IWAPUF 14

The butler, ever the model of textbook decorum, set down the teacups before me and the Marquess
With flawless precision, then stepped back without a sound—his duties complete.
The Marquess didn’t spare me a single glance as he reached for his tea.
Of course, I thought wryly. When you’re that handsome, even lifting a teacup looks like art.
The plain white porcelain, devoid of pattern, somehow looked refined in his hand—perhaps it was
the way the ivory glaze caught the light against his dark navy hair, lending it the gravitas of fine
craftsmanship.
Or maybe it actually is fine craftsmanship. This is House Eliont, after all.
“What is it?”
His voice cut through my idle musings.
The teacup had already been set down when I looked up. The Marquess was watching me now, his
gaze sharp and expectant.
That slight lift of his eyes, the chiseled jaw, the high-bridged nose, and those firm, almost delicate
lips—he looked exactly like Lant would one day. The resemblance was almost eerie.
I won’t raise him into another one of you, I thought grimly.
Back then, Lant had been even colder than the Marquess—more distant, more impenetrable. That
warm, round gaze of his now—so wide and trusting—would one day become just as icy. I
couldn’t let that happen again.
“I asked you what you wanted,” he repeated, one eyebrow arching.
I reached for the teacup in front of me and drained it in a single, burning gulp. The heat scalded
my throat, warming my stomach and washing away the chill in my limbs.
I set the cup down with a loud clack, a deliberate contrast to the Marquess’s silent grace.
“I need a teacher.”
A faint twitch in his brow. Then he turned to glance at the butler, who remained dutifully behind
him.
“Young Lady already has instructors,” the butler said smoothly. “Etiquette, literature, theology,
history, mathematics…”
That much was true. On paper, I was drowning in tutors.
Not that I listened to any of them.
For all the effort that went into hiring them, the Marquess had shown little interest in my actual
education.
But then again, he never took interest in anything concerning me.
None of the teachers dared push me. Those who tried, I wore down or drove off. The rest were too
busy trying to stay in my good graces to teach me anything of substance.
In other words, I don’t have a real teacher at all.
The Marquess looked back at me, unreadable as always. Still, I didn’t sense rejection in that
gaze—only calculation.
While we spoke, the butler had silently refilled both our cups. I raised mine again, this time with a
delicate, practiced motion. The scent of the tea soothed me.
“I want the best tutors in every subject.”
“Why?”
“To educate someone.”
The Marquess paused, teacup halfway to his lips, blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly in
confusion.
He lowered the cup and fixed me with a sharper look.
“Who?”
“Lant.”
The butler flinched behind him.
A subtle crack formed between the Marquess’s brows.
“What are you thinking?”
“I mean exactly what I said. I want to give Lant the best education possible.”
He stared at me as though searching for something behind my eyes. I didn’t look away.
“And,” I added, “I want every single one of my current tutors dismissed.”
The crack deepened into a furrow. I placed my cup down with a grace so flawless it almost startled
me. Years of etiquette training as Empress hadn’t gone to waste after all.
“Please. I trust you’ll grant my request.”
That was all I had to say.
The Marquess said nothing, lost in thought. I rose, smoothed my dress, and turned to go.
“Why?”
I stopped at the door.
“Why take an interest in that child?”
I glanced back over my shoulder. His eyes—piercing and glacial—were locked on mine.
“Because he’s mine.”
“…What?”
A faint frown formed between his brows. He genuinely didn’t understand.
I smiled—bright and unrepentant.
“I don’t take kindly to people looking down on my puppy. So I’m going to make sure he becomes
someone no one dares to ignore. For that, I’ll need your help.”
I was going to make Lant the next Marquess of Eliont. And if that meant grooming him into a man
fit to carry the title, I would invest every resource necessary.
He was still small now, still soft and sweet like a puppy—but one day, he would grow into
something no one could tame. A beast.
And House Eliont would be the wings on his back.
Just imagining it made my heart race.
A new life, a new chance. Surely I’m allowed to do at least one thing my way. That it happens to
be him… well, that’s Lant’s fate, not mine.
Of course, before anything else, I’d need to drill into him one essential truth:
Big sisters are gods.
Act V. Middle Name
I looked up at the sky. It was a perfect, cloudless blue—so clean and vivid that it hurt to look at. I
closed my eyes against the piercing brightness.
