IGBD 71

chapter 71

In front of the Duke of Regan Popwell’s mansion, the carriage of House Prextuster came to a stop.

Yuan stepped down from the carriage, his face stiff, and walked into the duke’s mansion. His steps toward the attic carried clear irritation.

Climbing the stairs, Yuan arrived at the door and pushed it open without knocking. He wasn’t in the mood for courtesy.

Inside, standing before an easel, was the back of Regan.

The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, and his arm moved busily. Each time he worked his hand across the canvas, the veins in his arm rose.

So focused was Regan on his work that he didn’t even notice someone had entered. With an expression that said I knew it, Yuan deliberately knocked on the door.

Only then did Regan, still gripping his pencil, open his mouth without turning around.

“Ben, I’m busy. If it’s not news of my death, tell me later.”

“You’ll hear it soon enough. The obituary of Regan Popwell.”

Yuan spoke with a crooked smile.

At the sound of Yuan’s voice, Regan turned, looking surprised. His eyes met Yuan’s, and he grinned.

“What? Again, what now?”

He put down the pencil and approached.

Regan was still dressed exactly as he had been at the Salon Exhibition. Yuan had wondered where he had vanished to so quickly that day—it figured he had holed up here.

“I don’t care if you cheat or trick people with your paintings, but you shouldn’t have dragged Sereret into this, Quentin Dahl.”

Yuan looked him straight in the eyes as he spoke.

The true name of Quentin Dahl, the greatest painter in the Ailun Empire, was Regan Popwell.

With his extraordinary talent, Regan had longed to be recognized purely for his art. To achieve that, he had to cast off the title of Duke Popwell.

So, using a discreet intermediary, he had worked under the name Quentin Dahl.

From his very first appearance, Quentin Dahl drew public attention, and within five years, he had become the greatest painter in Ailun.

Very few knew that Quentin Dahl was really Regan Popwell—and Yuan was one of them.

“Hahaha.”

At Yuan’s words, Regan let out a hearty laugh.

“You find this funny?”

Right now, Regan Popwell’s nude portrait was hanging in his wife’s bedchamber. Yuan’s eyebrow twitched upward.

“I didn’t expect it either. Who could’ve guessed the Duchess of Prextuster would buy that piece? So don’t be too angry.”

“You should’ve stopped it.”

“On what grounds could I? With what right?”

Regan shook his head, looking as though such a thing was impossible.

“If you had, then your naked self wouldn’t be hanging in Sereret’s bedroom.”

Yuan scowled.

Portrait of a Gentleman. No—Self-Portrait of Quentin Dahl. But in truth, it was Regan Popwell’s self-portrait.

The man in the painting was Regan. At first Yuan hadn’t recognized him because his face was obscured, but the scar across his waist gave him away.

And with the title Self-Portrait, there was no doubt the nude figure was Regan himself.

“She hung that in her bedchamber?”

At Yuan’s words, Regan coughed in surprise.

Watching his face flush red in real time only aggravated Yuan further.

“How do you plan to take responsibility for this? Am I supposed to see your naked body every day in my wife’s room?”

“But why did she hang it in the bedroom? The ducal mansion is enormous.”

Regan rubbed at his flushed face with an awkward smile.

“She said it was precious. That it was her painting…”

Yuan bit back his words, freshly incensed.

She hadn’t meant that he was precious, but to Yuan, that’s exactly what it sounded like—and it disgusted him.

“Precious, she said?”

Regan brightened at that.

Seeing his pleased expression, Yuan’s face grew darker.

“She meant the painting is precious.” Yuan cut him off firmly, warning him not to get the wrong idea.

“Of course. Did you think she meant me? Come on, I know better than that.”

“Take the painting back.”

“How could I?”

Regan frowned slightly.

Sereret had paid a fair price for it. The painting was hers now.

And deep down, Regan found himself wanting her to keep cherishing it.

“If you don’t remove it soon, someday that painting will end up burned to ashes.”

Yuan gave the warning, then turned his back on him.

“She treasures it. If you burn it, what kind of husband would that make you? A cruel one!”

Regan called after him in mock reproach.

Ignoring his playful jab, Yuan was about to leave when something caught his mind. Hand on the door, he turned back.

“Does Sereret know the model is you?”

“There are only three people in this world who know I’m Quentin Dahl. If you didn’t tell her, there’s no way the Duchess of Prextuster could know.”

Regan spoke with absolute confidence.

“Remove it from my house.”

Yuan’s face hardened once more, and he left the attic.

After Yuan was gone, Regan laughed aloud for quite some time. Who would’ve thought that painting would end up in Sereret’s bedroom?

