31.
My chest no longer feels heavy.
I found myself staring blankly at that realization as I drifted up from the depths of a deep sleep.
No tightness in my lungs, no throbbing in my temples, and above all…
‘It was such a vivid dream.’
It was a memory, sharp and jagged, from two years after I had first come to know Lancelot and Claunia.
Anita lay still, eyes closed, thoughts swirling in a daze.
‘Twins. Lancelot had looked particularly displeased whenever the topic arose.’
At the time, I had simply dismissed his reaction as the irritability of a man tired of idle gossip.
[I entrust everything of the Edenbahir family to you. I have but one request. Never forget the deaths of your mother and your younger brother.]
Was it because the late Duke Edenbahir’s will had been made public? The expression Lancelot wore that day would not fade from my mind.
‘Could it be that the brother was Lancelot’s twin…?’
If that were the case, his stony silence regarding his siblings finally made sense.
I shouldn’t pry any further. With that resolve, Anita belatedly recalled the circumstances that had landed her in this bed and tentatively touched her forehead.
“Hmm. No holes. That’s a relief.”
I was certain the magician had fired a gun.
Why am I perfectly fine?
“Don’t tell me, somewhere else….”
A wave of cold anxiety washed over me.
Anita struggled to sit up, patting her body down in a frantic search. No bandages, no puncture wounds, no blood.
She was unscathed. The title of the ‘ignorant Duchess’ would not be expanded to include ‘limbless’ after all.
“Haa. Thank God.”
“What is.”
Anita nearly tumbled from the bed, jolting as if struck by a lightning bolt.
Lancelot was sitting in a chair at the bedside. He appeared to have been guarding the post for a long time; his usually sharp, impeccable attire was loosened and disheveled.
“H-how long have you been there?”
Instead of answering, Lancelot exhaled a long, heavy breath—a sound of exhaustion that mirrored the weariness etched into his face.
He fixed his gaze on her, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register.
“Two days.”
“Two days?”
“Since you woke up.”
“What? I was asleep for that long?”
“Yes. I ripped apart and burned that trashy wedding dress that sent my wife into respiratory failure, so be aware of that.”
*My wife.*
The mention of the dress didn’t even register. At the piercing, jolting weight of the title, Anita forgot how to breathe.
That’s right, he and I.
‘Are married.’
Since Lancelot had offered me his silver sword, his soul had become my possession. Even if it were for only the briefest moment.
Anita forced a semblance of composure and steered the conversation elsewhere.
“What about Aunt Matilda?”
“She’s fine. Better than you. Focus on your own recovery instead of worrying about others.”
“That… what about that man?”
The magician who had disguised himself as a servant.
Lancelot’s eyes narrowed into thin, dangerous slits.
“I lost the assassin. I intend to increase your security for the time being. Refrain from going out, and stay by my side at all times.”
“Okay.”
He lost him. Somehow, it wasn’t surprising.
In fact, I had suspected as much the moment I woke up without a scratch. The magician must have escaped by using her unconscious body as a shield. It was the only way he could have slipped away alive.
Still, it was unnerving to realize he hadn’t finished her off while he had the chance.
‘Regardless, it’s a relief that no one else was hurt.’
Letting out a shaky sigh of relief, Anita cleared her throat.
“Um, Lancelot. I’m covered in sweat and would like to wash up….”
“Wash up.”
“Right. I should do that.”
Contrary to his words, Lancelot remained motionless in his chair.
He said I should wash up, didn’t he?
“Aren’t you… leaving?”
“Leaving? This is my room, Anita Boellony.”
Oh. Startled, I looked around the bedroom; it certainly wasn’t the one I had been using.
‘I’ve been in Lancelot’s room for two days….’
Blushing, Anita hurriedly tried to climb out of bed.
“Ah! Sorry, I’ll head out now….”
“And it is your room, as well.”
The legs Anita had moved to stand went rigid.
“From now on, this is our bedroom. We will live, wash, suffer through illness, and sleep here together. Keep that in mind.”
*Together.* The word struck a chord in her chest. Anita reflexively opened her mouth.
“But… we’re going to divorce.”
Lancelot looked at her blankly before murmuring an affirmation.
“Yes.”
Ah! Why did I say that? Anita immediately regretted it, her heart sinking.
Had she wanted him to argue that they should live as a real couple? No—it was clearly what she wanted, and the lamentation had spilled out before she could catch it.
“We will share this space for the sake of appearances, but I will be sleeping in the adjacent room, so do not worry. I have no intention of touching you in the middle of the night.”
The adjacent room… if it’s the adjacent room….
[Place spare bedrooms on both sides of the couple’s bedroom. For the sake of moving comfortably every night.]
[As this is an agreed-upon marriage, make sure to clearly separate your personal bedrooms. That way, each of you can comfortably bring in your own lovers.]
The voice of Countess Milena discussing lovers surfaced in her mind.
Lovers—also known as an affair, a true romantic partner.
‘Since we’ve gone as far as consummating the marriage, this is a reality I must face.’
Lancelot’s lover. It was an existence difficult to imagine, but he was, after all, a man.
As long as their relationship remained a contractual charade, condoning each other’s lovers was a natural, pragmatic consideration. It would be better to prepare for the sting now than to be blindsided later.
That was why Anita mustered the courage to suggest it.
“I think it would be better if the rooms were a little further apart.”
Lancelot furrowed his brow.
“What do you mean?”
“I thought it might be a way to respect each other more.”
Lancelot clamped his mouth shut.
A cold, piercing gaze settled upon Anita. The look in his eyes, examining her features, felt like a predator gauging its prey—contemplating where and how to begin.
He gave the impression of a man forcibly swallowing words he loathed to speak.
“…So be it. If that is what you wish.”
Did he think her suggestion was an overstep?
Even though I knew he wasn’t that kind of person, I felt self-conscious. I didn’t want to be hated by Lancelot.
“Thank you.”
“How is your physical condition?”
His voice sounded even colder than before, so Anita answered quickly.
“I’m starving, so I think there are no problems. I’m quite healthy.”
“Then we shall proceed as planned and move to Hixen in two weeks.”
“To Hixen? Why? …Ah.”
I have to meet the King for the ceremony of succession.
From the moment he receives the King’s recognition, Lancelot will officially succeed to the dukedom and become the new head of the Edenbahir family.
Few nobles receive their title directly from the King. It served as a testament to the nobility of Lancelot’s bloodline.
Since the ceremony was only four days apart from the Queen’s birth anniversary, the capital would be swarming with nobility.
“When we return from the capital… you will have officially become the Duchess of Edenbahir.”
Lancelot, who had been leaning back, slowly rose to his feet. He picked up a white cloth from the chair and draped it over Anita’s bare shoulders.
Only then did Anita realize she was in a light slip.
However, she lacked the presence of mind to cover herself properly. The sensation of his palm, firm and heavy through the thin fabric, sent a chill down the back of her neck.
“Since it was I who dragged you into this, I have no intention of restricting your freedom. Do whatever you wish. Use this family’s honor, its wealth, its people—all of it. However….”
At the end of his overbearing whisper, his icy green eyes flashed with a warning.
“While you hold the title of the Duchess of Edenbahir, do not forget that you are my woman.”
His hand pulled away, cooling as it retreated.
Lancelot left the bedroom, his footsteps echoing with a finality that betrayed no lingering attachment. Even after he had vanished, Anita could not tear her eyes away from the empty doorway.
I was simply pathetic.
Feeling a faint, treacherous ecstasy at his declaration of ‘my woman.’
So very much so.