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Chapter 11
“Ma’am! How did your face end up like that?”
The butler who came out to greet me upon returning to the estate looked flustered at my condition.
My forehead was split open and bleeding, and my hair was a complete mess—so of course he was shocked.
“I had an accident on the way back. It couldn’t be helped.”
“Did someone jump in front of the imperial carriage? That alone is a serious crime.”
“They’ll definitely be punished for it.”
I turned sharply and walked toward the imperial coachman.
“Thank you for your hard work bringing me here. By the way, I hope you won’t be reprimanded for the condition the carriage is in.”
“Well… incidents like this are rare for an imperial carriage. I might have to clean it immediately when I return, and even pay for repairs out of my salary.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to handle that later?”
I took out a gold coin from my silk pouch as I spoke.
“The Crown Prince might be worried about whether I returned safely. Don’t you think so?”
“Y-yes, that’s true.”
“So why don’t you report to His Highness first? Say that although the journey back to the manor was quite rough, the Countess does not appear to have suffered any broken bones.”
The perceptive coachman accepted the gold coin I offered and nodded vigorously.
“Understood. I will report everything in detail.”
“Then travel safely.”
“Yes, Madam.”
The coachman bowed deeply and drove off at speed.
“He seems eager to report it quickly…”
If the responsibility for the damaged carriage was shifted to Aileen, the coachman would avoid punishment.
“Ugh…”
I let out a painful groan as I slowly made my way toward the manor.
This wasn’t me pretending to be hurt—I genuinely ached all over. I was sure I would be bedridden for days.
“Ma’am! I’ll summon a physician immediately.”
“Yes. And on your way back, bring all the ledgers.”
“Why the ledgers when you’re not feeling well?”
“If I just lie down and stare at the ceiling, I feel like I’ll go mad from frustration.”
Like the saying “if you’re wronged, you should become successful,” I was determined to make a fortune.
If I could at least dream of a wealthy life after divorcing Deamon, I might feel less miserable. It had truly been a terrible day.
The Raktin Duke’s Estate
As night fell, a black horse stopped in front of the Raktin ducal manor.
Through the thick darkness, the man descending from the horse was dressed entirely in black from head to toe.
Black hair, black cloak—he stepped down silently.
“Welcome.”
Fabre, Clarissa’s father, approached holding a lantern.
Under the faint light, Deamon’s figure was revealed.
Fabre slightly lowered his head but avoided eye contact.
“The Duke is waiting for you.”
“He must have something urgent to discuss with me.”
Though they were father-in-law and son-in-law in name, there was no warmth in their exchange.
“Follow me. He said to use the back entrance.”
Fabre led him down a narrow path.
Bringing a nobleman through the servants’ entrance was essentially a warning: never forget you are a hunting dog.
So Dwayne Raktin was making his stance clear.
‘The Duke is in a bad mood.’
Deamon followed silently, glaring at Fabre’s back.
The back entrance led into the kitchen, then to the rear of the hall.
“I will take my leave here.”
Fabre Mersium disappeared down the corridor.
Watching him vanish without a sound, Deamon narrowed his eyes.
‘What exactly are you doing, serving that man?’
Fabre did not seem inherently evil like the Duke. He had never been seen mistreating servants or taking bribes.
But he wasn’t exactly righteous either. No truly good person would spend their life cleaning up a monster like the Duke.
Still, Deamon saw no need to investigate him further.
When the time came to erase everyone with Raktin blood, Fabre—who served the Duke—would also be killed.
He knocked on the study door.
“Enter.”
Inside, the Duke was polishing a sword with a cloth. The metallic scent of blood was still thick in the air.
It seemed he had killed someone not long ago.
“Greetings, Your Grace.”
Deamon placed a fist over his chest and knelt as usual.
“Enough with formalities. I know your loyalty already.”
The Duke sheathed his sword and sat on the sofa.
A drink had already been prepared. He poured himself a strong liquor and gestured.
