Chapter 1. The Beautiful Madman

“Ugh, ah, b-brother…!”

The beautiful young master, being dragged away by the duke, had veins bulging on his temple.

“Brother, I-I was wrong! I didn’t intend to cross-dress from the start! It was just…Lady Gabriella, no, no… It’s all my fault. Please, calm your anger and…”

The horrified expressions of the startled maids, the scattered dress ornaments rolling on the floor—none of it mattered to the duke. Without a second thought, he threw open the nearest door and dragged his younger brother inside.

Bang!

The door slammed shut, locked firmly, and the duke turned around. His expression was one that no one had ever seen before—unfamiliar and menacing.

“Brother! Ugh, ah!”

Mikhail Ophilenz, the duke, flung his frail younger brother, Charles, onto the sofa as though discarding him. A cold laugh escaped his lips.

“Brother? Ha…”

Mikhail paced in front of Charles like a man possessed, running his hands through his hair in frustration before growling, unable to suppress his anger.

“Looking like that… you call me ‘Brother’?”

Laughing like a madman, Mikhail ripped open the buttons of his collar, his heated breath betraying his composure. Yet, no matter how much he tried, the suffocating heat only worsened.

His trembling gaze fell on his cross-dressing younger brother, sitting despondently on the sofa, looking neither amused nor tearful.

Charles’s blue eyes froze in place like shards of ice. The scene unfolded in a blink of an eye.

“Brother! No, no! Please, stop! I beg you…!”

With a rough grasp, the shimmering fabric of the dress was torn to shreds by Mikhail’s violent hands.

The extravagant wig forced onto him, the high-quality gloves pulled to his elbows—all were cast aside with disdain.

As Mikhail yanked at the ribbon tightly cinching Charles’s waist and shredded the rest of the dress, his hands suddenly paused.

“…You.”

His mind went completely blank.

Beneath the torn dress was a delicate curve, a fragile frame that looked as though it might snap if touched.

Charles, his younger brother, was not merely a man in disguise but…

As his trembling hands reached for the thick bandages wrapped around Charles’s chest—

“Please, brother, I’m begging you! Please, please…!”

The heart-wrenching cries froze Mikhail’s coarse hands mid-air, unable to fully expose the truth beneath the last remnants of disguise.

Yet, his chest heaved with scorching breaths.

As if the room was filled solely with their suffocating gasps, the heavy atmosphere pressed in on them.

Mikhail, his voice low and guttural, asked the half-dressed Charles—no, the damned woman before him—

“What is your real name?”

“…”

Before the tear tracks on her pale cheeks could dry, her sapphire eyes spilled yet another round of tears.

That maddening sight wrung a near-sigh from Mikhail’s clenched lips, his expression twisted in disbelief.

“Oliver, was it? Damn it. What’s your real name? Don’t tell me it’s Olivia.”

Finally surrendering to the inevitable, the exposed Emma hesitated, then stammered her response.

“…Emma.”

Still quivering under his fiery gaze, Emma managed to choke out her full name in a dry, trembling voice.

“Emma… Emma Verde.”

Mikhail’s breathing grew heavier again as he stared down at Charles—or rather, Emma—whose stunning blue eyes, riddled with fear, stared back at him.

“You… What the hell were you thinking?”

A hollow laugh escaped him.

Mikhail, beautiful and noble, dragged a hand down his own face, now marred by roughness.

Not only himself but the imperial family had been utterly deceived by Oliver’s ridiculous lie.

“I-I was wrong, brother…”

As he looked at the trembling face of the girl—no longer a boy—pleading for forgiveness, Mikhail let out a bitter, despairing laugh.

“Wrong? Do you think this is something that can be resolved with a pathetic apology?”

“How could you… with that body.”

A body so maddeningly, damnedly beautiful.

That fragile, delicate body, undeniably a woman’s, which seemed as though it might shatter at the slightest touch.

And yet, to accept such a ludicrous order to become the princess’s ‘husband’?

Charles—no, Emma—who had been weeping helplessly, opened her mouth hesitantly, her words slow and broken.

“…I swear before God.”

“…”

“I never, never intentionally meant to deceive you, my lord. Truly, I didn’t.”

Her trembling voice, begging for mercy she could not hope to receive, grated against him unbearably.

“P-please, brother—no, my lord. Please, have mercy on me…”

At Emma’s desperate plea, her breath catching as she spoke, Mikhail’s laughter, which had been spilling out as if he’d lost his mind, abruptly stopped.

“Mercy?”

His growling voice, thick with unrestrained fury, bore down on Emma’s bare shoulders.

“You not only deceived me but mocked the entire royal family. And yet you dare to ask for mercy?”

