Chapter 5
Chapter – 05
Rain pattered against the windows.
A squat figure yanked the chained captive forward, shoving the restraint toward Alfredo.
Alfredo gripped it, paused briefly, then blurted out his protest directly at her.
“This goes against everything decent. I’ll inform the Count at once. Purchasing humans? Imperial decree bans it outright, no matter your status as the lady.”
She stood frozen in shock.
What kind of disdain had Luiza earned, for a mere attendant to challenge his lord’s betrothed amid such rigid hierarchies?
Her brows knit together.
“Such disrespect.”
Alfredo’s face paled with unease as he whispered.
“Surely no one could call enslaving another a noble act…”
“Leave in the carriage if you must, or stay. Either way, free him from those bonds before you go. My arms lack the power.”
She tossed the key the dwarf had given her straight to him.
He snatched it mid-air, eyes widening in surprise.
“You’re freeing him now?”
“Would you prefer I haul him along like a stray mutt?”
The heir to the throne one day?
Insanity knew no deeper bounds.
Mumbling agreement under his breath, Alfredo knelt and released the links.
She studied the prisoner’s gaunt frame.
Fresh lacerations marred his skin—brutal stripes from a barbed whip’s cruel kiss.
Leo Fier, rightful heir to the imperial line.
The old sovereign had perished too soon, yielding the crown to his sibling Callinan instead of his boy Leo.
Whispers of toxin swirled around Callinan, yet with the throne secured and the deed done, resistance crumbled.
Even then, he publicly vowed to name Leo his successor.
A ploy to silence the doubters.
Reality haunted him, though—exposure loomed as Leo matured, mirroring his sire’s features. Paranoia festered until, on the eve his consort bore a male child, he plotted fratricide. Leo fled the palace shadows.
Just ten years into life.
“How old might you be?”
At her query, Leo raised his gaze.
Raven locks framed those amber irises—matching the tale’s vivid depictions perfectly.
Back in the story’s canon, such marks had faded to pale lines by Luiza’s first glimpse.
That placed him at nineteen presently.
Ahead of schedule by twelve months.
Suddenly, his knees buckled, splashing into the filth below.
She scowled at the fallen form.
Male protagonist or not, carrying him held no appeal.
Her survival hinged on this gambit, however.
As her fingers extended, Leo hauled himself upright alone.
Shudders racked his limbs, yet consciousness clung tenaciously.
“Nineteen.”
The word escaped despite his strain.
Nineteen years.
The book’s version crossed paths with Luiza at twenty—her intervention had trimmed his aimless bar-hopping phase.
Could trimming that chaos spare her a fiery end?
She lowered herself to meet his stare.
Those amber depths burned with lethal promise, poised to strike.
She recognized that fire intimately, a reflection of her own doomed glare at the pyre.
Defiance unbroken, even facing executioners.
All loveliness fell under her claim.
Such unyielding spirit in the antagonist had always captivated her.
Perhaps that fascination summoned this cursed transplant.
Regardless, the youth’s features proved disarmingly sharp.
“Perfect timing for you.”
“What’s your game here?”
Alfredo’s voice cut in, laced with bewilderment.
Her fingers captured Leo’s jawline. He snarled, fangs flashing in threat.
“Your looks appeal to me.”
“…Pardon?”
“Your speech patterns, tone, that piercing stare—they draw me in as well.”
Far superior to any illustrated portrait for the role.
“There you stand. My ideal Romeo.”
Her grin lit the dim space.
The boards would hoist them both from damnation’s grip.
* * *
“Did the lady acquire a slave?”
Arno scrawled his approval on the paperwork, absorbing Alfredo’s account without a flicker.
Predictable antics.
She’d pawned her ancestor’s blade, drained her purse dry for the purchase.
To fund a playhouse venture?
“Indeed. Though there’s more—”
“Enough, Alfredo.”
Arno’s gaze lifted, violet and void of warmth.
Alfredo stiffened under that vacant scrutiny.
Echoes of the old guild leader’s demeanor.
Blank expression through every decree.
Back when the elder had dictated the betrothal to his heir and the girl, same mask.
“Secure the union. We’ll wed if fortunes align later.”
Nine-year-old Arno’s retort?
“What’s my cut?”
The guild head had chuckled at the boy’s shrewdness.
“D’Anchais offers thirty percent from duchy trade.”
“Forty.”
“Thirty-five. Final.”
“Agreed.”
Bargaining like rivals, not kin—what outrage.
Alfredo had reeled then, appalled that a parent bartered his child to such an infamous heiress.
Reflection shifted his view now.
The deal bound her too, at merely eight summers old.
