IWAPUF 21

I rubbed my forehead with the tips of my fingers. I could still feel the ghost of soft lips lingering
against my skin.
“Haaah…”
A sigh rose from somewhere deep inside me. I couldn’t make sense of the Crown Prince’s actions.
What is it that he wants from me?
Was he genuinely trying to fall in love with me? The thought left a sour taste in my mouth, like I’d
touched something I absolutely shouldn’t have. The whole encounter left me with a strange,
unsettled feeling.
I thought I had dealt him a satisfying blow. But judging by his reaction, he didn’t look like
someone who had been bested. In fact, he had seemed… delighted. I’d swung with all my strength,
only to find the man smiling like he’d won. It was like hitting a grand slam and still losing the
game.
“My lady?”
Marie called out from across the carriage at the sound of my second, heavier sigh. I shook my
head without looking at her.
“I’m fine.”
She didn’t believe me. Her fingers fidgeted anxiously in her lap as she hesitated, then muttered,
“It’s not that, it’s just… we’ve arrived. We’re on Vivaldi Street.”
Right. Of course.
Nothing ever goes smoothly when he’s involved.
I gave my head a firm shake, as if that would help exorcise the Crown Prince from my thoughts.
Marie, sensing my intention to step out, quickly opened the door.
Vivaldi Street was lined with shops that catered exclusively to the nobility. The street itself was
pristine, its architecture a harmonious blend of elegance and tradition—tailored, quite literally, for
people like me.
“Where to, my lady?” Marie asked as she stepped beside me.
I paused for a moment, taking in the storefronts. Boutiques, jewelers, stationers, and even
weapons dealers—all gleaming in the afternoon light. But none of them particularly called to me.
Lant’s birthday is in a few days, I recalled suddenly.
Technically, it wasn’t his birthday—just the anniversary of the day he arrived at House Eliont. But
Lant and I had decided long ago that it would be his birthday, since he didn’t have one.
He didn’t know the exact day he was born. His mother had died of illness when he was very
young. After that, he had been left to survive like a servant on a remote farm, until a subordinate
dispatched by the Marquess came to retrieve him.
He barely remembered his mother at all—just the image of a woman crying, her face blurred by
tears. That was the only memory he had of her. And when he spoke of her, there was no grief in
his voice. Just calm. A detached calm so deep, it bordered on coldness.
Thrown into a world of hardship before he even had time to develop emotions, Lant learned
survival before he learned how to feel. He didn’t know how to laugh. Or cry. The adults around
him were too busy with their own burdens to raise a helpless child.
Back then, he could barely speak. He answered questions in a halting stammer, clinging to every
syllable like it might slip through his fingers.
Only later did I understand why he never cried or fought back when I used to torment him. He
simply didn’t know how.
He didn’t even understand what resistance looked like.
I had held him once. He was so small then, barely more than a bundle of bone and skin that fit
neatly into my arms. Now he was built like an oversized hound, solid and broad. But back then…
Whenever I pulled him into my arms, his body would go rigid. He didn’t know what to do with
affection. So I took my time, gently smoothing his back, every vertebra sharp beneath my palm.
Eventually, after many embraces, his stiffness would begin to melt. Slowly, cautiously, he would
raise his little hands and start to mimic me—patting my back with trembling fingers, like he was
learning what comfort meant for the first time.
“This way’s faster if—oh!”
“Lady Beonne!”
I was jolted out of my thoughts by a sudden impact from behind. I stumbled forward, nearly losing
my balance, but Marie was quick to grab my arm and steady me.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, I—”
“Oh no, no, no!”
Marie shrieked, examining me frantically before pointing to my skirt in horror. I followed her gaze
downward.
My pale green dress was soaked through with thick, bright red liquid. It stained the fabric like
spilled ink across a page.
I grimaced.
Green and red together—especially this green and that red—was an aesthetic abomination.
“What on earth—?!”
Marie snapped, looking down at the source of the mess.
At my feet sat a child, small and stricken, drenched in the same red substance. A tipped-over
container lay beside him, its contents splattered across the cobblestones.
