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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: The Worn-Out Male Lead Picked the Wrong Opponent
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Masera treated me like I was invisible, and the staff at the official residence were downright cold.
Eugene gave me a hibernating frog as a gift, but when I lit up with joy, he looked flustered and bolted.
Everyone was icy toward me, but just being able to eat my fill and stay in a warm room made me plenty happy.
If I had to choose between "labor with warm cheers" and "rest amid cold treatment," I'd pick the latter without a second thought.
"This is the life!"
I was lounging in bed, savoring the moment, when a knock came at the door, followed by it creaking open.
"Your requested cocoa."
Dalia brought in the warm cocoa.
I sat up right away and took a sip. It tasted like plain water with a chocolate bar briefly dunked in it.
Dalia made mistakes like this pretty often. At first, I wondered if she was pranking me on purpose.
But that was ages ago, after I'd seen the laundry she'd utterly botched. Verdict: housework just wasn't her thing.
"Thanks, Dalia."
"And this... I'm terribly sorry. I was ironing it, and..."
Dalia showed me the dress with a round burn hole, bowing her head in apology.
"Ironing's no joke, huh? Not easy at all."
I'd once struggled with a frying pan stuffed with a charcoal lump and a branding iron myself.
"I'm so sorry again. I'll fix it somehow right now."
She apologized profusely, pulled out her sewing kit, and started threading the needle. Looked like she planned to patch it with extra fabric.
"Mm... hmm."
Dalia squinted in concentration, struggling to poke the thread through the needle's eye.
I offered some advice.
"Try wetting the end of the thread to make it pointy?"
"I'll give it a shot."
As I watched her fumble, I noticed her right hand moved unnaturally.
If she was young and already out of the military... probably medically discharged.
Likely nerve damage from an injury.
The official residence was full of folks bearing war scars: the gardener with the limp, the butler with the massive scar, the mute coachman, and more.
In reality, the country they'd defended left them to suffer their postwar traumas alone. Masera had a soft spot after all.
"Take your time."
I quietly waited until she succeeded.
By the time I'd finished the chocolate-scented-but-watery cocoa and a flurry of snow had tapered off outside, the dress repair was done.
Dalia wiped sweat from her brow and handed it over.
"Sorry, but it's too hilarious—I can't hold it in!"
The pink dress now sported a clumsy checkered patchwork over the hole, and I burst out laughing. It reminded me of the holey jeans my grandma had sewn up with every colorful scrap she had.
Dalia looked mortified.
"Please wait until payday, and I'll compensate you."
"Nah, I was getting sick of this dress anyway. Call it a refashion."
Truth be told, I'd never even worn it once, but I grinned like it was no big deal.
"In exchange, come shopping with me on your day off. Parfait too."
"...Yes, understood."
Dalia rubbed the back of her neck, looking sheepish.
"Thank you for your kindness, Lady."
The official residence's utility room.
The maids were gossiping about Cynthia during a break.
"Princess has arrived, they say. She even takes a parasol for a quick outing—unbelievable."
"And what are her attendants doing? They don't lift a finger, unlike our noble-born maids."
Dalia stayed quiet, folding towels.
"It's ridiculous. The royals got executed for dragging the people into hell, and now she's treated like a princess just because of her bloodline? 'The last one' and all that."
"But she's marrying Brigadier General Vicente, who hates royals the most. Kinda pitiful, no?"
As Cynthia had predicted, most of the residence staff despised her for her royal blood.
"Dalia, she didn't yell or hit you for burning her dress?"
At the concerned question, Dalia shook her head.
"She didn't seem the type to get mad."
"Come on. Word is she plays nice upfront but has the count's maids whip young girls behind her back. Despicable."
Dalia tilted her head at the story.
The woman who'd smiled kindly even after the dress mishap—doing something that vile in secret?
"Once the wedding's over, her reign of terror ends."
Another maid crossed her arms, forecasting Cynthia's doomed marriage.
Dalia felt uneasy hearing the trash talk and stepped outside. She couldn't shake the weird feeling.
Then one of the Queensguard Count Family's servants approached with a sly smile.
"You're the lady's personal maid, right? This place is crawling with male soldiers, so keep her in check to avoid rumors. She's awfully... loose-lipped."
He tapped his temple, implying she was empty-headed.
Dalia asked flatly,
"You're Charles, right? Saying this for your lady's sake?"
"Obviously. She's always grinning like that—even rumors she fools around with her own brothers."
Incest scandals drew massive backlash.
Dalia realized the man was planting the story on purpose.
To reach the brigadier general's ears.
Rumors twisted and ballooned mouth to mouth.
"Don't kick me out. I'm a loner."
Dalia recalled Cynthia's lonely plea and turned away without a word.
The more she dealt with her, the more she sensed a hidden sadness behind that gentle smile—one others missed.
"Report everything, no matter how trivial."
Masera's order echoed: detail every meal, every word.
Did dirty schemes count too?
Dalia sighed deeply.
Queensguard Count manor.
From the day Cynthia left for the capital, Edford had been steeped in profound loss and rage.
Seeing her engagement invitation, he'd immediately hounded Helen.
"Helen, she asked you to convince her to run away with me."
"I did my best to persuade her. But with the engagement ceremony already held, it's too late to turn back."
Helen, soon heading to the capital after finalizing her talks with the duke, replied calmly.
Her gaze swept over her brother Edford's pug nose, small eyes, and stocky build, then she added hesitantly,
"You'll find plenty of other... no, look for other girls."
"No other girl catches my eye."
Same for them, probably. Helen thought.
"Cynthia seemed to like that guy too."
At her words, Edford pictured Masera's refined features.
"Obviously smitten by a halfway-decent face. No clue he's a heartless devil."
Edford, jealousy dressed up as concern, pressed Helen.
"No bright ideas? Go to the engagement party and force a breakup or something."
Helen looked bored.
Feeling dismissed, Edford raised his voice.
"Hey. Your duke marriage is set, so you don't care, huh? I'll expose the fake marriage scam! Your wedding's done for then!"
Helen was sharp-tongued.
Knowing it, Edford threatened to sabotage her betrothal if she didn't help with Cynthia.
"Ed."
Helen's smile twisted oddly, mismatched with her gentle face.
"Cut it out."
"What?"
"You can't say squat to Karos or Father, so why whine only to me?"
She stood, glaring coldly at her brother.
"Pathetic. My only way up is marriage by bloodline. You know that, yet you slime me with it as leverage?"
Helen recalled her days confined to the countryside estate, groomed as top bridal material.
She knew exactly why the duke wanted her.
To revive the monarchy, no doubt.
She warned sharply.
"Father gets things done. You know."
Edford remembered Father's threat: interfere, and he'd be killed.
Helen lowered her voice ominously.
"I'm his daughter. Cross me, and you'll see worse than hell. Think carefully."
"...Urk."
Edford, stunned by his usually composed sister's venom, went speechless.
She's really marrying that guy? Leaving me behind?
Unable to let go, he obsessed right up to the day he left for the capital for the engagement.