No wonder Yuan was angry. Smiling to himself, Regan turned back to his easel. He was sketching the image of the false Quentin Dahl kissing the back of Sereret’s hand.

His lips curled upward, pleased.

“She said it’s precious. That it’s her painting…”

The memory of Yuan’s words kept his smile from fading.

When Sereret had first decided to buy the piece, he’d been startled—but happy, as though she had recognized him.

And hearing now that she considered it precious filled him with joy.

“Phew… I’d better come to my senses.”

Smiling blissfully, Regan sighed and muttered.

Sereret was Yuan’s wife. The wife of no one else but Yuan Prextuster. Regan tried hard to cut off the feelings welling up inside him.

“Then why does it feel so wrong?”

It was natural, of course, to push aside any feelings for Sereret. Yet Regan couldn’t shake the sense that he shouldn’t.

It felt like he was missing something—like he needed to do something for her.

“Who do you think you are? You’re nothing. Get a grip.”

He scolded himself, trying to rein in his heart.

After all, the only one who could do anything for Sereret was her husband, Yuan.

Sereret set down her fork and knife. She hadn’t been able to eat properly—she could feel Yuan’s gaze on her the whole time.

“Why are you staring at me instead of eating?”

At that, Yuan immediately spoke, as though waiting for the chance.

“The painting—hang it in the attic.”

“You want me to put my precious painting in the attic? That place is full of junk!”

So this was how he suggested tossing it into storage. Sereret frowned.

“Can you stop saying that?”

Yuan’s displeasure showed clearly in his tone.

“Saying what?”

“It’s just a painting. Not your precious painting.”

“You’re bothered by me calling it precious?”

Sereret couldn’t understand him. What was so offensive about that? It was her painting. Or did he mean it counted as joint property of House Prextuster?

“To be clear, I bought that painting with my own allowance. Sure, the money came from the Prextuster coffers, but it was allocated to me. So it’s my property.”

She hurried to make that point, worried he might claim ownership.

“I’ll give you another one. A far more valuable painting.”

“Valuable?”

“What about the one hanging in my study? It’s worth many times more.”

“The Punishment of Hopos?”

“Yes.”

That painting had been passed down through generations of House Prextuster. Its value, of course, far outstripped any self-portrait.

It depicted Hopos, punished for deceiving the gods, struggling up a mountain with a massive boulder on his back. The tortured expression on his face was considered a masterpiece.

But Sereret always felt uneasy about that painting. Each time she saw it, she felt as though she, too, were being punished—for deceiving Yuan into their marriage.

If she sold it off, would she be cursed? Who would even buy it? Only a wealthy magnate could afford such a piece.

“No. I don’t want that in my bedroom. I don’t want to see someone being punished every day.”

“But you do want to see a naked stranger every day?”

Yuan’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“A hundred, a thousand times over, I’d rather see a naked stranger than someone being punished.”

“Ha…”

Yuan threw his napkin onto the chair beside him, sighing deeply.

“Why are you being so sensitive?”

“Do I not look sensitive?”

“It’s just a painting.”

“It’s a painting of a naked man.”

“It’s Eros. Not just a naked man. Quentin Dahl himself said it was inspired by Eros.”

“Must you really hang it in the bedroom?”

Yuan exhaled heavily, as though suppressing himself, and asked.

“Yes.”

“Fine. Do as you wish.”

He nodded curtly, then beckoned to the butler standing nearby.

The butler hurried over.

“Have curtains installed over the painting in the Duchess’s bedchamber.”

“Yes, understood.”

The butler answered and quickly withdrew.

“Curtains?”

Sereret blinked at Yuan.

“I’d appreciate it if you compromised this much.”

His gaze said plainly: I’ve already endured plenty. Now it’s your turn to yield a little.

“Alright.”

Sereret nodded willingly.

Though she’d placed the painting in her room, she had to admit—it was a bit much. As Yuan had said, the stranger in the painting was awfully exposed.

“…By the way.”

Yuan studied her for a moment, then spoke.

“By the way what?”

“…Never mind.”

He shook his head lightly and resumed eating.

After dinner, Sereret returned to her chamber. She sat on the couch with a book, but her attention kept straying to the painting.

Finally, she rose and stood before it.

“Curtains really are necessary,” she admitted, nodding in agreement with Yuan’s suggestion.

But how had it been painted so vividly, as though the man were alive right before her eyes? Truly, Quentin Dahl was extraordinary. Once again, Sereret marveled at his talent.

Lost in the painting, her view was suddenly shadowed. Before she could even flinch, a familiar scent brushed her nose.

“Tonight, it would be best if you sleep in my chamber.”

Yuan’s voice murmured low against her ear.