TDAF 11

Chapter 11

While the children were laughing, babbling things like how they weren’t ugly, how Scarlett wasn’t ugly either—words that made little sense—the drivers stood nearby, watching her with worried faces.

After calming the children first, Scarlett took the dress back out of the sack and put it on again.

Since she had come wearing lace gloves and even a bonnet, not wanting to look like she was just here to fix something, it took her a while to change back.

In the meantime, the drivers tried to talk among themselves to forget their fear.

“Who was that navy man earlier? If it weren’t for that officer, things would’ve been much worse.”

“As he came in, the whole warehouse suddenly lit up.”

The man’s voice was still trembling as he said it.

Just then, Amanda, Powell’s wife, came over to help Scarlett change.

“Miss, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Come now, go home. I brought some tea for you, drink it.”

Scarlett only smiled in thanks and took a sip, while Amanda raised her voice so everyone could hear.

“Honestly, how could so many of you fail to fix something and drag such a delicate young lady here?”

“I really am fine. The tea is delicious.”

No matter what Scarlett said, Amanda wagged her finger and scolded the drivers relentlessly.

While Scarlett drank, Amanda wiped her face, and the other drivers lit a brazier and set it in front of her.

After regaining her composure, Scarlett refused their offers to escort her, soothed her siblings whose eyes were swollen from crying, and finally returned to the shop.

Andrei, who had stayed late waiting for her instead of going home, saw her face as she came in and immediately snapped his briefcase shut with a complaint.

“What took you so long? Because of you, I couldn’t leave work, couldn’t leave!”

“You should’ve gone ahead. Sorry.”

“What if I thought you were off doing something dangerous again?”

Grumbling as he packed his things, Andrei hurried out, embarrassed that his worry had kept him from going home. Scarlett found his fussing both funny and touching, and for the first time all evening, she relaxed enough to smile.

The fireplace was crackling with burning logs. After locking up, Scarlett sat on the guest sofa to warm herself. On the table was a container of soup and a piece of salmon fried in butter—Andrei had brought them.

“Looks delicious.”

Cynical though he was, Andrei was also the one who knew her best and cared for her most.

She set the soup and salmon on the iron plate over the fireplace to heat and began a late dinner.

The meal filled the hollow in her stomach. Afterward, she sank into the steaming bath and let her body thaw. As she soaked, Victor’s eyes—those cold eyes that had looked down at her—kept surfacing in her mind. She had thought they might run into each other someday, but not like this.

“I owe him today…” she murmured.

Then came a knock at the door.

Startled, Scarlett quickly toweled off, threw on her indoor dress, and went to draw the curtain of the glass wall. Her body stiffened.

Outside stood a carriage bearing the naval crest. Her ex-husband was there. Not only Victor, but several of his men too.

The sailors of the Rubid were an elite force, handpicked from the very best of the academy. Clad in black uniforms and coats, they were imposing in both lineage and stature.

Scarlett tried to close the curtain and pretend not to be home—but then came a groan.

When she opened the curtain again in alarm, she saw Victor looking down at a masked man forced to kneel.

Victor turned his head, cigarette in hand, and locked eyes with her. His lips moved, forming a single order: Open.

Of course, a man might seem different at work than at home, but with Victor the gap was striking. She had lived with him for two years, yet what she saw of him today was so ferocious it overturned everything she thought she knew about Victor Dempelt.

Reluctantly, she opened the door. Victor took one last long drag, dropped the cigarette, and stepped inside.

Scarlett instinctively pressed her clasped hands to her chest, retreating a step. She felt him draw close, towering over her, but couldn’t lift her gaze. From outside came the stench of blood, wafting from the masked man.

“Who… is he?” she asked in a trembling voice.

Victor peeled off his black leather gloves one by one and said, “It’s been a while.”

“I asked who he is.”

At Scarlett’s quivering demand, Victor jerked his chin. One of his men, Pallin Redford, pulled off the mask. Scarlett nearly collapsed, covering her mouth with both hands.

Victor caught her arm, lifted her with force, and set her on the sofa. The man’s face was bloodied, but recognizable: Father Delphio, whom she had once met at Melin Monastery.

Victor spoke.

“He killed several parishioners. Claimed he was exorcising demons.”