“U-uhhh… uhhh…”
The child was frozen in place, his mouth opening and closing silently like a fish out of water. Fear
had locked his limbs.
Marie planted her hands on her hips and let out a furious growl.
“Do you even know who this is, you little—”
“Marie.”
I cut her off.
She blinked at me, wide-eyed, startled. I shook my head once, slowly.
Marie looked confused, but fell silent. I could almost hear the words that had been forming on her
lips.
She’d been one breath away from becoming a stock character—one of those sneering
noblewomen in cheap novels who tower over frightened children and shout about bloodlines and
consequences.
My cheeks burned with quiet shame.
I hadn’t stopped her because I was afraid of being seen as cruel. I was cruel, once. I had done far
worse in the past, and I hadn’t flinched then. If I feared judgment, I wouldn’t have cast out the
children of Count Pison without a second thought.
I didn’t stop Marie to protect my image.
I just couldn’t stomach the sight of a grown woman puffing up her title over a trembling child.
“Rai!”
A man’s voice rang out as he rushed toward us, slightly out of breath, his shirt untucked and coat
askew.
His pale blue-gray eyes locked onto mine in surprise.
“Young Lady Eliont?”
“Danju!”
At the sight of the man—Danju, apparently—the child burst into tears. He scuttled toward him,
grabbing onto the hem of his trousers. Wherever the boy’s hands landed, red handprints bloomed
across the man’s pristine slate-gray suit like fallen maple leaves.
“Rai!”
“Are you okay?”
“We brought Danju with us!”
A handful of other children—four or five, by the look of it—came scrambling down the street,
crowding around the boy protectively.
Standing among them, the man gave a deep, apologetic bow in my direction.
“My deepest apologies, Lady Eliont.”
His apology was impeccably formal.
At once, the gaggle of noisy children fell into a hushed silence, retreating one by one to hide
behind his broad frame. Even the tear-streaked child crouching at his feet sniffled once, then
scurried behind him, clutching the hem of his coat with trembling fingers.
He didn’t move.
Head bowed, shoulders squared, utterly still—he was waiting. Waiting for my response. I could
tell he wouldn’t budge until I spoke.
I stared at the back of his head in silence. Not once did he fidget. The way he held himself—tall,
broad-shouldered, posture straight as a sword—was too refined, too composed, to be that of a
mere merchant.
“It’s been a week, Evan Li,” I said.
He raised his head, his eyes meeting mine with the same solemn calm.
“There are too many eyes on us. You should probably change out of that.”
He was right. Already, passersby had begun to slow their steps, watching us with polite
interest—or thinly veiled curiosity.
Vivaldi Street was a place where the nobility strolled, shopped, and whispered. And in noble
society, rumors traveled like wildfire, often with little regard for fact or fairness. I didn’t fear
gossip, but unnecessary attention had a way of growing thorns. Best to avoid giving it water.
When I gave a brief nod, Evan turned and began walking. The children trailed after him like
ducklings, and Marie helped me follow.
He led us through a side entrance of a building I recognized—one of the many owned by House
Pison.
I didn’t know the full scope of the Pison fortune. Back then, I hadn’t cared—too distracted by the
glittering chase of the Crown Prince. And now? I didn’t consider any of it mine. Technically, the
only inheritance I’d received from my maternal grandfather had been a portion of his personal
estate—not the holdings of the Pison family as a whole.
Still, I could guess the building’s ownership. The ground floor was home to a jewelry boutique I
knew well—one of Pison’s many shops.
House Pison had businesses in nearly every luxury market. Even someone as disinterested as I was
familiar with several of them. That particular jewelry boutique had been one of my favorites
during my most indulgent years. I had assumed the shop had opened later, during my time as
Empress—but apparently, it had been around even earlier.
Instead of taking us through the storefront, Evan ushered us through a private rear entrance. It led
directly to the third floor.
He brought us into a spacious drawing room, then disappeared with Marie in tow, presumably to
find a change of clothes. Left alone, I paced the room, reluctant to sit while the red stain still clung
to my skirt.
