Chapter 11

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 11

Chapter Title: Johann's Misunderstanding

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Morris had lately developed a habit of his heart sinking every time a sparrow flew into Litton. Sparrows, of course, were code for the Leopold family's spies.

At this rate, I'll die before my time. No, I can't die.

Forget romance—what if he ended up dying without even getting a shot at marriage, something everyone else at least tried once?

The sparrow that arrived late in the evening dropped another bomb into Johann's office, which had been precariously quiet like the eye of a storm.

"So, the two of them..."

His low murmur carried no discernible emotion in his voice or expression. Yet Morris could feel Johann's displeasure radiating through his entire body. A shiver ran down his spine.

"...were together."

"Sir Lancelot stayed in the guest room for exactly thirty-six minutes. We couldn't ascertain the content of their conversation."

Johann's gaze had sunk into an icy chill. In the lamplight, his eyes reflected not fatigue, but a deeper sense of betrayal.

When had it started?

When had they become close enough to come and go from hotel rooms without hesitation?

Johann slowly tugged at his neatly knotted tie.

Before the divorce?

Yes, that must be why she so boldly demanded it.

A towering rage surged up. He felt like a complete fool.

To put it bluntly, who Olivia slept with was none of his business. In fact, she had kept multiple lovers. But this kind of betrayal was different.

Stealing company secrets was an unforgivable crime.

'Please grant me a divorce.'

His wife's voice echoed in his ears, swallowing him in uncontrollable emotion. After dismissing Morris, Johann stared into empty space without moving for a long while.

Three years ago, at the first ball of the season, no one could deny that Olivia Blanchett was the belle of the event. It was only natural, given she was a beauty unlike any they'd seen before.

The woman, disguised as a distant relative of the Blanchett Earldom, had her value skyrocket the moment she entered the marriage market.

But that beauty was the problem.

From her debut, her otherworldly looks drew the public's gaze, and drunken beasts who couldn't control their baser urges swarmed her. One such beast—the Crown Prince Christian himself—unfortunately fell right into the trap laid by the Earl of Blanchett to clear his family's debts.

'Isn't that His Highness the Crown Prince?'

The photo capturing them entangled on a sofa spread like wildfire through Rondo's newspapers and magazines alongside rampant rumors, quickly crossing borders.

In the photo taken from a tree overlooking the drawing room, only the woman's face was clearly visible due to the angle; the man's back was all that showed. For the Crown Prince, that was a stroke of immense luck.

With his engagement to the Princess of Agent looming, the Crown Prince—who shared a similar build with Johann—asked for Johann's help, a third son of the Edinburgh Duke's family. In exchange for taking on the duke's title and vast territories, Johann became the scandal's protagonist.

And so, Johann's full name became: Johann Leopold, Duke of Leopold, third son of the Edinburgh Ducal House.

They gave what they promised and took what they wanted. A clean transaction.

'...It wasn't my intention. Really. I didn't know anything. Please believe me.'

He recalled the woman dropping tears that sparkled like molten jewels.

Looking back now, it seemed clear she hadn't been the earl's sacrificial lamb, but his accomplice. With the immoral blood of a woman who seduced her friend's husband, it was all too plausible.

He'd been an idiot.

A twisted, hateful sneer escaped him.

Johann neatly capped his gold fountain pen and set it down before rising from his seat. He went to the glass liquor cabinet, grabbed a bottle and glass at random, and sank into the sofa facing the large balcony window.

Just like the day Olivia regained consciousness, rain was falling outside.

That mere 1 million francs lost due to his wife's betrayal—forget it and move on.

The undiluted, harsh vodka burned down his throat, dragging up the past.

'What on earth is wrong with you?'

It was the second time Olivia had slashed her wrists.

'Because I love you. This is how I beg you to love me.'

His wife had said it with a face so fragile it seemed it might shatter at any moment, marked by dried tear tracks.

How dare she say such things.

Liar.

Now he saw it: his wife was a masterful liar.

The clock tower, usually swarmed with long lines, was strangely deserted today. Puzzled, Olivia and Anne exchanged wide-eyed glances before looking away again.

"It's closed today. What a shame, coming all the way from Brier."

An elderly couple who looked like tourists shared the info with a smile as their eyes met while turning to leave.

"Ah! Thank you."

As the couple walked away, Anne asked,

"What do we do now?"

Their plan to climb the clock tower, pretend to be tricked, and make a wish had gone up in smoke.

