- Hmm. In any case, Clerk Ambrose, from now on, be punctual...
The lengthy reprimand continued until the half-empty office was filled with people.
- Is the swearing finally over for today?
As Tilia trudged back to her seat, completely exhausted, Norbert Karel, who was sitting next to her, grinned.
- Well, at least you were lucky that it ended quickly.
- Clerk Ambrose! Come here!
- Oh, it looks like not.
Just as she was about to reach her place, Alma called out to her again. Raising his eyebrows playfully, Norbert Karel leaned back slightly in amusement.
Suppressing the desire to turn everything upside down, Tilia headed to the department head’s desk, where a report was immediately thrown at her.
- What kind of work is this? You can't even follow the correct format?!
The irritation in Alma's voice was palpable. With her usual apologetic expression, Tilia simply nodded as her gaze moved to the plant behind Alma.
The expensive plant, given by the Director of Foreign Affairs and grown with such devotion by Alma, was now speckled with white spots, as if suffering from some kind of disease. Its sharp tips were already turning brown, on the verge of withering.
Apparently, excessive watering had its effect.
Tilia, half-listening to the hysterics of the middle-aged woman, thought absentmindedly.
“I should pour another jug in there before I leave.” Then, when the director arrives, he will see how close it is to death.”
-...Clerk! Clerk Ambrose! Are you even listening to me?
- Yes, I'm listening. Sorry.
Alma, who was screaming at the top of her lungs, finally ended her long tirade only when the awkwardness of the other employees became too obvious.
Returning to her desk, Tilia, receiving sympathetic glances, opened the report handed to her.
Red lines crossed the page irritably. Although she wrote it exactly the same as her predecessor, each section was marked with revisions.
Tilia took a deep breath.
What's the point of taking your anger out on a plant? A dead flower won't work overtime for her.
At the academy, his abilities and efforts were enough to deserve recognition. But this was the cold, ruthless Foreign Affairs Consulate in Ontario. Even with the prestigious title of being a graduate of the Royal Academy, she was simply lucky to get a position here. As a poor foreigner from a distant country, she had no opportunity to advance in her career.
Just look at this scene. Everyone resented Alma for taking out her frustrations over being denied a promotion on the lowest-ranking employee, but no one dared approach the pathetic clerk to show support.
At the Ontario consulate, it was not administrative skills that were important, but political maneuvering. No one wasted time on an insignificant clerk who had neither connections nor wealth.
"Doesn't matter. Just get back to work."
Swallowing another sigh, Tilia picked up her pen to edit the report.
-Did you see this?
As expected, another stimulus appeared.
“The past Duke of Davenport has finally passed away.
Norbert Karel leaned back in his chair and casually looked through the newspaper.
- Poor Duke Davenport. As if it wasn't enough for him to lose his brother in that crew accident last year, now his father was also a victim of the fallout from that incident.
Clicking his tongue as if talking about his unfortunate neighbor, he looked at Tilia, who, keeping an impassive expression on her face, took out a ruler.
Muttering something under his breath, he leaned a little closer to her.
“However, it looks like the Duke of Davenport will soon be marrying his beautiful bride.” What do you think?
- What am I thinking about?
Applying the ruler to the white paper, Tilia indifferently drew a straight line. Perfectly aligned lines appeared on the page one after another.
- If they get married, they will get married.
- But Clerk Ambrose, you know both Ilex Davenport and Cecelia Clayton, don't you? The three of you attended the Royal Akansis Academy together.
- Like many others.
- Still, you should know something. It is said that the Duke of Davenport was known for his promiscuity during his time at the academy.
At this probing remark, the hand that was mechanically drawing lines stopped. Tilia's cold green eyes met those of the man next to her, who was grinning slyly.
- Sir.
- Yes. And what? Were you really close?
- No. And more importantly, have you finished the report the boss asked for yesterday?
- Oh, exactly.
Muttering absentmindedly, he yawned lazily, as if his interest had already waned. Observing his indifferent posture as he leaned back in his chair, Tilia frowned slightly.
- Please finish it. Instead of wasting time chatting over the newspaper.
- God, stop grumbling. What's the big deal if he's a little late?
Stretching with exaggerated ease, he muttered casually, tossing the newspaper aside.
- No matter how late I am, I will not be scolded as much as you, Clerk Ambrose.
***
Annoying bastard.
Tilia walked down the long corridor, suppressing the urge to throw the folders and documents she was carrying.
Back when she was at the academy, she would have kicked him in the shin. But now, bound by social expectations and salary, she could do nothing but seethe.
She took a deep breath as she walked across the artfully paved floor.
But he was not wrong. No matter how late he is, he won't be scolded like she was.
Norbert Karel was the grandson of the director of foreign affairs. Tilia Ambrose was the daughter of a baronial family that crumbled to dust.
Her steps became heavier, as if she was eager to find a stone to kick on the clean marble floor.
No matter how flawlessly she performed her duties, she would never be promoted higher than Norberta Karel.
This is not an academy where skills alone determine destiny. In this world, personal connections mattered more than talent.
That is why her duties included delivering documents to the royal office, which was located quite far from the Bureau of Foreign Affairs.
Tilia was a lowly clerk with no powerful backing or political skills to curry favor or manipulate others.
Whoever said Ontario has more freedom and equality is a liar. People are the same everywhere.
Mocking her younger self, who had once dreamed of a foreign paradise, she moved forward indifferently.
She had mountains of work that needed to be done and now she was stuck doing field work. She'll probably have to work overtime again today.
Again unable to hold back her sigh, she turned her head with a sullen expression on her face.
Oh.
But the moment she turned, a faint glimmer of life returned to her pale face.
After all, life doesn't always have to be completely miserable. Sometimes she gives unexpected, luxurious spectacles.
To enter the Royal Chancellery from the Foreign Office, one had to go through the security checkpoint in the square and then through the north wing.
The northern wing led directly into the main courtyard of the palace, known as the "Royal Garden". It was a grand structure with an arched colonnade bordering the central gardens.
Behind the white colonnades lies the vibrant greenery of late spring in full bloom.
Carefully tended flower beds filled the air with a fresh scent.
Bright red tulips and golden marigolds. Deep purple anemones and clusters of fiery orange ranunculus.
Although she recognized only a few of the countless flowers, she could still appreciate the rich scent of spring that they exuded.
A fresh breeze, which seemed to blow from the huge back garden, blew the hem of her skirt and the ends of her long hair.
Without realizing it, Tilia smiled when she smelled the familiar scent.
Truly, this garden was too beautiful to ignore by frowning and looking at the ground.
Turning her gaze to the side, she let the breathtaking scenery follow her slow steps.
Perhaps because she walked around the academy grounds more than anything else in her life, whenever she saw the beautiful garden, her thoughts always returned to the landscape of the Royal Academy.
Although they had never walked together in bright daylight. Although the bright colors of the flowers remained hidden under the shadows of the night.
Whenever she saw the dazzling array of plants, she instinctively remembered the night academy.
More precisely, the man who walked with her through the darkness.
Ilex Davenport.
As his name flashed through her mind, accompanied by a slight pain, the memories she had buried resurfaced vividly.