Chapter 4: An Unexpected Eye

Oliver, shaken by the unexpected praise, didn’t relax but instead asked cautiously in a trembling voice, “Then… does this suffice as payment?”

Mikhail smirked at the boy’s polite yet audacious proposal.

The trinket was nothing—easily replaceable with a new order.

Still, letting him off with just this token felt unsatisfying.

Truthfully, Mikhail found the boy rather endearing, if only because he had so effectively rid him of Isabella.

For a brief moment, he noticed a flicker of fear pass through Oliver’s beautiful eyes.

Mikhail paused, letting the tension hang in the air before speaking again, his voice laced with an almost charitable condescension.

“Your name?”

“Oliver. Oliver Enel.”

“Age?”

“I turned twenty this year.”

“What do you do? You don’t seem like just another beggar.”

“I manage antiques at Madame Charlotte’s Objet Boutique. I also do odd jobs like this from time to time.”

“Madame Charlotte, huh.”

Mikhail’s gaze shifted slightly, intrigued. He was a VIP client of Charlotte’s boutique, ‘Lilium.’

“So, you knew who I was?”

“Only from the client list. And, well… you’re rather famous, my lord.”

Ignoring the anxious glance from his head butler, Alain, Mikhail slowly took out a cigar and lit it.

The thick smoke curled toward Oliver, spreading its pungent aroma around his face.

Mikhail, unbothered by the heavy scent, observed the boy with faint amusement as Oliver remained perfectly still, showing no signs of discomfort or complaint.

His instinctive appreciation for aesthetics prompted him to take a closer look at the boy.

Delicate features for a man, almost fragile. Though smudged with dirt and partially hidden beneath a worn hat, it was clear that, once cleaned up, the boy could rival any noble’s looks.

It was the kind of face that would likely invite trouble—an easy target for street thugs. But the defiant glint in Oliver’s eyes betrayed a toughness forged through hardship.

It was almost laughable how that stubbornness, combined with his ethereal features, gave him an oddly captivating beauty.

“Interesting.”

Mikhail’s low murmur floated with the heavy, bitter scent of his cigar, wrapping once more around Oliver’s face.

“All right, Oliver. Show me your hand.”

“…Excuse me?”

Oliver blinked, certain he must have misheard.

“Pardon me, my lord, but what did you say?”

“Your hand. The one I stepped on earlier.”

Oliver hesitated, glancing down at his hand, still throbbing slightly. Slowly, he extended it toward Mikhail, unsure of what to expect.

However, Oliver knew all too well that when a noble extended unexpected kindness, it was never wise to accept it without caution.

Instead of offering his hand, Oliver pulled it back and politely declined.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Still, it’s a hand that worked hard to protect the dignity of my precious handmade shoes. Come now, let me take a look. Just to check for any injuries.”

“It’s really fine, my lord.”

Mikhail’s lips still carried a faintly amused smile, but Oliver was in no position to notice or interpret it.

“Alain.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Mikhail turned to his butler, who was carefully retrieving the ivory trinket from atop his shoe.

“Find out what this boy wants as compensation and ensure he’s paid properly.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“And Isabella?”

“She just left for the department store with Lady Gabriella.”

“Perfect.”

Mikhail gave Oliver a light pat on the back, adding with a teasing lilt in his voice, “You need to grow taller if you want to make women fall for you so easily.”

At that moment, the tips of Oliver’s ears turned crimson, as if crushed rose petals had been strewn across the marble floor.

Mikhail briefly chuckled to himself, wondering how much more vivid that blush might have been if the boy were clean.

Leaning closer, Mikhail’s low, velvety voice brushed against Oliver’s burning ears like a whisper carried on the humid greenhouse air.

“Don’t pretend to be innocent.”

Between them, the subtle scent of peonies, likely blooming somewhere in the greenhouse, mingled with the damp air.

Tap.

Mikhail touched Oliver’s shoulder once more before turning away with effortless grace.

“Do your best. I’ll leave you to it.”

Oliver could barely bring himself to watch Mikhail’s retreating figure, his teeth sinking into the inside of his lip.

For some reason, his heart felt as though it had leapt into his throat, only to settle again just as quickly.

Rubbing his flushed cheek against his sleeve, he struggled to calm his unsteady breathing.

He thought to himself how fortunate it was that his face, dirtied and grimy, had hidden his expressions so well today.

* * *

Late Night

As Mikhail listened to Alain relay Oliver’s requested compensation, he couldn’t help but chuckle in disbelief.

Setting his pen down, he reached for a cigar out of habit.

“So, how much did he ask for?”

Alain shrugged slightly as he replied.

“Exactly 75 pennies.”

“Not even a single gold coin?”

“75 pennies, my lord.”

Mikhail frowned, clearly unimpressed by the modest sum.

“Alain, remind me—how much do my shoes cost?”

“120 pennies.”

Alain, unfazed, added matter-of-factly, “Given that the average annual wage for a day laborer is around 200 pennies, it seems the boy asked for a fair price.”

Mikhail, however, still seemed dissatisfied, his handsome features twisting into a slight scowl.

“Listen, Alain. I am the head of the Ophilenz family. Just yesterday, I purchased an entire art gallery. For someone like me, asking for a mere 75 pennies is absurdly… principled.”

“Well… perhaps,” Alain replied diplomatically.

