Translator: Nox

Chapter 13

The sentries were likely stunned, but their shock couldn’t have rivaled the bewilderment Kishin felt.

Kishin was positioned between his desk and the entrance, appearing as though he had steeled himself for a confrontation. However, when Classie stepped inside clutching the mangled flowers, his resolve seemed to crumble. His eyes traced the jagged, ruined stems of the bouquet.

His voice was soft and unreadable as he remarked that she appeared to be in quite a foul mood.

A spike of panic hit Classie. She realized her blunder and tightened her grip on the broken stems. She felt like a complete idiot; her desperation to escape Merran had made her totally overlook the state of the gift she was carrying. She nearly blurted out the truth about her nephew’s involvement.

Instead of blaming the boy, she offered a vague explanation about having to depart in a rush and encountering a minor mishap. She knew that accusing a child only worked if the listener already trusted her character. Without that foundation, she feared her words would be dismissed as a pathetic fabrication.

Kishin’s lips curled into a sophisticated smirk, clearly finding her “accident” excuse to be a transparent joke. He seemed convinced she had shredded the flowers out of spite and was now merely being polite about it. Yet, the sight didn’t irritate him; he seemed genuinely entertained by her behavior. Classie felt a hot flush creep up her neck. She wondered if he truly viewed her as such a volatile person.

It stood to reason, she reflected. If he didn’t have a low opinion of her, he never would have insulted her based on those original false assumptions.

Trying to ignore the heat in her face, she listened as Kishin spoke again, asking if she intended to stage another such mishap right there in his office. He was clearly probing to see if she was about to throw a tantrum.

Classie pushed down her swirling nerves and stuck to her plan. She simply stated that she had a fondness for flowers.

Kishin, who had been smiling with a sense of wary preparation, let his expression falter. He looked genuinely puzzled by her comment.

Classie squeezed the dying bouquet and spoke with more conviction. She reminded him of his desire to make amends. She told him he didn’t need to endure the shame of a public snub. All she wanted was a single follow-up meeting—one where they could interact without any false pretenses.

She looked down at her shoes and spoke softly, clarifying that she wanted a genuine outing, not a repeat of the time he had spent trying to make her miserable.

Kishin questioned whether a woman of her standing didn’t place more value on her reputation.

Classie had to bite back the urge to shout that finding a husband was far more important than her pride. Instead, she just gave him a modest, shy shake of her head. She explained that some forms of honor were vital, while others were negotiable. Once he had offered an apology for his earlier rudeness, she felt the need to hold onto her pride had vanished. She had no interest in clinging to a grudge just to see him suffer.

The moment she finished her sentence, a large clump of petals detached from the bouquet and drifted to the floor like autumn leaves.

She stared at the mess in despair, but then the sound of Kishin’s soft laughter reached her.

Their eyes locked. He teased her, suggesting he was grateful she had used a friend to vent her frustrations on the flowers before coming to see him. He noted that she seemed much more reasonable now that her anger was spent.

It was all Merran’s fault, she grumbled internally, but she forced a pleasant expression and maintained that it truly had been an accident.

Kishin checked the time on the wall clock. Classie followed his gaze.

It was nine o’clock. On a normal night, she would be dressed for bed, reading in her favorite chair.

Kishin informed her that his duty ended at ten, when his replacement would arrive.

Classie gave a distracted nod. She had been braced for a rejection based on the late hour, or perhaps a firm refusal of her request for a date. His mention of his schedule was confusing.

Then Kishin mentioned a specific café he frequented after his late shifts.

The implication made Classie’s heart race. A late-night rendezvous! He wasn’t pushing her away or asking for another day; he was suggesting they meet in an hour. Even though she had come here because she couldn’t stop thinking about his handsome face, she hadn’t dared to hope for such a swift success.

She realized a date tonight was actually perfect. If they waited until tomorrow, Merran would undoubtedly try to force his way into their plans.

She blurted out her agreement immediately, terrified he might withdraw the invitation if she hesitated.

Kishin went back to his paperwork, but his concentration was gone. His eyes kept drifting away from the ink and parchment toward the woman on his sofa.

Classie sat there, cradling the tattered remains of the bouquet. The fire in the hearth kept the chill away, and her heavy fur wrap lay folded at her side. Every time she shifted her weight, Kishin found himself looking up. He was drawn to the shadow of her long lashes.

Her clumsy attempts to look composed were deeply charming to him, and a small smile touched his lips. He decided she was a fascinating creature. He was used to women pursuing him, even those he had previously turned away. However, most noblewomen were too prideful for directness. They usually worked through intermediaries, staged “random” encounters, or sent endless letters. Some even turned spiteful, seeking to ruin him for his rejection.

Classie was different. She was a countess whose pride had been publicly bruised, yet here she was, boldly asking for a second chance.

Suddenly, her eyes met his. He had been staring too long while lost in thought.

Classie’s eyes went wide with surprise, making her look like a rabbit caught in a trap. Kishin couldn’t help but chuckle again.

She looked away in embarrassment, but only for a second. She gathered her courage, looked back, and gave him a smile that looked like it had been meticulously rehearsed in a mirror.

Kishin smirked to himself, wondering if she was posing for a painter. If his family could see him now, they would be floored by how much he was smiling.

Classie felt a rush of shy excitement, believing her hours of practice with her reflection were finally paying off. She began to play with the edge of her cloak, her mind racing with newfound hope.

Her requirements for a husband had become quite simple over the years. As long as he was a nobleman, the marriage would be valid, granting her the legal status of an adult and securing her inheritance. She could worry about their compatibility after the vows were exchanged.

She did wonder, however, if Kishin’s parents would ever welcome her into the family.

If Kishin had any inkling of these marital schemes, he would have been floored. He was starting to enjoy her company, but marriage was the furthest thing from his mind.

Neither of them realized they were being watched from the corridor.

Dernick was peering through the window, his brow pressed to the glass. Even with the guard standing awkwardly nearby, Dernick didn’t stop his spying.

He knew Kishin better than anyone; they were practically brothers. Kishin was usually a man of rigid professional boundaries and immense arrogance. He never entertained women at the station, let alone allowed them into his private office.

Yet Classie Kalashi was sitting right there. They weren’t a couple, yet she had been granted an audience.

Dernick’s curiosity was burning. He wondered if his cold-hearted friend was finally thawing, or if there was some other game afoot.

He turned to the guard and asked how long she had been there. The man replied that it hadn’t been very long. When asked why she was permitted inside, the guard simply shrugged, stating he was just following Kishin’s orders.

Dernick grinned to himself. “Well, Miss Classie,” he whispered, “it seems we meet again.”