Chapter 5: Paying the Price

Scanning the still-damp ink of the freshly printed newspaper, Mikhail glanced at the clock on his desk and answered dryly.

“Alain, there’s still time. Contact the newspaper office and negotiate a settlement for the desired amount.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Alain replied before exiting the room.

As soon as he left, Gabriella bit her lip, visibly seething.

“Isabella… I knew she was reckless, but I didn’t think she’d stab us in the back like this.”

Mikhail, however, remained unfazed, his expression indifferent.

“That’s typical Isabella. Why are you so surprised?”

“Hah. I’m upset because I spent the whole day being dragged around until my feet were swollen, all while she kept sniffling about how she’d wait for you to propose properly. And now, she pulls this cute little stunt?”

“Well, it makes sense now why she gave up the gallery so easily,” Mikhail said, a hint of amusement curling his lips as he exhaled a puff of cigar smoke.

Gabriella fanned herself dramatically, as if to disperse both the smoke and her disbelief.

“Don’t you think the way you keep indulging Isabella is only feeding her madness? She’s getting worse because of you!”

“And you should remember, Gabriella,” Mikhail said coolly, “that indulging her madness earns the Ophilenz family the unwavering favor of the king. That’s not a trivial matter.”

Gabriella rolled her eyes, exasperated.

“This time, she’s gone too far. And I’m done with her. Do you realize that the entire social circle is already gossiping about Bonchons’ muse shopping arm-in-arm with the crazy princess?”

The “crazy princess” Isabella.

By now, her reputation had become a tired joke among the nobles.

She was the daughter of the king’s last mistress, born in his old age, and had spent years as an outcast, not even acknowledged as royalty.

Then, for reasons unknown, the aging king declared her a legitimate princess, elevating her from her modest status as the daughter of a minor noblewoman.

From that moment, Isabella had taken to strutting through the palace with newfound arrogance.

Her obsession with Mikhail had also begun around then—or, more accurately, Mikhail had begun enduring her relentless fixation.

She was far from a proper royal, much less a proper noble. Isabella was little more than a frivolous spender, a thorn in the treasury’s side, and an embarrassment to the court.

Yet, thanks to the king’s doting favoritism, her pride only seemed to grow.

The real problem lay in her increasing obsession with Mikhail, who was adored by practically everyone.

It wasn’t long before Gabriella retired to her bedroom in frustration, leaving Mikhail alone to sort through his paperwork.

The silence didn’t last long, however.

A servant appeared, his face clouded with unease.

“Your Grace, a telegram has arrived from the royal palace.”

Mikhail’s amber brows arched slightly.

“At this hour?”

As if on cue, the ornately decorated bronze wall clock struck twice.

A telegram from the palace at two in the morning.

Not a good sign.

* * *

Emma—or Oliver—sat in tense silence, unable to bring herself to sip the tea before her.

She stole another glance at Alain, the butler who had arrived at dawn looking haggard, claiming he was there to escort her.

‘Did I ask for too much money?’

‘Or… is he here to tell me the deal is off?’

Oliver knew all too well how fickle nobles could be, their whims changing as easily as flipping a coin. The thought of being summoned so early only to face bad news made her stomach churn with unease.

If the news were bad, it wouldn’t just end at losing the 75 pennies she had asked for. If Madame Charlotte learned that her employee had upset such an esteemed VIP client, Oliver could kiss her job at the boutique goodbye.

Even though she had acted with nothing but good intentions—returning the duke’s missing shoe ornament—intentions mattered little if Mikhail Ophilenz’s mood was sour.

The tea remained untouched, despite the dryness in her throat. She couldn’t bring herself to taste the fine blend served in a cup so exquisite it was worth more than months of her wages.

By the time Mikhail finally arrived, the tea was as cold as the unease in Oliver’s chest.

He entered without apology or preamble, which, Oliver thought, suited him perfectly.

Hesitant, Oliver awkwardly rose to her feet but was quickly stopped when Mikhail, with a flick of his wrist, tossed a folded newspaper onto the tea table.

“Sit.”

The low timbre of Mikhail’s voice carried a faint mix of smoky cigar and a delicate hint of rosewater.

“So, Oliver,” Mikhail began, his golden gaze fixed on her.

“You asked for 75 pennies as your price, didn’t you?”

As Oliver sat down, her movements tentative, she hesitated to answer. Mikhail’s amused scoff filled the air, as if he found her courage to play it calm endearing.