Next on the itinerary was the Garden Cafe, famous for its seasonal fruit pancakes and black coffee.

They planned to have lunch there before heading to the Britt Kingdom's pride, the Royal Art Museum. But neither was hungry yet.

"Let's go to the art museum."

"Yes, miss."

Fortunately, it was just a thirty-minute walk away.

The Royal Art Museum, located on the west side of Royal Square, boasted the kingdom's largest scale with its majestic golden dome and colonnades gleaming brilliantly in the morning sun.

The dozens of steps leading to the building buzzed with visitors just entering.

Their steps quickened. Like excited girls before a picnic, their hurried gait made the pale apricot skirt flutter against the brown hem.

A banner hanging on the luxurious stone facade swayed finely in the spring breeze. As they drew closer, the long horizontal text came sharply into Anne's view.

"......"

Anne's pace slowed, then halted abruptly. Her hazel eyes fixed on something, shaking side to side before narrowing in a frown.

"What's wrong, Anne?"

"Oh, it's nothing, miss."

Anne barely parted her lips to stammer.

"But, miss."

She turned, grabbing Olivia's hands tightly, and continued.

"Let's come back here another time."

Surprised by Anne's sudden behavior, Olivia tilted her head and looked ahead again at the golden Royal Art Museum. Below a portrait on a red background, white letters read:

Andrea Nikolai.

"Another time. Another time, miss."

Anne gripped Olivia's wrist harder, fidgeting anxiously.

Olivia slowly sifted through her memories.

Ah...

She belatedly unearthed the name from her faint past.

'Please be the muse of my soul.'

The painter commissioned for the Duchess of Leopold's portrait had knelt before her and begged. That was all.

A being that ignited an artist's inspiration.

The painter, recommended by the Crown Prince to paint the ducal couple's portrait at Great Hill, had been struck like lightning upon seeing the duchess.

It wasn't some tender man-woman affection. To the pure artist, Olivia Blanchett was simply the goddess of art.

Lover, they whispered.

People gossiped that Andrea Nikolai was the duchess's lover. Absurd, but when people believed a lie with conviction, it became truth.

"Alright. Let's do that."

She linked arms with Anne and turned away without regret.

Olivia Blanchett's reputation was poor.

Given her origins, no matter what she did, distorted attention and baseless speculation twisted her into an improper woman.

There was no need to toss a spark into Britt's peaceful days.

"Let's go check how delicious those pancakes are."

Olivia said brightly to Anne.

The pancakes piled high with soft whipped cream, plump strawberries, and blueberries did not disappoint Olivia.

That heavenly sweetness made it impossible to stop at one, and they cleanly finished two plates.

Leaving the Garden Cafe, the two strolled across the bridge over the Bizhen River, where sunlight drowsily settled. The afternoon, with the river's lazy flow making time itself seem to slow, was utterly peaceful.

As Olivia chatted amiably with Anne, she sensed a strange gaze. She suddenly stopped.

"Is your leg hurting, miss?"

"Huh? Oh. No."

Olivia slowly resumed walking, staring straight ahead. Then, midway across the bridge, she abruptly turned around.

While everyone else walked naturally along, one man alone startled and froze before quickly pretending nothing happened and staring toward the riverbank.

"Anne. Let's head back. My leg's starting to hurt."

"Then stay here a moment. I'll fetch a carriage."

"No, Anne. I can make it to the platform. Come on."

Olivia linked arms with Anne and retraced their steps the way they'd come, passing by the man in the beret with a mustache.

"......"

A reporter?

'My god. Your divorce was such a huge issue. They even reported the brand of the bag you took when you left Great Hill that day. Didn't you see the papers?'

Elaine's words came to mind.

While Olivia was lost in thought, a hackney carriage arrived. Seated by the window, she gazed at the bridge gilded in gold.

The man was gone.

Diane Brooke carefully selected her outfit. Then she meticulously dressed in front of the full-length mirror.

The silk lace slip gliding over her skin felt just like Johann's intense touch. She closed her eyes briefly, savoring the intimate sensation, then picked up the dress she'd chosen.

The dress was one Olivia Blanchett had ordered. Now ownerless, it was hers. As was the newly single Johann.

The black dress, wrapping her body without exposure, instead accentuated her ample bosom, slim waist, and firm hips, stirring hidden imaginations.

She loosely gathered her hair into a low bun, adding small pearl earrings that hugged her lobes to highlight her long neck.

Diane looked in the mirror.

Perfect. Prim yet sensual—the image she'd aimed for.