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Chapter 08
The Villainess Builds a Department Store
“Wow. There are so many people…!”
Come to think of it, this was Antoine’s first time at the market.
He was practically glued to the carriage window, gasping in awe.
“Fish! Fish! They’ve got fresh clams too!”
“Buy some flowers! Monsieur, just one flower!”
“Are you insane? You expect me to pay that much for these scrawny carrots?”
“If you’re not buying, then get lost!”
Oh dear. The rough bargaining and curses didn’t seem like the best influence for Antoine.
I quickly pulled him away from the window.
Compared to this, Rière was much cleaner and more comfortable, with proper storefronts and a defined clientele.
‘When our family fell and we could no longer afford to shop in Rière, I thought my world had collapsed…’
Looking back, it was just the whining of a spoiled greenhouse flower. There were no discounts or bargain bins in Rière!
After passing through Ripome Street’s open market, our carriage stopped at the entrance to Rière Street.
The door opened, and as Uncle Guillaume escorted Antoine and me down, we were greeted by a heavenly scent.
“Bread!”
“Bread is made by the guild, too.”
“Why?”
“If someone without a license made it and people got sick—or lied about prices—that would be a disaster.”
“Heeey… I want bread.”
Barely listening to the explanation, Antoine tugged at my hand.
He stopped after three steps and let out a deep, awestruck gasp.
“Wooooow…!”
We had arrived.
This was a shop that sold toys crafted by guild artisans.
Not rough wooden practice swords carved by country farmers as a side job—but smooth wooden swords fit for real training.
Dolls with porcelain torsos and limbs stuffed with soft cotton instead of straw.
Tiny silk dresses, shoes, gloves, handbags—even cosmetics for the dolls.
A tin soldier set caught Antoine’s eye. He dashed toward it, nearly knocking over a rocking horse behind him.
“Go ahead. Choose whatever you like.”
Uncle Guillaume rubbed his hands eagerly, looking more excited than the child.
In the blink of an eye, he disappeared into the shop after Antoine.
Honestly, the adult seemed more thrilled than the kid.
But what I was looking for wasn’t here.
I’d pretend to browse, then slip out quietly.
That was when—
Crash!
“You damn brat! Hey! Stop right there! Thief! Thief! Catch him!”
A loud crash came from the bakery, followed by furious shouting.
“Move! Get out of my way!”
Someone came running, shoving aside well-dressed pedestrians.
Worn, ragged clothes. Shoes with the soles torn open, toes sticking out. A face smeared with grime and soot, hair so filthy its original color was impossible to tell.
And eyes—bright, blood-red eyes.
The moment I saw them, I knew who it was.
“Bastian…?”
“Hey! Move!”
Why are you here right now?!
Frozen in shock, I realized a beat too late what he had shouted.
“Ahh!”
Too late.
Bang!
Stars exploded before my eyes. My back and the back of my head throbbed as I hit the ground, tears springing up from the sting.
Amid the commotion of worried voices, a clear yet unbroken voice hurled a vulgar curse.
“I told you to move!”
Bastian, who had tumbled down with me from the impact, groaned and struggled to get up.
“Got you! You little bastard—get up right now!”
“Ugh!”
The baker stormed over, swinging a rolling pin like a club before grabbing Bastian by the collar and yanking him upright.
Then he slapped the boy across the face without mercy.
Smack!
For a moment, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. What are you doing to a child?!
But Bastian never let go of the bread clutched to his chest.
S-Shouldn’t someone stop this? Why is everyone just watching?
“You filthy vagrant!”
“Tch. This is why lowborn trash can’t be helped.”
Not one person pitied him.
If anything, they looked at him as if he were something filthy.
Something hot surged up from my stomach.
“Stop!”
My body moved before I could think.
While the baker hesitated, I stepped in front of Bastian, shielding him behind me.
The baker, who had nearly struck the daughter of a viscount with a rolling pin, glared at me—no, at Bastian behind me—snorting heavily.
“Are you okay?”
I glanced back at him.
His handsome face was a mess—clear handprints on his cheek, blood at the corner of his mouth.
Yet his eyes burned fiercely, vividly alive.
Those crimson eyes locked onto me before he finally spoke.
“Who the hell are you to interfere? You look like white mold.”
“….”
Maybe I should’ve let him get hit once more.
I’m supposed to introduce this to Father or Uncle? Convince them this is a prime investment opportunity? Would it be easier to drag him straight to the palace and declare, “Behold these red eyes! Proof of royal blood!”?
In the original story, Sebastian Bellure was the classic “bad boy.”
As brilliant as he was cruel and cold, he lashed out at Colette without acknowledging his feelings and ultimately lost to Antoine.
Regardless of whether it was karma, I always believed his temperament stemmed from his miserable childhood.
There’s a reason people say generosity comes from full granaries.
But seeing him now, Bastian looked rotten from the root.
“Step aside, miss! A brat like this deserves his hands chopped off!”
For stealing a piece of bread, wasn’t that excessive?
…Though, to be fair, the bread Bastian stole was a massive round of campagne nearly the size of Antoine’s torso. Impressive, honestly.
No, this isn’t the time to admire that!
“Wait. Even so, isn’t this too harsh for a child? I’ll pay for the bread. So please let the boy go.”
“Pardon?”
The baker’s eyes widened.
Seizing the moment, I pulled out a handkerchief.
“Stay still.”
As I tried to wipe the blood from his mouth, Bastian flinched and stepped back.
He looked like a feral alley cat, fur bristling in suspicion.
“You’re bleeding. Let me clean it.”
When I carefully reached out again, he stiffened—but didn’t pull away.
I took one cautious step closer.
He stood frozen, blinking, ready to shove me away and bolt at any second.
Up close, his condition was even worse.
His face was pale and bloodless, dark circles hollowing his eyes, cheeks sunken.
Speaking from experience, this wasn’t from missing a meal or two.
His tattered clothes were ill-fitting, likely scavenged. His nearly ruined shoes had flown off somewhere during the scuffle—he was barefoot now.
The Bastian I knew stood before kings without losing his arrogance or pride.
But the one before me now was a child driven to the brink, nothing left but feral defiance.
At the sight, a burning lump rose in my throat once more.
