Chapter 9

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 9

Chapter Title: Snap Out of It

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The woman was beautiful.

Biern calmly met the gaze of the woman staring at him.

Compared to Princess Gladys Hartford, well, they were from entirely different lineages, but they were both striking beauties who turned heads nonetheless. It was hardly surprising. Perhaps that was why he'd gotten caught up in her detestable act. Of course, her body was just as alluring as her face.

Biern had no qualms about that fact. Not that it made him any less irritated.

"Are you really sure there's nothing between you two?"

Crown Prince Leonit, who had been scrutinizing the woman, asked in a snide tone.

"Who knows."

Biern tossed out a nonchalant reply, his eyes still fixed on her.

"If Your Highness wishes, I could make it so."

He turned his head leisurely to face Leonit, an elegant smile gracing his lips—one wholly at odds with his words.

"What kind would you like?"

"You're insane."

Leonit let out a hollow chuckle and decided to drop his suspicions there. Biern Dynister was undoubtedly a madman in many ways, but at least he was an honest one.

"Why don't you go ask her to dance? She wouldn't refuse Crown Prince Leonit himself, would she?"

Biern accepted a glass of champagne from a quietly approaching servant and nodded toward the woman.

"Why should I?"

"Didn't she catch your eye?"

"What kind of nonsense is that?"

Leonit scowled, his expression turning serious.

"I thought you were worried she might get tangled up with me, Your Highness."

"Not at all. A woman like that holds no interest for me."

"So decisive."

Biern shrugged lightly and downed his glass in one go.

The woman had swiftly been crowned the flower of this season's social scene, but such notoriety always came with its share of backlash. A family on the brink of ruin, desperate enough to sell their daughter. A daughter who tossed aside dignity and pride to play along with the scheme. She could never earn a good reputation that way. Not that she'd ever cared to in the first place.

Leonit soon departed at the summons of the royal elders. His younger brother, ever dutiful in fulfilling his duties, performed the role of crown prince flawlessly.

He paused after a few steps and shot Biern a look that seemed to suggest he come along—an unwelcome invitation. Biern waved him off dismissively and turned away without a second thought. And there, of all places, stood Countess Victoria Meyer.

Biern offered a deliberate smile and a brief bow. The countess returned the courtesy with equal composure. Irritated as he was, he had to acknowledge her passion and tenacity.

The social world was Countess Victoria Meyer's card table, in a sense.

A game that brought thrilling stimulation to her idle life. Her meticulous strategies, always clinching victory, marked her as a born gambler. She shunned trivial games, steadily upping the stakes to test her own limits—that boldness was unmistakable.

Biern set down his empty glass, picked up a fresh one, and turned away.

Had Victoria Meyer been born a man, the fame she'd gained at the card table might have been far less. After all, this was selfless gambling—finding good matches for other families' daughters. Compared to the cardsharps at the social clubs, it was a far more respectable pastime.

As he approached a group beckoning him over, Biern unconsciously turned toward the gaze he felt upon him. It was that woman again—Erna Hardy.

She hesitated as she rose, then startled violently upon meeting his eyes and plopped back into her seat. Clutching her lace shawl with flushed cheeks, she looked utterly ridiculous.

Were it not for the Hardy name and Victoria Meyer's involvement, he might have fallen for her act. He'd never imagined she'd go so far as to fake cold sweats and trembling.

She glanced at him furtively with anxious, quivering eyes, then suddenly bowed her head and began muttering something under her breath.

What on earth was her game now?

Offering silent condolences to whichever fool would end up as the sacrificial lamb on Victoria Meyer's table, Biern left the spot.

"Biern! You really don't know her? There's absolutely nothing between you?"

The group swarmed around him, pressing urgently.

"Tell us there isn't. Please."

Peter's expression was surprisingly earnest. Biern let out a light sigh, sank deep into his chair, and sipped his remaining drink.

"Snap out of it, you idiot."

His lips, offering the friendly advice, gleamed red.

"We need to get him married."

Philip Dynister, lost in serious contemplation, blurted it out.

"No matter how I think about it, that seems like the best solution. Don't you agree?"

He looked across the table at his queen, seeking agreement. Isabel Dynister set down her teacup with a soft click of her tongue and a frown. In these peaceful and prosperous times for the kingdom, King Philip III's greatest worry was his troublesome eldest son, Biern.

"Yes, if you command it, Biern will obey so obediently."

"We have to make him follow our will somehow."

"Don't you know your son yet?"

Her light sigh melted into the soft spring night air. The terrace in the garden, where the royal couple enjoyed their tea time, was filled with the fragrance of blooming flowers.