It had already been four years since the Marchioness passed away. In just three more months, it
would be the fifth anniversary of her death.
And my sixteenth birthday is just as far away, isn’t it.
Back then, it was the Crown Prince’s coming-of-age ceremony. The same day, our engagement
had been announced. The Emperor had tried to turn the engagement into a full wedding ceremony,
but the First Prince’s faction had pushed back hard.
Officially, they claimed I was too young. But everyone knew the truth—they wanted to buy time.
And secretly, they were hoping the engagement would fall through.
So the Emperor relented, agreeing to wait until I came of age.
The moment I turned sixteen, he wasted no time. The wedding was scheduled almost instantly, as
though he’d simply been waiting for the day to come. If everything unfolded the same way, then
on the day of my sixteenth birthday, I would undergo my coming-of-age ceremony—and become
Crown Princess all at once.
“…Beonne.”
A hand landed firmly on my shoulder.
Startled, I opened my eyes. Strands of silver, shimmering like threads spun from light, filled my
vision.
“What’s wrong?”
Worry clouded his golden eyes. His expression was tense as he studied my face with quiet
concern.
“Are you unwell?”
If this had been the old me, I would have trembled with joy at the sight of him worrying over me.
But now… it was just a faint ache in my chest. Nothing more.
Don’t mistake his kindness for affection.
He was the Crown Prince, raised to be courteous and composed. His gentleness wasn’t meant for
me, but for the role I filled. I had seen the way his gaze once lit up when it rested on her—like
warm sunlight, soft and golden. I remembered his smile, honey-sweet and filled with devotion.
Don’t get confused. His love was never meant for me.
I repeated the truth to myself, over and over, until the sting in my chest slowly began to dull.
“This won’t do. I’ll call for the royal physician.”
He started to rise.
I grabbed his arm in a rush. “That’s not necessary.”
He turned back to look at me. I steadied my voice.
“There’s no need to summon anyone, Your Highness.”
“You don’t look well.”
He moved again, intent on standing, but I tightened my grip.
“I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded, that’s all.”
His gaze flicked between my face and the hand holding his arm. Then, finally, he let out a quiet
sigh.
“…Truly?”
“Yes. I’m sorry for worrying you, Your Highness.”
I released his arm.
A heavy silence fell between us. Alone together like this, I found the moment suffocating.
By the Emperor’s orders, I was expected to meet with the Crown Prince two to three times a week
for tea—thinly veiled opportunities to build rapport. Back then, I’d practically lived in the palace,
flitting to his side every chance I got.
He hadn’t liked it.
He’d never said so outright—he was always polite—but his indifference had been obvious. I’d
just been too lovestruck to see it.
Now he was different. More considerate. More present.
Maybe it’s because I’ve changed.
Maybe.
I didn’t run to the palace anymore. I didn’t torment the women who looked at him. I didn’t try
to cling to him like a child afraid of being left behind.
And for that alone, he looked at me with concern.
The realization made my younger self feel unbearably foolish.
“It’s already been two years since our engagement,” he said softly.
More than two and a half, really. The engagement had been announced on the day of his
coming-of-age.
A faint smile, tinged with bitterness, touched his lips.
“…Did I do something wrong?”
He hadn’t. Not once.
As a fiancé, he had treated me with perfect respect. With consistent kindness.
And that was the problem.
If only he had treated me coldly again—like before—it would have been easier to let go of this
lingering attachment. But the warmth in his voice, the gentleness in his gaze, kept tugging at my
heart like a cruel echo of what could never be.
“Please,” he said. “Tell me if I’ve wronged you.”
“Of course not,” I murmured, looking away. “Your Highness has done nothing wrong.”
My mind was clear, but my chest… it burned. If I could just stop seeing him, this would be easier.
But life rarely offered that kind of mercy.
“Then… is it simply that my presence makes you uncomfortable?”
The sudden question caught me off guard. I looked up.
He was close—closer than I’d realized. The warmth from his body, the intensity of his gaze, felt
like a tide pressing against me.
His expression had gone blank, the softness from earlier gone. In its place was something
unreadable.
“Tell me, Beonne,” he said, voice low. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
He seemed angry—or maybe not. It was impossible to tell. His face gave nothing away. But his
golden eyes—those eyes—held me in place. They were sharp and bright, like burnished glass
catching firelight. I could see myself reflected there.
Just like I am now. A girl trembling in silence, trapped in longing.