“Hidden behind any facade, my identity shines through. One misstep, and the realm hunts me down.”
Those around her tallied worth, never the soul beneath.
That lens—transactions over ties—might stem from such cold commerce.
Pity stirred in Alfredo, but Arno’s tone sliced through.
“I’ve grasped her whims. Spare the details. Crave gems for her prize? Extend credit, log the debt. Repayment awaits.”
“Not gems at all. She plans to cast him onstage.”
Arno’s forehead creased.
Absurdity piled high.
Plebeian performers swarmed the streets—why chain one for the footlights?
More diversions.
Alfredo pressed on, divining the skepticism.
“Direct to the venue she went, drilling him already. She’s gathered a troupe besides. I suspect—”
Arno bristled at the dithering.
Customarily bold, yet post-nightclub escort, Alfredo squirmed restlessly.
“Out with it.”
“…Understood.”
A heavy breath preceded the revelation.
“A servant caught her words during his care that evening: take the stage if he chooses, or vanish wherever he pleases.”
“Release him outright?”
After that fortune expended?
Arno’s brow arched sharply.
“Some scheme afoot?”
“A ploy, truly?”
“Else explain it.”
Her initial probe echoed in Alfredo’s mind: age.
Nineteen, she’d learned, her spark dimming in tandem.
Fancy at first, until the servant’s tale.
“Could be she saw her echo in him—cast aside like her grandsire’s heirloom, both traded away.”
“Ridiculous drivel—”
“Merely a lackey’s fancy. Dismiss it. I’m withdrawing.”
Too fervent for his station, Alfredo saluted and departed the chamber.
Yet the echo persisted.
Cast off, auctioned.
The Count pondered it fleetingly before reclaiming his ledgers.
“……”
They dropped untouched; instead, he drew forth her deposited pages.
Romeo and Juliet.
A lass cornered toward wedlock by kin’s decree.
Impossible… her mirror?
* * *
“A.”
“Ahh…”
“A.”
“Ahh…”
Leo Fier slumped onstage, mangling his warm-ups with lazy slouch.
She fixed him with a stern glare.
“Clear projection powers every word. Muffled delivery? The crowd dismisses your craft unseen.”
Rage simmered within her.
Shin Geurim, Daehak-ro’s star visionary.
Broadway stints in New York—no performer dared such laxness under her watch.
Not even agency-pushed pop stars.
“Mistress.”
He swept back his locks, spine still slack.
“Drop that title already. Evokes twisted bonds unfit for daylight.”
“Isn’t our tie warped enough? You own me outright.”
That velvet drawl left her speechless.
Merely seven days: acquisition, wounds salved, attire fitted, meals provided, roof granted—feral shadow reclaimed as man.
Daily she’d insisted:
Stage fright? Walk free this instant.
His visage tempted retention, yet no production crumbled sans him. Imperial fury spelled her doom.
Fear not, Mistress. Diligence assured.
Those amber pools, laced with enigmatic allure, vowed performance.
Day one dawned thus.
No shock there.
Rumors of her notoriety preceded—capricious spendthrift.
Flirt a touch, slip chains later, he’d scheme.
Enter this gambit.
“Surely desire prompted the bid. Simplify it. Roles aside, possession holds. Claim your due…”
Amber gleam advanced, hypnotic.
“Claim these lips.”
Weaponizing charm from a grimace of revulsion—
Life on the line, dignity unyielding.
Leo Fier in essence.
“Romeo through and through.”
“Pardon, Mistress?”
Her palm met his torso, propelling him back as she claimed the front-row perch.
“Projection, phrasing—hone them idly. Passion ignites them instinctively. Fury booms afar via core breath, no?”
“…Go on.”
Script unfurled in her lap.
“Dissect this scene foremost. Arrogant thrall, what stirred within these pages?”
Very well.
Future sovereign craves the yoke? Grant it.
“Sappy romance trope?”
Disdain dripped as he loomed above.
“Craved intimacy? Confess. Male lead for me, female for you—motive clear?”
Her lips curved slyly at his thrust.
Precisely.
Her Romeo embodied.
Juliet to his lead.
Absurd foreknowledge of his lethal hand, yet necessity dictated.
“Wrong. Deeper currents drew you.”
That amber blaze’s hubris thrilled her.
Loathing mingled with conquest’s lure.
Romeo’s precise mold.
“A lineage prince, Montague-born, scorning stale legacy. Passion defying elders’ blocks to his rise.”
She crooked a grin, jabbing his direction.
“Romeo’s arc clicked for you. Thrall.”
As Juliet’s had for her. Undeniably.