"I even subtly asked if he had anyone in mind, but he was so firm. When he shot back, 'Isn't one divorce enough?' it sent chills down my spine."

"This is..."

His gray eyes, so like his son's, darkened profoundly.

Gladys's name cropping up everywhere was irritation enough, yet Biern remained utterly nonchalant. The mere thought that those two might get entangled again made his neck ache. If it came to that, he was prepared to go to war with Lars.

"Don't worry, Philip. There's no way Biern would reunite with Gladys."

Isabel, who had been gazing quietly at her husband, spoke up.

"You know better than anyone what resolve that decision came from—what he gave up."

"I know. Of course I do."

The king's nod was slow, his gaze deepening.

'I will step down as crown prince. And I will divorce.'

On the night their child was born, Biern had come to the palace and declared it calmly.

'My mind is made up. There's no taking it back, Your Majesty.'

His face betrayed no emotion as he added those steady words. The quiet menace in the eyes of the crown prince, barely twenty-two, had overwhelmed him.

In the end, they accepted their son's will. They knew it was the mark of true kingship. But the heartache was unavoidable. He was Lechen's king—and Biern's father.

"Still, my dear, no matter how I rack my brain, I see no better solution. Let's try to get him married somehow."

After much deliberation, Philip Dynister's conclusion circled back to the start.

"Not us choosing for him like before, but a marriage he truly wants himself."

"That's the problem—he doesn't want it."

"Then we make him want it. But that young lady... you're sure there's really nothing between her and Biern?"

He looked at his wife with eyes mixed with hope and apprehension.

"Leonit checked several times, and there was no sign of anything."

"Hm. I see."

"Could it be that Lady Hardy has caught your eye?"

"Not exactly, but if she could sway Biern's heart, I'd welcome any lady, Isabel. Provided she's better than Gladys, of course."

His voice carried a barely concealed edge of anger at the mention of Gladys.

"Speaking of which, our move to the summer palace isn't far off. Let's pay more attention to him this summer season. It would be nice to see Biern settled with a proper family before the year ends."

"Mm... yes."

She doubted it was very feasible, but Isabel Dynister nodded obligingly. She couldn't deny her poor husband, who fretted over their eldest son daily, this sliver of hope.

"Let's pray it happens, dear."

Erna, Erna, Erna.

Lately, it felt like he heard that name everywhere he went. Especially in places packed with men.

"It's been days since I sent those flowers—why no reply? Did her maid lose the card?"

Biern slowly turned at the sound of her name again. The group, having lost all their stakes, huddled in the corner of the card room, heatedly discussing the woman.

"Why not ask her yourself? She doesn't show at social gatherings, but she wanders around here sometimes."

"I'd love to, but I need an opening. That fierce maid stands guard like hell's own hound!"

Laughter erupted from all around at the grumbling.

A few more crude jokes followed as the long game wrapped up. Once again, the winner was Biern Dynister.

"Planning to sweep the gambling pots to bolster the kingdom's coffers, Your Highness?"

"Filthy world. Even the goddess of fortune prefers a man's face."

Groans rose from those who'd snatched defeat from victory, but Biern left the card room without a word. The morning sunlight pouring through the windows was dazzling.

Crossing the club, Biern headed to the terrace overlooking the square. The group trailing him soon gathered around the table.

"Maybe I should send flowers to the Hardy house too?"

Peter fiddled with his glass, left by the waiter, and broached the topic slyly.

Erna again.

Biern rested his chin on his hand, gripping the cold whiskey glass the waiter had brought. The clear clink of ice against glass echoed amid the tiresome repetition of her name.

"You sure? Snagging her means taking on Viscount Hardy's debts too."

"Well... if it's a level I can handle?"

"Oh? We'll hear tragic tales of the Earl of Bergen disowning his son soon enough."

Peter bristled but offered no retort.

Everyone in society knew what Viscount Hardy sought through his daughter as bait. Prestigious noble houses would never accept such a match.

At best, remarriage to a wealthy noble. Or the wife of some untitled magnate.

Even Countess Meyer would struggle to do better. Given the Hardys' straits, even that would be a miracle.

"Hey, there! Erna Hardy! That's her, right?"

Peter, looking troubled, shot up and shouted.

Biern turned casually, glass loosely in hand. From the far end of Tara Boulevard in the early morning walked two women.

A tall maid striding like a bouncing rubber ball. And a petite figure in lace, following lightly behind.

Her wide-brimmed hat and parasol hid her face, but there was no doubt it was her. The only lady who roamed the bustling streets looking like she'd stepped out of a painting from a century ago was Erna Hardy.