Chapter 6: The Princess’s Taste

Early Morning

The streets of Bonchons were already filled with the loud cries of newsboys.

“Extra! Extra!
Princess Isabella and Duke Ophilenz are getting engaged!”

Before long, the shocking news of the engagement had spread everywhere, leaving no corner of the city untouched by the chatter.

Clatter.

The door creaked open, and Emma, looking utterly exhausted, stepped inside. Melanie, buzzing with excitement, greeted her.

“Did you hear? That incredible Angel Duke is finally getting married. Do you know who the bride is? It’s…”

“Sorry, Melanie. I’m really tired right now.”

Emma’s dull response made Melanie furrow her brow slightly.

“Where have you been wandering off to since early morning? Madame Charlotte is ready to scold you again.”

As Emma gathered the tools scattered across the worn nightstand, a flicker of unease passed through her blue eyes.

“Madame Charlotte? Why?”

Melanie placed two boiled potatoes on a tray for Emma and added.

“She seems to be in a really foul mood today. One of the maids even got her palm slapped for accidentally serving a hard-boiled egg. You know how Madame only eats soft-boiled eggs.”

“Melanie, wait.”

“What?”

Emma looked around nervously, lowering her voice.

“By any chance, today…”

“By any chance what?”

“…Never mind.”

Melanie, noticing her sister’s unusually indifferent behavior, frowned but soon responded to someone calling her from outside.

“Yes, I’m coming!”

As Melanie hurriedly tied her hair up, Emma scolded her in a worried tone.

“Don’t tie your hair so high. Make sure your neck stays covered.”
“Honestly, sister. I’m seventeen now. I’m too old to walk around with my hair down like a child.”
“What about braiding it into two plaits? That would still look cute on you.”

Melanie sighed, tying her hair tightly.

“Sister, please. I’m seventeen.”

Emma couldn’t bring herself to tell her little sister that the brothel master had started eyeing her. Instead, she quietly rubbed her face in frustration.

“Fine. Go on, Melanie.”

As Melanie left, Emma stared blankly at the two potatoes her sister had left behind, recalling the absurd proposition made by Bonchons’ so-called angel earlier.

I want you to become my younger brother.

His languid yet sweet voice echoed vividly in her ears, as if he were still standing right there.

It’s not a difficult task. Just think of it as an opportunity for social elevation. It’s nothing short of a once-in-a-lifetime chance for you.

Of course, she had refused.

Emma couldn’t become anyone’s “younger brother.”

But the man, with his beautiful honey-colored eyes glowing, elegantly threatened her.

If you change your mind, come find me anytime. Just remember, my patience isn’t endless.

Before Emma’s frustrated expression could fully settle, a loud voice called her false name from outside.

“Hey, Oliver! You’re dragging your feet today!”

“Yes, I’m coming, sir!”

Startled, Emma—no, Oliver—fidgeted with the buttons on her shirt before jumping up and running outside.

“Well, kid. What’s got you dragging today?”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t sleep well last night…”

Vincent, a fellow apprentice at Madame Charlotte’s furniture factory, ruffled Oliver’s golden hair without permission and scolded her.

“Don’t tell me you’re all worked up over those actresses at that new theater around the corner?”

“N-no, sir. Not at all.”

“Not at all, huh? Your neck’s already flushed red, kid.”

Snickering, Vincent tousled her hair again, leaning close enough for the cheap smell of shaving cream to fill the air, and offered his advice.

“If you want to become a compagnon, you’d better steer clear of distractions like that. Got it? There’s no shortage of sharp-eyed women out there looking to swipe the coins from the back pockets of naive kids like you.”

“…Um, sir.”

“What is it?”

But Oliver couldn’t bring herself to ask if Vincent had any money.

Vincent might have been acting carefree, joking around as usual, but she couldn’t forget what she knew. Only a month ago, Vincent had lost his young son to a sudden fever.

The milkman’s words about how Vincent still cried out his son’s name at night, drunkenly wandering the tavern, came to her mind again.

Back then, when she heard the boy was sick, all she could afford to bring was a single string of eggs. The memory made her silently shake her head.

“It’s nothing. Let’s get going.”

“Kid, you’re such a buzzkill. Come on, let’s move.”