“…”

“The police asked for help, so we arrested him. And the moment he saw me, he confessed about you.”

His lips curled in dry amusement.

“He thought I caught him because of you.”

He turned, walking to the door. Closing it behind him, he locked both bolts with a metallic click.

“I saw the room you stayed in—it was worse than a prison cell. That’s why you got the fever, isn’t it?”

“…Yes. I told you I was sick.”

“You never said why, or that you almost died.”

“….”

The sound of the locks sliding home mixed with his voice, and Scarlett felt a wave of unease.

Victor stepped closer.

“And it never crossed your mind to tell your husband?”

Her eyes flicked toward Father Delphio outside, then away.

Victor’s mission had been pirate suppression—something no one would assign to a new unit led by such a young officer. Yet he had succeeded. The pirates had surrendered, overwhelmed by the storm of his assault. Delphio had confessed only because he feared Victor that much.

At last, Scarlett forced herself to answer.

“No. I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

His question made her think of Gregory Dempelt, forcing a dying, fever-ridden woman to sign with a pen. His son’s success meant his own. Once branded as the man who ruined a princess, he now basked in society as the father of a hero. He had made her sign that nondisclosure agreement out of fear. She could not break it with her own lips.

Calmly, Scarlett said, “You were the one who sent me to the monastery in the first place.”

Victor’s face twisted—enough that even in the dim light, she could see it.

Scarlett, seeing the rare crack in his composure, thought perhaps he wasn’t entirely without feeling after all.

Her ex-husband was a cold man. Perhaps she had only fallen for him out of relief at escaping her wretched circumstances. Perhaps the only thing she truly loved was his beautiful face.

He was not a man to be loved.

Loving him was like showering a corpse with treasures—receiving nothing in return but wounds. It was her fault, perhaps, for giving something he had never wanted. But what was so wrong in hoping for at least a trace of love in marriage?

Scarlett continued.

“In those circumstances, what could I expect from you?”

“Is that why you asked for a divorce?”

She shook her head with a small laugh.

“I loved you for all of our two years together. But at the same time, I wanted a divorce. All I needed was a pretext.”

“….”

“….”

Silence stretched between them.

Wanting to end the conversation, she pressed on.

“Why bring this up now? It’s in the past. Back then you didn’t even care to ask why I wanted it. If you had, I’d have told you then. And besides—you wanted it too, didn’t you?”

“I wanted it?”

“Yes. I asked for a divorce and you signed immediately. You must have wanted it as well.”

Until that moment, she had prepared countless answers for the question she thought he might ask.

But Victor never asked. He hadn’t even inquired after her health, though he must have known she was at a villa recovering.

When he signed the papers without hesitation, Scarlett thought Gregory had wasted his money. Why bother with a nondisclosure contract when his son cared nothing for her in the first place?

Victor gave no reply for a long time. The room was filled only with the faint ticking of dozens of clocks.

At last he said, “You blamed me earlier, so I didn’t ask then.”

“There are… things you can’t ask?”

“Of course. And you’re the only one who interrupts me like that.”

Something in his tone sounded almost playful, and Scarlett’s tension eased slightly. Then he added,

“Was my father involved?”

Startled, she looked up. Victor continued.

“Melin Monastery is five hours from the Dempelt estate. My father sent you to such sadistic frauds himself. He couldn’t have been entirely ignorant.”

Scarlett clasped her trembling hands.

“You…”

But Victor cut her off.

“Are you saying I sent you there to die?”

“You knew your father hated me.”

“So. You’re saying it’s all my fault?”

“Yes. It’s your fault. All of it. Because of you.”

Her cold, unflinching accusation struck him. She had no choice—she was bound by the contract.

Victor stared at her in silence, then turned and opened the door.

Scarlett instinctively rose as well. Outside, Pallin asked,

“Captain, what about this one?”

“He’s to be executed. Murder and flight—there’s no other way.”

At the word execution, Father Delphio thrashed in despair.

As Pallin tried to replace his mask, the priest made a break for it. Despite his size, Pallin caught him by the throat with one hand and slammed him to the ground.

Horrified by the violence, Scarlett hastily drew the curtain shut and collapsed into her seat. Even after the muffled sobs of the gagged priest and the sound of carriage wheels faded into the distance, she sat frozen, unable to move.