“Sit.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
As Deamon sat, the Duke studied him sharply.
“I hear your business is doing very well lately.”
“You mean the magic dolls? They’re just toys. Imported from abroad.”
“I see. And I hear you also sell pickled foods?”
His tone turned slightly sharp. The Duke’s salt business was likely suffering.
“It started as a hobby.”
“A hobby, you say? Then where exactly is all the salt for those pickled foods coming from?”
The interrogation continued—just as expected.
“We use seawater to pickle meat and vegetables.”
Deamon replied calmly, following Clarissa’s advice.
“Seawater? That should make everything spoil quickly and smell bad.”
“We use clean deep-sea water and a special method of preservation.”
“So you’re saying you can make pickles without salt? How troublesome.”
The Duke’s expression twisted. His salt mines were likely losing profits.
He was not a skilled merchant. Rather than building businesses, he had grown wealthy by taking from others.
Framing people, stripping lands, confiscating wealth—that was his method.
But even that kind of plundering had limits now.
Until Aileen became empress, he could not afford to anger nobles and merchants.
So he had to endure hunger before consuming a greater prey—the empire itself.
Deamon found it amusing. The mighty Duke Raktin, reduced to this.
It was difficult not to laugh openly.
“Is there a problem, Your Grace?”
Deamon asked innocently, like adding fuel to a fire.
“Are you truly unaware? Since your company began selling pickled goods, salt sales have dropped drastically.”
“So I am harming Your Grace’s business?”
“If so, I suggest you stop immediately.”
“However, that would also halt our supply to the imperial court.”
The Duke’s expression changed.
“You are supplying the imperial court?”
“Yes. We’ve also signed contracts with the Kreva, Georges, and Kotalai trading companies. I can cancel them immediately.”
The Duke waved his hand irritably.
“If you cancel now, it will cause trouble. Pretend I didn’t hear it.”
“I apologize. That was careless of me.”
“Next time, consult me before starting anything. Stop acting like a greedy merchant.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
After resolving the salt issue, the Duke drank in silence.
‘This man has no ambition for power… only money.’
He had married a mere butler’s daughter, Clarissa, and showed no political ambition.
But his greed for money was sharp enough to threaten even the Duke’s main income source.
Normally, he would have been eliminated—but he still had use.
The Duke set down his glass.
“People say you and Aileen have been seen together quite amicably. What is going on?”
He was referring to the incident where Aileen dragged Clarissa by the hair in public.
‘So he heard everything… and still avoids mentioning it.’
It was pointless to criticize Aileen openly anyway.
The scandal had already spread, likely even reaching the Crown Prince.
But it would not cancel Aileen’s engagement.
The Duke and the Emperor were like crocodiles sharing the same swamp—mutually dependent despite knowing each other’s darkness.
“We simply crossed paths by chance, Your Grace. I am a married man. I never forget my position.”
“Good. If there are more issues with Aileen, I will not be lenient.”
The warning was closer to a threat.
The Duke poured himself another drink. Even he, known for restraint, was drinking heavily now.
‘He’s worried.’
Deamon barely suppressed a smile.
His revenge had not even begun—only preparation.
Soon Aileen would be broken off. And then Frederick, the Duke’s eldest son, would be framed for treason against the Crown Prince.
The Duke, unaware, continued with satisfaction.
“When Aileen becomes Empress and bears an heir, my grandson will become Emperor. The Raktin bloodline will rule the empire forever.”
He smiled as if it were already reality.
Then his gaze turned cold.
“Anyone who stands in that path will die. That is why I called you.”
“……”
“Make sure Clarissa is controlled. If Aileen loses her mind because of her, Clarissa will not survive either.”
“She is the daughter of Fabre Mersium.”
“If the servant becomes useless, replace him. Nothing is irreplaceable.”
He spoke of killing Clarissa—and even Fabre—without hesitation.
“I will remain loyal to Your Grace.”
“By the way… you are married to Clarissa, yet there is still no news of a child?”
“…Pardon?”