In the end, Oliver followed Vincent into the dusty furniture factory, her deepening worries swirling in her mind.

* * *

The serene Ryn River flowed gracefully across Bonchons, its surface dotted with scattered blossoms drifting downstream like snowflakes.

Especially on the opposite bank, Avenir Street, renowned as a masterpiece of divine craftsmanship, lived up to its reputation with its splendor and beauty.

It was a place where ancient, historic architecture blended harmoniously with the vibrant blooms of spring.

Among these landmarks stood the crowning jewel, Viole Castle, situated on the highest ground and regarded as the symbol of Bonchons and the pride of the Ophilenz family.

Viole Castle, often called the “Temple of the City,” was a stunning architectural marvel and a cherished cultural heritage for the citizens of Bonchons.

The castle’s fame stemmed from the foresight of a former Duke Ophilenz, who had purchased an abandoned royal cathedral during a time of royal financial strife and remodeled it into the grand residence it is today.

This magnificent castle gained even more renown when the current Duke, Mikhail Ophilenz, took up residence there with his twin sister, Gabriella.

It was now 8:30 in the morning, the time when the bright spring sunlight of Bonchons poured generously through the arched, pearl-like marble windows of Viole Castle.

Yet, the master of the castle, Mikhail de Ophilenz, showed no intention of drawing the heavy velvet curtains, content to sip his brandy in solitude.

The head maid, ever observant, had wisely decided to skip cleaning the duke’s chambers in today’s schedule and kept silent about the brewing storm that had suddenly swept in during the early hours.

As always, perfection was paramount at Viole Castle, even down to the air itself.

Thanks to this, Mikhail could leisurely savor his half-filled crystal glass of brandy, sipping slowly at his own pace.

…Although, judging by his sharp expression, he did not seem to be enjoying himself.

Until yesterday, Mikhail had appeared composed, but his demeanor had grown noticeably tenser after receiving successive royal messages.

The issue at hand was the Royal Art Gallery.

“So, the Royal Art Gallery was Isabella’s only inheritance?”

“Yes. It seems it was a gift personally granted to Princess Isabella by His Majesty.”

Even Alain, who had spent the entire night with Mikhail dealing with Isabella’s antics, showed no sign of easing his tension despite his exhaustion.

“What an inheritance. Considering how much they’ve spoiled her, I thought it would be something spectacular. But a mere art gallery?”
“Yes. And thanks to that ‘mere art gallery,’ Your Grace has now unwillingly accepted the royal engagement gift.”

Apparently, even Isabella herself hadn’t realized it was her inheritance.

Understandable.

After all, a mere opera singer, a young widow once favored by King Verlenna, had received a massive estate and vineyards in the southern region.

While the art gallery held some cultural value, it was far too modest to befit a royal princess’s inheritance.

Mikhail had unwittingly fallen into the cunning trap set by the aging king, who had cleverly disguised the meager inheritance as a grand royal wedding gift.

The real issue, however, was that Mikhail had no intention of taking this manipulation lying down.

“What about that girl? Is the plan ready?”

Alain nodded.

“It’s as you’d expect. The girl has been given a price tag.”

At Alain’s report, Mikhail couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

“The his sister must be worth quite a bit. Boldly turning down 750 pounds—maybe she’s some foreign princess,” Mikhail said with a smirk.

“He’s probably just naive. Receiving such an offer out of nowhere, it would be hard to accept right away. Especially when it involves becoming Your Grace’s younger brother…” Alain replied, exhaling a heavy sigh.

Mikhail, with a graceful gesture, swept back his flowing golden hair and responded calmly.

“I’m simply giving the king a taste of his own medicine. Don’t feel too guilty about it, Alain.”

“Even so, this is…” Alain hesitated.

“It’s not unreasonable,” Mikhail interrupted.

“What’s wrong with showing up with a fake younger brother to match the fake engagement gift?”

“Do you really think Princess Isabella will fall for such an absurd charade?”

Mikhail’s honey-colored eyes glimmered suddenly, like precious jewels.

“Of course she will. He’s quite striking, you know—exactly Isabella’s type.”
TL/N: They are talking about her sister Melanie you guys will findout in the next chap why