Emma’s fragile blue eyes, so full of fear, now reflected complete resignation.

Just like the moment she had first accepted the contract.

As if she had made peace with death itself.

“…I will accept whatever punishment you see fit.”

Her tears had dried completely now. Emma, lips parched, muttered in a faint, defeated voice, as though surrendering to her fate.

“Whatever you desire, my lord…”

* * *

“Sh-She’s… pregnant.”

Through Mikhail’s half-parted lips, holding a languid smile as he lounged in a nightgown, cigar smoke trailed lazily into the air.

“Who? Charles? That kid?”

Dr. Hugo, who had served as the Ophilenz family physician for three generations with unshaken pride, failed to hide his mortified expression as he opened his mouth again.

“My lord, I cannot believe it myself, but… that is, young master—no, the young lady Charles—is undoubtedly pregnant.”

Mikhail’s pupils briefly dilated before returning to their usual calm. His damp golden hair, tangled like molten gold threads, glistened under the electric light, drops of water dripping lazily.

Mikhail, brushing away the water trickling ticklishly down his broad chest as if it were an inconvenience, curled his lips into a diagonal smile.

“…I sent her in to treat a gunshot wound, and now she’s pregnant?”

“I-I’m as shocked as you, my lord! All this time, I naturally assumed young master Charles was a man, so—!”

Hugo suddenly froze, caught off guard by Mikhail’s unexpectedly boyish and beautiful laughter. For a moment, Hugo wondered if he was hallucinating.

This was no situation for laughter.

The fact that young master Charles, whom he had always thought to be a man, was actually a woman was shocking enough. But discovering she was pregnant? That was beyond comprehension.

Unfortunately for Hugo, the shocks didn’t end there.

“Emma.”

“…What?”

“That’s her real name. From now on, call her Emma. Emma Verde.”

Setting his cigar aside, Mikhail rose from his seat with a deliberate, predatory grace.

“Let’s go. I’m dying to see what kind of shameless face she’ll make this time.”

Hugo had to quicken his steps to keep up with Mikhail’s long strides, his amber eyes glinting between half-lidded, mischievous lashes that hinted at satisfaction and amusement.

“The wound?”

“As you know, the gunshot wasn’t very deep, so—”

“Not the gunshot.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Mikhail came to a sudden stop.

“I’m asking if her beautiful body will be left with scars.”

Moments ago, Mikhail had been smiling like a carefree boy, but now his expression turned cold and calculating. Hugo, flustered by the shift in demeanor, stammered a reply.

“I’ll do everything I can to ensure there are no marks left, my lord. However…”

“However?”

“…However, the fetus must have been terribly distressed, and that is a concern.”

Mikhail, however, seemed utterly uninterested in the state of the unborn child, his gaze sharp and indifferent.

Crash.

Without hesitation, Mikhail pushed open the door to a room not far away, his amber brows arching at the scene before him.

A maid lay collapsed on the floor, a window was wide open, and the curtains flapped violently in the breeze.

Without hesitation, Mikhail’s hand yanked the linen blanket covering the bed, tossing it aside with a rough sweep.

What he saw made him laugh—half incredulous, half deranged.

“…!”

The physician, still unable to comprehend the situation, stammered incoherently, stumbling backward in shock.

“H-How… how is this possible…?!”

Just moments ago, young master Charles—no, young lady Emma—had been under his care. He had treated her for a gunshot wound.

The injury wasn’t deep, but she had been in a coma for several days before barely regaining consciousness.

And she wasn’t alone in her body; she was pregnant.

But now, the bed was empty, save for a scattered goose feather pillow and dried bloodstains.

Hugo, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, watched as his arrogant master’s composed expression crumbled before his very eyes.

Moments later, the sharp, blaring sound of Mikhail slamming the emergency bell echoed through the mansion, followed by the hurried clatter of footsteps.

Amid the growing chaos, Mikhail’s face betrayed sheer confusion as he muttered, as though trying to make sense of it all.

“Find Charles—no, Emma. She couldn’t have gone far. No, I’ll go myself. Bring me my horse.”

As he strode purposefully toward the door, Mikhail suddenly stopped, spun around, and grabbed Hugo’s shoulder with an iron grip, shaking him violently.

“Does she know too?”

“S-sorry? My lord, I-I don’t understand what you mean…!”

Mikhail’s eyes, wild and unhinged, glared down at Hugo, silencing the man’s protests in his throat.

This was no longer the noble and beautiful Duke of Ophilenz.

He resembled a man entirely consumed by madness.

The beautiful madman, his expression grotesquely twisted, growled through clenched teeth.

“Damn it! Does she know that she’s carrying ‘my’ child?!”