I glanced up and found Claude staring at me intently.
My heart shrank under his gaze.
Slowly shifting my eyes, I took in his sculpted face—sharp eyes, refined brows, and slightly drooping eyelids that exuded a decadent charm.
Locking eyes with him, my heart raced, and my mouth went dry.
…
Worried he might have heard me swallow, I tensed as his low voice rumbled in my ear.
“You hold up well. Most people look at my body with pity, like I’m some stray dog, their eyes brimming with tears.”
Claude spat the words roughly.
So that’s why he hates showing his body to others.
I looked at him steadily, then shrugged casually.
“More like envy. I’ve never seen someone as perfect as Your Highness.”
“Perfect? With this wretched body?”
“With your striking appearance and noble blood, you’re perfection itself. As for your illness, I’ll cure it, so no issue there.”
I answered with a bright smile.
For a moment, his red eyes wavered subtly.
His deep gaze lingered on me, creating an odd tension.
Feeling awkward, I rummaged through my bag and pulled out a clear vial, handing it to him.
“You seem to have insomnia, so I brought a sedative. Take this and sleep well—it’ll improve your condition.”
Expecting resistance, I was surprised when he took the vial without protest, though his tone remained gruff.
“Now get out. I can’t sleep with someone around.”
As he gulped down the medicine, I bowed and turned to leave, but the newspaper article flashed in my mind.
[Prince Claude Vial de Berta Secretly Engaged. Who Is His Fiancée?]
“Um…”
As I started to speak, I saw Claude lie back on the bed, eyes closed.
No choice, then.
I left a short note on the newspaper’s blank margin and stood by the door.
There, a stunningly handsome man slept peacefully, like a gemstone carved to perfection.
If he’d just keep his mouth shut, he’d be an angel.
Smirking, I quietly opened the door and left the bedroom.
Warm morning sunlight filtered through the curtains.
Having slept deeply for the first time in ages, Claude rose feeling light.
Sitting on the sofa, he noticed a crumpled paper on the table.
Frowning, he picked up the mangled sheet and unfolded it.
[I had something to discuss about the newspaper article. Please read it when you wake.]
Skimming the note, his eyes moved to the headline.
[Prince Claude Vial de Berta Engagement Rumors]
His eyebrows shot up sharply.
Reaching for the bell, he rang it, and Alvin, waiting outside, entered.
Claude tossed the newspaper onto the table, jerking his chin.
“There’s a rat in our midst. Find who leaked this to the press.”
“Understood, Your Highness.”
Alvin hurried out to carry out the order.
[Keep the engagement secret until the wedding. Please, I beg you.]
Aselin’s earnest plea echoed like a hallucination.
Slumped on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, Claude pressed his forehead.
A sudden wave of exhaustion made him close his heavy eyes, muttering lowly, “…Ugh, so annoying. Why does this bother me so much?”
He rubbed his face irritably.
For the rest of the afternoon, he sat by the window, unable to focus, waiting for Alvin’s report.
Hours later, Alvin returned, his expression grave.
“Your Highness was right. The leak came from Archduke Spiegel, who seems to have planted spies to watch you.”
Claude’s eyebrows shot up fiercely.
“Who’s the rat?”
“We’ve sealed the gates to trap even an ant. We’ll find them soon.”
Claude glared at the palace towering through the clouds.
Then, he abruptly stood from the sofa.
A red sunset bled like paint across his vision.
“I’m going to the palace. Prepare the carriage.”
“The palace? If this is Spiegel’s doing, you know who’s behind him.”
Alvin mustered courage to dissuade him.
“Your Highness, as you know, it’s best to stay out of their sight for now…”
Claude’s eyes flashed with menace.
“So I should hide like a rat to survive?”
“N-no, I only meant the timing isn’t right.”
Alvin trembled, barely finishing, as Claude sneered.
“Alvin.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Do I look perfect to you?”
“Pardon?”
“A coward hiding to save his skin—does that look perfect to you?”
“Your Highness, that’s not…”
Before Alvin could finish, Claude strode out.
[More like envy. I’ve never seen someone as perfect as Your Highness.]
Aselin’s absurd words rang in his head again.
Stepping into the corridor, sunlight poured over his face.
Gazing at the blinding light, he thought it resembled Aselin—irritatingly piercing.
Click. The hidden safe in the study opened.
A single small gold bar gleamed in the center.
Grinning, I admired it.
This was the fruit of scrimping and selling medicines diligently.
I blew on the bar, polishing it with a soft cloth.
Its glossy shine, reflecting my face, brought a smile.
One is this nice—imagine a safe full of these…
My lips curled as I daydreamed.
Pennies only make pennies.
I scratched my cheek, pondering a quicker way to earn big.
Then my eyes lit up.
In my past life, a plague swept the empire this fall.
If I could mass-produce a cure in time, I’d be filthy rich.
As I mulled it over, Rachel’s words surfaced.
[They say brother’s factory is about to shut down.]
Since I was heading to the general store to deliver medicines, I decided to stop by Pierre’s factory.
I quickly prepared and stood, my bag clinking with various medicines.
At the general store, I sold 100 stamina pills, receiving a hefty sack of coins.
I also tucked away the evidence Betty had secured for me, pleased with the affair specialist’s swift work.
Smiling, I left the shop when a familiar figure appeared ahead.
Auburn hair, arrogant stride—Pierre, staggering drunk.
Perfect. He’s heading to the factory now, right?
I followed him closely.
He was so intoxicated he didn’t notice me trailing him.
Stumbling, he guzzled from a bottle, spilling most of it.
Shaking my head at the liquor dripping down his chin, I followed him two blocks to a massive factory.
He lurched inside.
Waiting a moment, I slipped through the open door, greeted by a pungent smell.
…
Climbing to the second-floor railing, I surveyed the factory.
In my past life, I’d been holed up in the lab, never visiting.
I’d been curious about mass production, but the reality was dismal.
It was barely a factory—more like manual labor.
Burly men, roped like beasts, turned millstones, while workers carried scalding distilled water without safety gear.
“Who said to eat? Move it!”
Pierre’s shout scattered workers eating lunch.
He glared at an old woman scrambling to gather her lunchbox.
With a swipe, he knocked it to the ground.
“Oh no, my precious food…”
The woman hurriedly picked up the dirt-covered bread.
Pierre pointed, stomping on it.
“I’m about to go under, and you care about this? This measly bread?”
