I wrung out a damp cloth and placed it on Prince Claude’s feverish forehead.
The medicine seemed to be taking effect; his breathing gradually stabilized.
Thankfully, I’d managed to pour the Lazeraan potion into his mouth in time—otherwise, I might’ve been dealing with a corpse right in front of me.
Worse, I could’ve been framed for assassinating a prince.
I rubbed my goosebump-covered arms.
Having died under false accusations in my past life, I couldn’t let that happen again.
Shaking my head, I gazed at Claude’s serene, sleeping face.
His pale complexion looked almost tragic, yet his features were carved to perfection.
[“May I stay and care for him?”]
[“Yes, thanks to you, he’s overcome the crisis. Did you make the Lazeraan potion yourself?”]
[“Yes, I gathered the herbs and prepared them.”]
[“As expected of the renowned apothecary family Rondinella. The late Duchess, an imperial apothecary, was someone I greatly admired.”]
When Claude collapsed, the first to rush in was his physician.
When he tried to prescribe Cytherien, I briefly explained its dangers.
Impressed by my clear explanation, he promptly changed the prescription.
I stayed by Claude’s side in the bedroom, curious about the effects of the Lazeraan potion on its first dose.
Seeing him writhe in pain stirred a bit of pity in me.
In the quiet room, Claude’s steady breathing filled the air.
Hours passed, and the bright sunlight of late afternoon streamed in.
I removed the cloth from his forehead.
Checking his temperature, I placed my hand on his brow.
Thankfully, the fever had completely subsided.
As I started to pull my hand away, Claude’s hand suddenly grabbed my wrist.
His eyes remained closed.
“…Are you awake?”
I spoke cautiously, but Claude only let out even breaths.
He seemed to be asleep.
Watching him carefully, I used my other hand to gently pry his fingers off one by one.
When only one finger remained, he grimaced and gripped my arm even tighter.
Hah, is this sleep-talking?
I stared at the large hand firmly wrapped around my wrist.
I considered shaking it off and leaving, but I noticed his hand trembling slightly.
As if he were trapped in a nightmare.
A healer shouldn’t abandon a suffering patient.
Soft-hearted, I sat back down with a sense of duty.
Just one hour. I’ll leave once his sleep eases.
I gently smoothed his furrowed brow with my fingertip.
[“Your Highness, you must escape. We’ll protect Her Majesty the Empress and Princess Flora.”]
[“No, I can’t do that. I’ll do it. I’ll protect them!”]
In his dream, a young Claude ran frantically, sword in hand.
Gasping for breath, he stopped, and a chilling scream pierced the air as his mother’s body was cleaved in half, blood gushing out.
Then Flora’s blood-soaked body collapsed.
Sobbing, Claude pounded the ground with his fists when a pale hand reached out.
He grabbed it tightly.
A gentle warmth, like a May breeze, enveloped him.
That hand stayed with him, steadying his trembling body, as if comforting him.
When Claude awoke, he lifted his eyelids.
The heavy boulder crushing his heart had vanished, leaving his chest light and free.
Feeling a liberation he’d never known, he took a deep breath.
As he reached to brush away hair tickling his face, he realized his palm was already clutching someone’s arm.
Turning, he saw Aselin, asleep with her head resting on her arm.
His gaze drifted to her silver hair spilling over the bed.
His eyes traced the flowing, wavy strands.
Why am I holding her arm?
Frowning, he started to pull away, but paused.
Was the hand in my dream… hers?
Perhaps because of the comfort from the dream, her touch didn’t feel unpleasant.
His furnace-like heart felt submerged in a calm lake, cool and serene.
Making an excuse that he’d just woken, Claude decided to stay like this for a moment.
He stared at Aselin, fast asleep.
Her small lips moved as if savoring something delicious in her dream.
Then a memory surfaced from just before he lost consciousness—Aselin tilting a potion vial into his mouth.
He’d thought her words were empty, but the purple potion had worked.
Lost in thought, Claude closed his eyes again.
Minutes later, Aselin stirred and carefully freed her arm from his grasp.
He let go easily this time, likely in a deep sleep.
As she turned to leave—
“Lady Rondinella.”
A low voice, laced with languid breath, stopped her.
Startled, she turned to see Claude sitting up.
Hiding her surprise, she curved her lips into a gentle smile.
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry. I’ll leave now.”
She moved to go before upsetting him, but—
“Is your offer to be my fake wife still valid?”
His unexpected low voice echoed in the room.
Aselin turned, eyes wide, staring at him.
His vivid, blood-red eyes locked with hers.
“…Yes, if Your Highness permits it.”
“Then give it a try. Be my fake wife and cure me.”
Aselin’s eyes widened further.
She’d been ready to give up, but this was a stroke of luck.
Beaming, she said, “Think of it as lending me the wife’s role for just one year. In return, I’ll definitely cure your illness.”
“If you want something beyond the wife’s role, you’d better say it now.”
“No, nothing else is needed.”
Her clear blue eyes sparkled softly through her long silver lashes.
Claude’s gaze fell on the bandage around her neck, recalling the day in the forest when he’d held a sword to it.
His briefly intense expression softened as he looked at her again.
“Why one year? For your temporary wife role, I mean.”
“Once I restore my family’s honor, I want to live quietly in a rural village, growing herbs. That’s my dream.”
“That’s your dream?”
“Yes. I realized that kind of simple life is what makes me happiest.”
Aselin smiled brightly, unaware she might never achieve that dream.
“Aselin’s been acting very suspicious lately. Not making the medicines I asked for, always sneaking off somewhere—I can’t figure out what she’s up to.”
“You’re right, brother. I’m worried about her too. Recently, she didn’t just ask me to be a bridesmaid—she threatened me.”
“Threatened you? Aselin did?”
Rachel nodded, her green eyes gleaming.
Pouting daintily, she leaned her head on Pierre’s shoulder.
His face flushed instantly.
Though they were cousins, Pierre secretly harbored feelings for her.
Seizing the moment, he slipped an arm around her shoulder.
“Rachel, trust your brother. I’ll bring Aselin down a peg.”
“How, brother?”
Rachel’s wide, doe-like eyes gazed at him.
Just as Pierre was about to lose himself in them—
“My lord, Viscount Alex has arrived.”
A maid’s voice interrupted from outside.
“Viscount Alex? Show him to the drawing room.”
Rachel stood abruptly, leaving Pierre’s arm hanging.
“Aren’t you coming, brother?”
She asked, checking her appearance in a mirror.
“No, I’m good. But why’s he here? Aselin’s not even at the manor.”
“He must have business. I’ll go see him.”
Rachel flounced out, her dress fluttering.
Pierre watched her go, then exhaled sharply, crossing his arms.
Aselin had been a headache lately.
She’d demanded ninety percent of the sales to keep making medicine—a ridiculous claim he thought she’d abandon.
But she’d gone on strike, refusing to work.
He knew the formulas for the current medicines, so the factory could still run.
The real issue was the investors, especially Alex, who’d funded heavily.
If Alex learned Aselin was no longer helping, he’d likely pull his investment.
Or worse, demand the ninety percent to get her back.
Without new medicines, investments would plummet, and the factory might shut down.
That damn woman!
Pierre rubbed his neck, cursing.
Forced to use Aselin’s ointment for his unbearable itching, he couldn’t strong-arm her.
How do I rein in that wild filly?
After pondering, his thin lips curled into a vile smirk.