“I’m afraid I’m not pleased with your request,” Mikhail said flatly.

‘Of course not.’

Oliver could tell, even without knowing why, that this beautiful duke was far from pleased.

She wasn’t entirely surprised. This was, after all, how nobles were.

Forcing herself to steady her voice, she managed to reply.

“If my request offended you, my lord…”

“What?”

“I apologize. Please forgive me.”

‘There it is,’ she thought bitterly.

‘I knew it was too good to be true.’

No fortune had ever come easily in Emma Verde’s life, and she hadn’t expected that to change. Yet, the sting of disappointment burned in her chest all the same.

At this point, she thought, even if the duke declared the deal void, it would still be a mercy compared to the worst scenarios she had imagined.

Mikhail leaned forward and slid the newspaper toward her.

“Can you read?”

“Yes, my lord. I can read and write.”

“Then read this.”

Oliver hesitated but picked up the newspaper, her eyes scanning the bold, elaborate headline at the top.

“…‘Duke Ophilenz and Princess Isabella’s Love Bears Fruit: Official Announcement of Their Engagement… The Royal Family Celebrates the Long-Awaited Union.’”

After reading the headline aloud, Oliver paused, unsure if she should continue, and instead added, “Congratulations, my lord.”

“Congratulate me? On being officially tied to that lunatic princess?”

Mikhail’s drawling laugh was as languid as his gaze, which settled on Oliver’s ears—now noticeably reddening.

Oliver hesitated, unsure how to respond, her lips parting slightly before closing again.

Mikhail smirked, clearly enjoying the boy’s flustered state.

“Well?” he prodded, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.

Oliver was aware of the unsavory rumors surrounding the princess, but unfortunately, that was the extent of her knowledge.

So when the duke asked for her opinion on such a monumental engagement, Oliver could only stammer out another vague apology.

“…I’m sorry.”

The duke tilted his head slightly before asking,

“Why do you need 75 pennies?”

“That’s….”

Oliver hesitated, debating whether she could truly beg salvation from this man, who seemed as untouchable as an angel.

But before Oliver could find her words, the duke spoke again, clearly uninterested in Oliver’s answer from the beginning.

“What do you think about entering a ‘real’ contract with me?”

Mikhail didn’t wait for a reply. He gestured for Alain, who handed him another document, which the duke placed on the table.

“750 pounds.”

“…!”

“That’s the amount you’ll receive if you successfully fulfill our contract.”

One pound was equivalent to 240 pennies.

So… 750 pounds…?

As Oliver calculated the staggering number in her head, her face turned ashen.

“Well? Tempted?”

“My lord… I… I’m not sure what you mean….”

Oliver stammered, trembling like prey cornered by a predator. Mikhail’s eyes glinted with amusement.

“I had high expectations for your intelligence. What a disappointment. Do I need to explain again?”

Mikhail leaned back, his tone deliberate.

“I pay you. You do the job. Simple.”

The aristocrats always spoke like this—wrapping their true meaning in layers of elegance until it was almost impossible to understand.

Perhaps the entire proposition was a ruse from the beginning.

Oliver realized belatedly that the duke’s initial promise to pay compensation had been a trap. She had been too naïve to see it.

Now it was clear. This was the duke’s way of saying that everything would be undone, void.

Grasping this, Oliver abruptly stood and dropped to her knees, pressing her forehead against the floor.

“Forgive me, my lord. I don’t know what kind of task you wish to entrust to me, but I’m incapable of repaying a sum that large. Even if you took my life, it would be worthless in comparison.”

Seeing the duke’s furrowed brows, Oliver instinctively lowered her head further.

“Please, my lord, let this matter be forgotten. Or, if it’s something I can pay with my body, I’ll do anything.”

The duke chuckled softly, his voice dripping with mockery.

“How light your knees are, boy.”

“…”

“Alain,” Mikhail said, turning to his butler, “start by fixing this habit of his—apologizing for everything without reason.”

Oliver flinched as Mikhail’s voice, smooth and commanding, drifted toward her.

“Now, let me ask you again, Oliver.”

A single, cool finger, carrying the faint scent of some luxurious bath oil, lifted Oliver’s trembling chin.

“If I told you that you could pay with your body… would you do it?”

Those wide blue eyes of his, filled with alarm, seemed to please Mikhail. Smiling angelically, the duke added,

“I want you to become my younger brother.”