21.
Volches’s expression as he checked the paper envelope was one of pure confusion, as if he couldn’t fathom what she was saying.
Anita ignored him and tore the envelope open. Inside, a small, neatly folded note awaited her.
‘Father.’
Her eyes stung. The handwriting, the phrasing, the cadence—it was unmistakably her father’s.
‘When on earth did he prepare this?’
Although it was Volches’s deceit that had lured Anita to the villa, it seemed undeniable that her father had anticipated this very moment.
He must be alive, somewhere in this land.
‘But to send me to a lawyer in Hixen…’
The paper was the only thing in the envelope. There was no address for George, no further instructions.
“I—I know nothing! A mysterious man came at night and told me to deliver that note.” Volches stammered.
“A mysterious man gave it to you?”
“Yes. He had his hat pulled low. I’m not lying! I didn’t want to hurt anyone… he just said if I gave this to you and told you it was from the Duke, I’d be paid.”
“Did you take money to tell that lie?”
“……”
Volches’s silence was his final, futile act of self-preservation.
If he was telling the truth, there was nothing left to ask. Anita let out a long, weary sigh and handed the envelope to Lancelot. She hoped that if anyone knew of the figure mentioned in the note, it would be him.
“I found this at the villa. It’s a note my father left for me.”
Lancelot merely glanced at the envelope.
“Check the contents again.”
“…Check them?”
“Yes. Read them and memorize them.”
There wasn’t much to memorize, but sensing the gravity in his tone, she checked the paper once more, then tucked it back into the envelope.
“Did you memorize it?”
“Yes.”
Only then did Lancelot, who had been sitting as if pinned to his seat, rise. Taking the envelope, he stood by the passage and called out to Volches.
“Volches.”
Volches looked up from the floor, his eyes wide with terror.
“Y-yes?”
“I will spare your life, as you asked. But there is a condition.”
“R-really? Anything, I’ll do whatever you—”
“When that mysterious man comes for you, tell him this.”
*Snap.*
The edges of the envelope curled into charred black. Within the flickering blue flame, the paper twisted like the roots of an old tree, crumbling into fine ash that drifted away.
Lancelot had incinerated the note without even reading it.
“Tell him: The testament of Vincent Boellony is known only to Anita Boellony. If you want it, come find me yourself. In front of me.”
“T-thank you!”
So that was why he’d insisted she memorize it.
‘The lawyer in Hixen, George Pager.’
George Pager. George Pager.
As Anita repeated the name of the man whose face she had never seen, Volches was dragged off the train by the Edenbahir attendants.
“Thank you for sparing my life, Duke! Miss Anita! Thank you…”
Even though the train had ground to a halt, they weren’t at a station.
‘Still, I can see Shavalon from here.’
It would be a half-day trek on foot. Anita was secretly struck by how quickly they had arrived. She must have been utterly exhausted.
[When that mysterious man comes for you, tell him clearly.]
[The testament of Vincent Boellony is known only to Anita Boellony, so if you want to take it, come find me yourself. In front of Lancelot Edenbahir.]
As she pondered Lancelot’s provocation, she steeled herself.
“Lancelot. You know who this mysterious man is, don’t you?”
The train, stationary for a moment, began to lurch forward again. Lancelot steadied her as she swayed, his hand lingering on her waist before he whispered.
“Edenbahir.”
What?
The firm pressure of his hand against her waist slowly faded. At first, she thought it was a riddle.
‘Does he mean himself?’
No. If Lancelot were the one behind this, he wouldn’t have chartered a train to come and save her. And the Duke of Edenbahir, currently wasting away on a sickbed, was far too compromised to be the mastermind.
That left only one person.
“Don’t tell me… is the Grand Duchess aiming for my father’s testament?”
Lancelot’s silence was confirmation enough. She gasped.
“How much could she possibly loathe me and my father?”
“Loathe?”
“Isn’t it?”
“That is a creative interpretation. Unfortunately, no.”
“Then what is it?”
“Wealth.”
Anita felt the answer was even more absurd than the idea of petty grudges. The Boellony family had been prosperous for generations, certainly, but not on a scale that would tempt the Grand Duchess of Edenbahir.
Lancelot leaned in, his gaze piercing through her.
“You know nothing. Do you have any idea how much capital is tied to the name of Vincent Boellony?”
She paused, considering the fortune she had helped her father manage.
“One-third of the assets held by the nobles of Montebio.”
“…What?”
“You’ve heard of the Callasgo Trust, haven’t you? It has two primary owners: Vincent Boellony and the Duke of Edenbahir.”
She knew of the real estate company, but she had never been privy to its inner workings.
“The Grand Duchess wants the authority over your father’s share—the split that governs the company. The rights that, by his disappearance, now pass to you.”
“But Boellony is bankrupt. Surely the ownership should—”
“It doesn’t pass. Because the authority your father held was not merely a share of the assets.”
“Are you talking about the investment management rights?”
It was a nominal right, or so she had always thought. Was there more to it than that?
Lancelot nodded. In that moment, a lightning bolt of realization struck her.
“…That’s why you proposed to me.”
He was silent for a long moment before he spoke, his voice measured.
“The Grand Duchess tries to control me and all of Edenbahir. My father tried to escape her grasp for years, but to my eyes, it was a miserable failure.”
It was a cold, sharp confession. The rift between the Edenbahir men and the Grand Duchess was no secret, despite her performative displays of affection toward Lancelot.
“I have no intention of repeating his mistakes. To take Edenbahir, I need power.”
His green eyes locked onto hers with predatory focus.
“You go find your father. Take your revenge. Reclaim your rights. In exchange, I will protect you and…”
And protect the investment management rights of the Callasgo Trust.
“Don’t overcomplicate this, Anita Boellony. It’s simply a business arrangement—a marriage of convenience.”
His voice was low, intimate, and impossibly tender—the kindest he had ever been to her.
“When this is all over, I will divorce you. Naturally, there will be no children. So that whatever remains between us won’t hold you back.”