at her. Even after resorting to the drastic step of leaking the story to the press, her unease didn’t subside. If anything, it grew worse. She was trapped, unable to leave her house, haunted by the fear that even if she complied, Oscar might still harm her or her child.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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