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Chapter 08
Lianel sat expressionlessly in the small conference room.
“It’s been a while.”
“Yes.”
She wasn’t happy about being dragged into an empty meeting room by Duke Vinsenheim to sit side by side.
“Leaving work on time is a civil servant’s right.”
Yet here she was—harassed and unable to go home.
Lianel was displeased, but she couldn’t say so aloud.
Her opponent’s rank was far too high for that.
He was the Minister of State.
She was a low-ranking civil servant. She had no choice but to comply.
They sat across from each other in the silent room, but there was really nothing to say.
After all, Lianel wasn’t the duke’s real daughter.
The duke frowned, seemingly displeased by her curt reply.
“Is that all you have to say to your father after all these years?”
“Yes.”
Lianel was unashamed.
Even if the real Lianel were sitting here, she would have reacted the same way.
Because—
“It was you, Father, who declared you wanted nothing to do with me, wasn’t it?”
The duke shot up from his seat.
“What? I—when did I ever say that?!”
A flicker of faint memory crossed his face as he hastily denied it.
“I see. Now that I think about it, you never explicitly said those words.”
“Of course not. I never—”
“You just treated me like I didn’t exist.”
Three years ago—
Lianel had left the ducal estate of her own accord.
Everyone in the house, not just the duke, had ignored and ostracized her.
She always ate alone. She was never invited to family events. Most of the time, she was completely alone.
Even on the day she left, not a single person came to see her off.
In that unnecessarily vast and desolate mansion, where not even her cries of loneliness echoed back, Lianel had slowly withered.
Then one freezing winter day,
she stepped out the front gate in a thin coat, snow pelting her face.
Her legs were so cold she could barely walk, but she forced herself onward through the snow.
[I’m never going back… never…]
Tears froze against her cheeks as she bit down on her trembling lip.
Lianel had only seen the memory indirectly, but the sorrow of that day was burned deep into her mind.
“That’s because you…”
The duke began to speak, then stopped, closing his mouth.
After a deep breath, he pressed his fingers to his eyes, forcing back the words that threatened to escape.
“…Fine. Since you have nothing to say, I’ll do the talking.”
Lianel gave a small nod.
“Attacking Count Bartello was unwise. The count may be careless, but the Minister of Finance behind him isn’t someone to take lightly. More importantly, you’ve stirred up the entire ministry, so you can expect retaliation—”
That was as far as he got before Lianel quietly raised her hand.
“What is it?”
“It’s well past official working hours. If you plan to continue discussing business, I would appreciate it if you approved overtime pay.”
The duke’s face flushed crimson. His lips trembled with restrained emotion.
“Do you think this is how a normal father and daughter talk?”
“Yes.”
The duke sighed deeply.
“Who did you get that attitude from…”
“You don’t need to worry about that. Everyone knows I take after you. Even you wouldn’t dare deny I’m your blood.”
“You—watch that mouth—!”
He nearly exploded, then suddenly deflated, letting out a hollow laugh.
“…Seems your tongue got sharper while I wasn’t looking.”
“I practiced. I’m glad you recognize my effort.”
With nothing left to say, the duke slumped back into his chair, glaring at her.
Lianel came up with a way to end this awkward meeting.
“By the way…”
Sensing trouble, the duke’s brow furrowed immediately.
“Will I be receiving a performance bonus?”
Lianel asked.
“Y–You—! Get out! Out, right now!”
The duke finally exploded.
Even then, he didn’t forget to throw her a check as she left.
Whether it was meant as a bonus or overtime pay, Lianel was quite satisfied—she had at least been compensated for her wasted time at the palace.
As she shoved the envelope casually into her coat, a voice called out:
“Uh… hi?”
She turned and met Wilbrin’s eyes.
Wilbrin waved awkwardly, then quickly added an excuse.
“I—I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything, I just… heard shouting as I passed by…”
Her gaze dropped to the floor as she scratched her neck, embarrassed and uneasy.
Few things sting a person’s pride like a twisted family relationship.
Wilbrin knew that feeling well.
“It’s like the fact that I grew up unloved follows me everywhere, like a thorn in my back.”
It wasn’t something she could control—it was a bond she never asked for.
And yet that so-called family bond, that blood tie, was impossible to cut cleanly.
“…Actually, I don’t get along with my dad either. We just… can’t talk. There’s this wall between us. I know lots of people have normal, good relationships with their fathers, but… I always felt ashamed that ours wasn’t.”
She’d even felt a pang of envy seeing kids whose fathers were worse off than hers.
Fidgeting, she rubbed her index fingers together, then asked carefully,
“So… are you okay?”
“Before I answer that, we should first define what constitutes a ‘normal’ father–daughter relationship. But doing so immediately introduces logical inconsistencies.”
“Huh?”
“Because priorities differ from person to person—frequency of communication, mutual respect, degree of attachment, and so on. So in the end, a ‘normal’ father–daughter relationship is likely a fiction masquerading as normalcy.”
Wilbrin just stared blankly at her.
Then suddenly, she burst out laughing.
“Well, I can definitely say you don’t belong to that category.”
“That doesn’t qualify as a valid conclusion to my argument.”
Lianel was as expressionless as ever—stubborn, almost mechanical, armed with elaborate logic that bordered on sophistry.
Whether she truly believed it or was just trying to win the exchange, no one could tell.
But one thing was clear.
“…Yeah. You’re right. Normality is probably just a fiction.”
Wilbrin felt strangely comforted by that.
“No one can really define what a ‘normal’ relationship is anyway—so why stress over it?”
She looked at her reflection in the window.
Her lips, weighed down by exhaustion and life, drooped slightly.
She forced them upward into a semblance of her usual smile, then took Lianel’s hand.
“Come on. Dinner’s on me tonight—something fancy.”
Lianel froze mid-step like a broken machine.
Was she… touched?
Of course not.
“Meals exceeding ten gold coins could be considered a violation of the Anti-Bribery Act…”
“Oh, for crying out loud!”
Lianel managed to annoy Wilbrin right to the end—
but at least she helped her uphold the Public Integrity Code.
That night, Wilbrin’s “fancy dinner” cost exactly eight gold.
Though not related by blood, Vanessa—fiancée to the Vinsenheim heir—had been given her own room in the ducal residence and was attended to with utmost care.
Vanessa was born to a nearly ruined provincial noble family.
As a child, even eating three meals a day had been difficult,
but she’d since grown accustomed to the duke’s luxurious lifestyle.
The maids brushed her hair with fine combs and tried various accessories against her head.
“Pearls look a bit old-fashioned. Bring me something else.”
Then one maid whispered cautiously into her ear.
“What? Lianel met with His Grace?”
Vanessa’s brows knit instantly as she sat up straight.
Sensing her foul mood, the maids hurriedly backed away.
“Tell me everything. Now.”
After hearing the full story, Vanessa bit her thumbnail in frustration.
“After all the trouble I went through to drive her out of this house…!”
When she became Rupert’s fiancée, she had seized control of the household.
With no duchess present, she wanted to be the sole mistress of the estate.
To that end, she had manipulated events until Lianel left of her own accord.
Fortunately, Rupert had no interest in family affairs, and the duke prioritized state matters over his children—so her plan succeeded.
But Vanessa knew the truth.
The duke’s cold indifference had always been a façade. Secretly, he had continued to protect Lianel.
That—was the root of all her problems.
The duke still loved Lianel.
“If she somehow gets back into this house…!”
Though it had been three years since Lianel left, Vanessa couldn’t relax.
Because as long as the duke willed it, Lianel’s return was always possible.
