Previously
Owen promises to keep Eleanora's secret and delivers a generous payment from Killian for the ginger. Eleanora realizes Killian was also at the Battle of Belwa but remains unaware that she was the one who saved his life.
Killian asked again, his tone thick with doubt after listening to Owen’s report on Eleanora.
“……”
Killian had already guessed that she lived by herself. That place, serving as both residence and clinic, had been steeped in a desolate silence.
Even if there had been just one other person in that house, such heavy stillness would not have settled over it.
Owen kept his usual friendly smile, but inwardly he was on edge, dreading that Killian might have caught on to some hint or trail.
He felt a deep sense of relief upon hearing those words.
Following that exchange, Killian felt as though all the suspicions churning inside him had completely dissolved, bringing him immense relief.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair, only to snap them open again and ask,
Realizing he had almost backed himself into a corner, Owen quickly engaged his wits.
Indeed, Owen was skilled at winning others over, possessing a knack for coaxing out the answers he wanted through a gentle, mild demeanor.
Though Killian’s doubt faded, an irritated scowl lingered on his face.
( ‘What a reckless woman, telling a total stranger about her personal circumstances so freely.’ )
It was fortunate that Owen was his man. What if he had been someone with foul intentions?
( ‘Even yesterday, it took her far too long to realize I was following her. The more I see of her conduct, the more excessively careless she seems.’ )
Wasn’t a doctor supposed to be among the most cautious and vigilant of people?
Killian clicked his tongue in disapproval and shut his eyes once more.
Whether it took a month or two, he intended to hold his ground. In the end, the baroness would have no choice but to give in.
Owen chuckled softly, causing Killian’s brow to twitch.
In truth, not even Killian believed the baroness would change her mind in a mere two months.
Her lifelong ambition was to elevate the Blackwell family into the ranks of true high nobility. Her son had married an ordinary woman, but she certainly had no intention of letting her grandson fail as well.
Killian’s eyes flew wide open, and he sat bolt upright.
The only secret Owen kept from Killian was Eleanora’s true identity. That alone was enough of a burden to weigh on him for the rest of his days.
Owen offered a wry smile.
Killian sighed and propped his legs onto the table across from him. Just then, Owen spoke up.
“……”
Nearly half the world’s population was female. Killian’s phobia was no trifling matter; it made his life far more complicated than it ought to be.
Had he not suffered from this condition, his life would have been vastly simpler.
He likely would have married a suitable woman long ago. At the very least, he wouldn't be stranded in such an absurd predicament.
Yet to try overcoming it now? How, anyway? Was there even a genuine way to do so?
Owen said, organizing a bundle of documents.
Killian gave a dry laugh and let his head drop back.
The Blackwell name carried weight wherever it went. It was only natural that troublesome people would latch onto him left and right.
It seemed a matter of course. Yet the townsfolk would never guess Killian was a Blackwell simply by looking at his face. Moreover, he had strictly warned Julian not to mention his arrival to anyone, so Eleanora would naturally keep silent as well.
Even so, the source of his worry was…
Owen said, his expression brimming with pride.
Though meant as a compliment, Killian’s face soured with distaste.
Owen stared blankly at him.
Coming from anyone else, such words would have been a boastful joke, but Killian was deadly serious. That was how frightening his phobia of women truly was.
It was common for Killian to receive letters from women he did not even know.
Most would read about him in the newspapers, fall into unrequited love, and send letters. Even those were a source of stress, but at least he could simply choose not to read them.
However, ‘that letter’ was entirely different.
<It rained last night, didn't it?
I saw you walking through St. Martin’s National Cemetery amid the pouring rain.
The sight of your drenched clothes tore at my heart. At the same time, I felt jealous of the dead who held your attention.
Yet I must remain patient. For soon, I will become your wife.>
Someone was tracking his movements and sending these missives. They were penned in strange, barely legible handwriting, arriving nearly every single day.
The mere knowledge that someone was watching him daily was chilling enough, but the writer also harbored the bizarre delusion that she would one day be his wife, making the whole affair unspeakably repulsive.
At one point, Killian had seriously considered stationing men at every postbox throughout Berrington to catch the lunatic.
Yet he was in the midst of expanding his enterprise back then and could ill afford strange rumors clinging to his name, forcing him to abandon the idea.
Aren’t those practically the same thing? Owen pondered for a moment before deciding not to split hairs.
What good would it do anyway?
Killian glanced at him as if asking what he meant, so Owen clarified,
Killian’s eyes widened slightly.
Now that Owen mentioned it… indeed, since roughly yesterday afternoon, his stomach had begun to feel better.
Why had it improved?
In that instant, the memory of the woman’s back as she walked ahead of him flashed across his mind. But he shook his head as if flicking water from his hair.
( ‘Why am I thinking of her again?!’ )
It was mere coincidence that he had felt better upon crossing paths with that woman, nothing more.
Killian wished these wretched days would pass swiftly, yet he found himself wondering: what would actually change if he returned to Berrington?
Those sickening letters would be piled high on his desk. His grandmother would continue hounding him to marry.
People would look at him with curiosity for constantly putting off marriage, watching his every move.
And he might truly end up subjected to electroconvulsive therapy.
If that could cure him, it might be bearable, but there was no guarantee.
Then what of the company? Without him, it might collapse.
And what of the people whose livelihoods depended on it?
Killian muttered, lamenting his lot, before pinching the bridge of his nose in sheer exhaustion.
The more he dwelled on things, the deeper he sank into negativity, draining him completely.
It was far better to retreat into quiet solitude and occupy himself with work.
If he spent his days in quiet, peaceful comfort, his mind would clear again, and he would be able to chart a better course for his future.
And Killian genuinely believed that tomorrow would be a very quiet day.