The rhythmic chugging of the steam train's wheels pulsed in her ears. Irene fluttered her eyelids open, only to squeeze them shut as the glare pierced her blue irises.
When she tried again, the haze sharpened into a sea of white daisies rushing past the window. Above, lazy clouds drifted across a vast cerulean sky.
Irene exhaled sharply. "Hopefully, Mother will finally stop trying to marry me off."
She was exhausted from repeating her disdain for arranged marriages, but her dear mother remained willfully deaf to her pleas. Left with no other choice, Irene fled home.
A click of her tongue escaped as irritation stirred anew. "Whose fault is it that I've been fed stories of 'true love' since the cradle?"
Her mother had planted those ideas herself; it was no wonder they had taken root so deeply.
Unlike her overbearing and fussy mother, her father was diplomatic, or maybe he just knew how to handle her.
A few days ago, a letter from him had arrived. He promised to call off the engagement, provided Irene was willing to come home. Naturally, it was an offer too tempting to refuse.
And so, she was now on her way back to the capital.
Irene sat upright and reached for the ceiling, stretching out the kinks in her spine. After hours of travel, her body was one dull ache. Once the stiffness faded, she lowered her hands and settled back against the cushions.
Her blue eyes scanned the cabin. Aside from the red velvet upholstery and the ornate table in front of her, the private compartment was empty. The muffled roar of distant chatter beyond the walls only made the silence inside feel more profound.
Spotting a newspaper on the table, Irene picked it up. As she opened it, her blonde hair spilled forward; she tucked it behind her ear and turned the page—
—and stunned.
At the top of the gossip column, a bold headline greeted her:
[AN UNSTOPPABLE RECORD! LADY IRENE REJECTS HER TWELFTH MARRIAGE PROPOSAL!]
Her fingers crumpled the paper in her grip, jaw locked tight. Ignoring the rest of the news she'd rather not know, her blue eyes lurched toward the author's initials at the corner of the column: SO.
A cynical smirk tugged at her lips. "Typical," she spat.
Selena Ottilie, the capital's gossip queen. She was the fiancée of Josef, the eldest son of Grand Duke Heinrich and nephew to the King. That proximity to the throne seemingly gave her the freedom to dissect anyone's private lives as she pleased.
Good heavens!
Selena was the number one person Irene had avoided her entire life. Ironically, despite having barely spoken a word to each other, she remained a constant target of the woman's venomous pen.
With an annoyed huff, Irene threw the paper aside. Of all the places on earth, why did Selena have to be born in the Kingdom of Lexith?
How infuriating.
The door slammed open, jerking Irene upright.
A man stood at the threshold, panting. He was tall and powerfully built, his blond hair partially hidden beneath a hat pulled low over his eyes. A heavy black jacket clung to his broad shoulders.
Then, he closed the door behind him.
Irene rose, frowning. "Excuse me, sir, I think—"
She cut herself off. A gaze of cold black held her.
Tossing his hat and wig to the floor, the man revealed a crop of short black hair and a chiseled jaw.
Duke Dietrich?!
Irene hastily curtsied. "Your Grace."
The crease on her forehead deepened. Why is the Crown Prince's younger brother here, of all places?
A metallic click snapped her thoughts. Her body went rigid.
Irene cautiously lifted her head—and her stomach dropped.
Adrian Dietrich held a pistol aimed straight at her.
"Y-Your Grace, w-what is the meaning of this?"
Irene raised both hands in surrender. Her trembling legs shuffled backward, but Adrian matched her step for step.
When her back collided with the wall, he closed the distance. Irene shut her eyes and bit her lips as the icy muzzle of the gun pressed against her forehead.
Her breath came in ragged pulls; her heart hammered against her ribs.
Why?
What did I do wrong?
Aside from formal greetings, Irene had barely ever interacted with the royals.
So why—?
Heavy boots thundered outside. Doors banged against the walls, and screams erupted in the hallway.
"What the—get out!"
"He's not here!"
"He ran this way!"
"Hurry!"
"…If you want to live," the deep voice cut through the noise. His icy gaze pinned her in place. "Play along."
Irene swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded frantically— prioritizing her life over any objections.
As the commotion drew closer, Adrian lowered his weapon and yanked her wrist.
The world tilted. She stumbled—then crashed into his chest. The scent of sandalwood stung her nostrils. Irene looked up; his face was only inches from hers, his expression unreadable.
She jolted, trying to pull away, but Adrian's hand held her waist firm, forcing her to stay seated on his lap.
"Moan."
Irene blinked. "Pardon?"
Before she could process everything, Adrian pulled her closer and buried his face in the crook of her neck.
"Ah! What are you doing?!" Irene shoved at his shoulders, but her resistance only caused him to tighten his embrace.
The door swung open, snapping their heads toward the sound.
A group of men in black suits stood paralyzed at the threshold, their eyes wide with shock.
Irene's heart plummeted as her gaze locked with a pair of pale blue eyes. Beyond them, in the hallway, a platinum blonde-haired woman in an ornate gown stood with an indescribable expression—Selena Ottilie.
A hand pressed her head down, burying her face against his neck. The faint throb of a vein pulsed beneath her cheek—
"What do you think you're doing?! Get out!"
"Y-Your Grace! O-our sincerest apologies!" The men scrambled into deep bows before quickly closing the door.
Footsteps echoed again, retreating down the corridor. "He couldn't have gone far! Quick—search the forward carriages!"
As the roar of the wheels and the hiss of steam reclaimed the space, Adrian lifted Irene onto the edge of the table, boxing her in between his arms.
He brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, a faint, easy smile on his lips. "Well done, my dear."
With that, he straightened and stepped away.
Irene stared at the space where he had been standing. Her thoughts were a tangled mess, her mind failing to process the whirlwind of the last few minutes.
Closing her eyes, Irene took a long, shaky breath, trying to steady her racing heart.
She glanced sideways and found Adrian casually picking up his wig and hat. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her sides. Her chest heaved; teeth ground together at the sight of him.
Let alone shame, that man didn't even show a hint of remorse.
Did he think his status made him untouchable?
Following her instincts, Irene rose and strode toward him. "Hey."
The moment Adrian turned, Irene swung her fist with every ounce of her strength. Her knuckles connected squarely with his cheek, snapping his head to the side. As his body reeled, a deep crimson bruise bloomed across his pale skin.
To hell with his title. A bastard is a bastard!