“Or maybe he’s just naïve,” Mikhail muttered, recalling the boy’s flushed ears and unpolished demeanor.

Noticing his master’s irritation, Alain smoothly interjected with a practiced, soothing tone.

“Does the deal displease you, my lord?”

“Not at all. Go ahead and pay him.”

Cigar perched between his teeth, Mikhail distractedly flipped through the ledgers on his desk, already preoccupied with the tedious tasks awaiting him.

Just as his brow began to furrow, Alain seized the opportunity to press further.

“Those brown shoes, my lord—you were particularly fond of them, weren’t you?”

Mikhail raised an eyebrow at the comment.

“You personally requested the Ophilenz crest be carved into brown ivory and affixed to them, if I recall correctly,” Alain added.

“Your memory serves you well.”

“The boy recognized their value,” Alain noted, his tone tinged with subtle admiration.

For a moment, Mikhail’s golden eyes gleamed with amusement, and a faint smile curved his lips.

Alain, ever perceptive, leaned in.

“Shall I call for him?”

“What?”

“It’s rare to find someone with an eye for quality that matches yours, my lord. Besides, we’re due to bring in new imports soon.”

Mikhail exhaled a puff of cigar smoke, staring out the window in thought.

“Spring has arrived,” he mused.

“Time to launch the ships.”

In the Ophilenz family tradition, spring marked the season for sending out trading vessels, a principle upheld for generations.

Speed and innovation had always been the key to the family’s success—a lesson Mikhail’s predecessor, Duke Verdona Ophilenz, had instilled in him when passing down the family’s wealth and legacy.

The challenge, however, was that not every ship returned with a perfect haul.

“Sending fools to procure goods just brings back trash,” Mikhail remarked dryly.

Alain nodded. “That’s why I believe this boy could be useful. Madame Charlotte doesn’t let just anyone into her circles, after all.”

Back to Oliver.

Alain continued, recalling the numerous collectors Mikhail had dismissed in the past.

“For someone working manual labor, he’s surprisingly polite and modest. As you saw, he has a discerning eye and a disarmingly honest demeanor. In many ways, he might be well-suited for the task.”

Before Mikhail could respond, the door flew open without a knock, disrupting the room’s calm atmosphere.

Gabriella stormed in, her blue satin robe fluttering, scattering the cloud of cigar smoke.

“Something terrible has happened, brother!”

“Gabriella,” Mikhail said, voice sharp with reprimand.

“No matter how urgent, you should still carry yourself with dignity.”

Ignoring his scolding, Gabriella slammed a newspaper onto his desk.

“Isabella,” she said, her voice quivering with indignation.

“She published an article announcing her engagement to you! She even claimed she has His Majesty’s blessing!”

* * *

Returning home, Oliver slowly peeled off his sweat-and-rain-soaked shirt, the stale stench of the day clinging to the fabric.

The bruised, blood-tinged imprints left by the weight of the marble he had hauled all day spread across his shoulders like a mark of punishment.

But as his shoulders were revealed, they didn’t show bare skin. Instead, a tightly wrapped bandage encased his chest.

“…Haah.”

Just peeling off one layer felt like he could finally breathe.

Clack.

From the dimly lit corner, the sound of an old wooden latch locking securely reached his ears. Moments later, a girl with almond-colored hair entered, carrying a plate of stale bread and boiled potatoes.

“The door’s locked tight. You can take it all off now.”

“Thanks, Melanie.”

As Melanie set down a candlestick and lit the wick, a sharp gasp escaped her lips.

“Good heavens! What happened to your shoulders? And your hands—what is this?”

Only now noticing the scratches on his hands, Oliver brushed his aching shoulder absentmindedly.

“It’s nothing.”

Even in the dim light, Oliver’s thin frame was painfully apparent. He’d always been naturally slim, but lately, his figure had grown increasingly gaunt, a fact that brought tears to Melanie’s eyes.

“How much longer are you going to work at that gallery? Can’t you go back to sorting warehouses like before?”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“Fine? There’s nothing fine about this! Can’t you take care of yourself for once? What are you going to do if you really ruin your body?”

Melanie sighed in frustration and grabbed Oliver’s shoulders, spinning him around.

“Enough. Let’s get this off.”

“Take it slow.”

“No. It’s suffocating just looking at it.”

“I’m used to it now. If I don’t wear it, I feel like something’s missing.”

Even though Oliver’s reply was playful, Melanie stayed silent, her expression heavy.

Soon, the bandages wound tightly around Oliver’s chest came undone, revealing a pair of rounded breasts.

The contrast was startling—her frail, bony frame juxtaposed against the surprisingly full shape hidden beneath the bindings.

As Melanie’s gaze lingered on the angry red marks left behind by the tight bandages, tears spilled from her eyes.

“…Look at this, sister. Your skin is all raw and bruised.”

“Shh. You’re too loud, Melanie.”

Munching on a piece of dry bread, Oliver—or rather, Emma—grinned, her chest now completely exposed.

Ruffling Melanie’s hair to soothe her sobs, Emma took a gulp of sour wine and suddenly spoke.

“I think I might be able to get the money.”

“What? What kind of nonsense is that? How would that much money just appear out of nowhere?”

Emma’s thin face, incongruous with the brightness of her smile, lit up with a mischievous expression.

“Because today, I met an angel.”