"All the Western nobles."
"Yes, Your Grace. Understood."
Butler Sebas responded with the weary air of someone confronting a guest list far larger than anticipated.
Beside him, the head maid lowered her head a fraction deeper—hiding her surprise behind a veil of professional composure.
"You may go."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Only after the two had departed and the office door clicked shut did Marin release the breath she had been holding.
"Be ready to leave by tomorrow afternoon."
"Leave?" She blinked. "Where are we going?"
"To avoid arousing suspicion, public activity is necessary."
"Ah." Understanding dawned. "A *date.*"
At the word, the Duke's shoulders gave an almost imperceptible twitch—but Marin didn't notice.
"We'll start with the salon where you last ordered your dress."
Marin pictured the Duke standing amid cascades of ribbons and mountains of ruffles. She bit her lip to suppress a laugh.
*The Duke and a dress shop.* Somehow, the two did not go together.
"Yes, Your Grace." She hesitated. "Only... there's one problem."
He tilted his chin slightly, as if to say: *Speak.*
"You likely already know—I cannot ride in a carriage."
If the Duke had made inquiries about her family, he would have guessed the reason.
"How severe is it?"
There was an unusual hesitation in his voice. He leaned toward her slightly, as though testing her reaction.
"In a carriage closed on all sides..." Marin's voice dropped. "I feel as though I'm locked in. Trapped. I become... very frightened."
She closed her eyes.
Unbidden, she thought she heard a horse's scream. Red blood blurred across her vision—
She opened her eyes wide, forcing the memory away.
"I understand."
His voice was quiet. Without judgment.
Grateful for the chance to move past the moment, Marin hurried to offer a solution:
"Could I ride out on horseback first and meet you at Bloria's dress shop? If I don't arrive with you, no one will pay me any attention."
"Do it that way."
Permission granted, Marin felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders. Eventually, she would have to face the carriage. But if she could postpone it—even a little—she wanted to delay as long as possible.
At that moment, the Duke reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper.
He held it out to her.
*Engagement Contract for Hire.*
Marin's eyes traveled down the written lines, skimming until they landed on the amount column.
*Ten gold per day.*
Her eyes sparkled.
Her mind filled instantly with plans—what to do with such wealth. Save quickly. Purchase land in a good location. Build a house. Hire a maid for her mother...
"You won't sign?"
The Duke's cold voice yanked her from her daydream.
"Yes! I'll sign! I'm signing!"
Marin seized the pen and scrawled her name with eager speed.
"From today on, I will diligently play the role of bride!" She clenched her fists and declared it cheerfully, as though swearing an oath.
"A commendable attitude."
"Then I'll come by before bed, as usual. I'll take my leave now."
Marin bowed to the Duke and walked out of the office with a light, almost buoyant step.
---
## — Bloria's Dress Salon —
Every season, new creations graced the windows of Bloria's salon.
But this time, the flood of orders from the ducal castle had left no time to complete the seasonal collection. And since displaying last season's gowns was unthinkable, the mannequins had been temporarily dressed in dresses intended for Marin.
Whistling softly under her breath, Idre adjusted the golden ruffles on one of the mannequins and turned around.
Juri, her assistant, was watching her with open curiosity.
"You've seemed so happy lately, Madam Designer."
"What's there to be sad about?" Idre's smile widened, a cheerful note ringing in her voice. "I have a sponsor—*ahem*, a client—who trusts me completely and lets me work as I please. And the lady who wears my dresses? Absolutely *delightful.*"
"But who *are* they?" Juri pressed. "Why is it a secret even from me?"
Juri was a commoner who had worked as Idre's assistant since the salon's opening. Her loyalty was beyond question—but so was her curiosity.
"Secret."
Idre's eyes flashed with mischief, and she disappeared into the workshop.
"That's not fair! How can this be—"
*Ding.*
The door chime interrupted Juri mid-complaint. She turned toward the entrance.
"Welcome."
A pretty young woman stepped inside. Her platinum hair was pulled back neatly; her eyes were a fresh, pale green; her lips a soft, delicate pink.
"Oh! Mrs. Marin!"
Hearing the familiar name, Idre rushed out from the workshop. The moment she saw Marin, she threw her hands up in delight.
"Hello, Madam Designer."
"What brings you here? If you needed anything, you could have simply sent word!"
Idre's welcome was far warmer than her usual professional courtesy. Juri studied the visitor with eyes ablaze with curiosity.
The white embroidery on Marin's shimmering blue dress caught her attention immediately. It was the very same embroidery Juri had stitched through several sleepless nights.
*So this is the secret client Madam Designer has been so protective of.*
Juri's wide brown eyes never left Marin's face.
"I need to request a dress urgently."
"We're already sewing your gowns—do you need *more?*"
Idre couldn't hide her joy; the corners of her mouth trembled with barely contained glee.
"Yes. And I must ask—please prioritize this above all other orders."
"Oh! What kind of dress requires such haste?"
Marin's cheeks flushed pink.
For the first time, she was speaking of her engagement not to family, but to a stranger. Somehow, it felt unexpectedly embarrassing.
"The thing is..."
*BANG!*
Before she could finish, the door flew open with a violent crash.
Marin flinched, her shoulders jerking upward.
"Who is the designer here?!"
Two women swept inside: a plump, middle-aged lady with scarlet hair piled high in an elaborate three-tiered arrangement, and a young beauty with red-orange curls and sharp scarlet eyes.
"Marin—just a moment, please."
Idre offered an apologetic glance and stepped forward to intercept the intruders.
Marin nodded slightly and retreated to the side.
"Good day. I am Idre Smil, the designer of this salon. How may I assist you?"
The older woman hurled a light pink dress onto the floor, her expression twisted with outrage.
"How do you conduct business if you sell dresses made from such *cheap* material?!"
Idre bent calmly and retrieved the pink gown from the floor. At first glance, it did appear to be one of her designs.
"This is my work."
"Hmph! It was purchased here, so *of course* it's yours."
"And yet—what seems to be the problem?"
"My *beautiful* daughter wore it to a tea party and was utterly *humiliated.*" The lady's voice dripped with venom. "The sewing was so shoddy... *tsk-tsk.* How do you intend to take responsibility?"
Idre examined the dress closely. The seam at the waist had come apart—but the damage looked deliberate. Something sharp had caught the fabric. This wasn't natural wear from being worn.
Clutching the pink dress, Idre turned her gaze to the young lady.
The girl returned her look with a radiant, taunting smile.
"I don't recall selling you this dress."
"This is why one shouldn't patronize such *seedy* establishments." The mother's eyes narrowed. "You just admitted yourself that this dress is yours, did you not?"
Idre held back a sigh and addressed the daughter directly:
"Miss, I told you plainly that I would not sell you this particular dress. It didn't suit you. I offered alternatives." Her voice remained even, professional. "As I recall, your *friend* purchased this gown. So why are *you* wearing it?"
"*Unbelievable.* What is this nonsense?"
The mother pushed forward, inserting herself between them.
"I'm saying that I did not sell this dress to your daughter."
"I bought it from a friend." The young lady lifted her chin with haughty pride. "So now it's *mine.*"
"Ugh—so *low.*" The mother wrinkled her nose. "It's disgusting even to speak with someone like this."
Mother and daughter traded sneers, taunting Idre in perfect unison.
Idre's throat itched with the urge to unleash a torrent of curses—but she swallowed them down. Once every year or two, troublemakers like these were guaranteed to appear.
*I thought this year might pass quietly...*