The space was tastefully subdued—elegant, but not ostentatious. For a reception room in a
building tied to a high-end jewelry shop, it was surprisingly modest.
Soft pastels dominated the palette. An ivory-colored settee added light to the room despite the lack
of large windows. Matching shelves lined the walls, nearly the same hue as the furniture—plain,
almost too plain. But here and there, vivid decorative pieces added contrast and kept the room
from feeling flat.
Strange…
The longer I looked, the more the unease crept in.
This had to be one of Evan Li’s businesses. The jewelry shop was the first major success he’d had
after taking over the Pison trading group. Of course, much had changed since then. But if the shop
still stood, it meant he was likely still investing in the same industry.
Back then, Evan’s greatest achievements came from selling luxury goods—dresses, jewels,
cosmetics—things that catered to a very specific audience: noblewomen.
Most Pison shops carried the family name, but the ones that sold these luxury goods operated
under a different brand—Luiacha.
Luiacha targeted the vanity of noblewomen with precision. Its slogan, “You alone are special,”
struck a chord so deep that it became a social phenomenon. Owning Luiacha products became a
status symbol—those who didn’t were considered backward or tasteless. Women scrambled to buy
more, desperate not to fall behind.
Luiacha’s appeal was its exclusivity. “Special” was synonymous with “expensive.” Some noble
houses were even rumored to have gone bankrupt from indulging their daughters’ cravings for the
brand. I hadn’t gone that far, but I’d certainly spent a small fortune on Luiacha myself.
Looking back, it had been frivolous. But Evan’s strategy was nothing short of brilliant. It was a
masterclass in psychological marketing. He understood women’s desires too well.
Perhaps that’s why this reception room felt so oddly feminine.
Delicate, curated. It didn’t fit the image of a man who looked like he’d just stepped off a
battlefield.
Maybe his outward persona hides a more refined side? A soft, elegant core beneath all that
armor? …No, unlikely.
We’d never had a real conversation, but nothing about Evan Li struck me as particularly
effeminate. Which meant the space likely wasn’t his. Maybe a lover’s influence. Or a wife’s.
Not that I’d heard anything about the head of the Pison merchant group being married. A mistress,
then. Or a favored partner.
“My lady.”
Marie returned, arms full of fabric.
“There were so many dresses on this floor. I took my time picking the ones that would suit you
best.”
She heaved the dresses one by one onto the sofa, their rich silks catching the light like rippling
water. The colors were lush and vivid, and many were clearly made for formal events.
“A bit excessive,” I murmured.
“Should I go pick something simpler?”
Marie looked stricken.
I picked up the least extravagant of the bunch. The silk was cool to the touch, smooth and
unmistakably expensive. It was the kind of garment one could wear to a royal banquet without
raising an eyebrow. The stitching was fine, and the embellishments—real gemstones—were
identical to those used in Luiacha’s heyday.
“This was upstairs?” I asked.
“Yes. That merchant—what was his name? The Danju? He said you could take whatever you
needed.”
She tilted her head, puzzled by my question.
The presence of dresses—Luiacha-quality dresses—was telling. It meant the brand might be
gearing up for a return, just like before.
I beckoned to Marie.
“This one.”
“Yes, my lady!”
Her voice was bright, relieved. She was clearly pleased that I wouldn’t make her return to fetch
another. While the dress might have been a little too fine for everyday wear, it wasn’t
unmanageable.
I let Marie help me change.
“It’s perfect on you!”
She clapped her hands together in delight.
The dress, a muted orange with subtle jewelwork along the sleeves and hem, didn’t feel as flashy
as it had looked at first glance. The gems were small, in matching tones, and their placement was
tasteful. The overall effect was elegant, not overwhelming.
“Should I fix your hair, too?”
Marie’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. My current hairstyle wasn’t exactly mismatched to the
dress, but her enthusiasm—hands clasped, eyes pleading—left me little choice.
I sank into the seat.
She beamed and got to work, humming to herself as she gathered pins and ribbons.
“The moment I saw those dresses, I knew I had to see you in one. My heart was racing!”
She chattered as she worked, visibly enjoying herself.
And, for the first time in a long while, I let her.