"I didn't sell you this dress. However, since you wore one of my designs, I'll consider you a client." Idre's voice remained professionally calm. "What compensation would you like?"
The middle-aged Countess let her gaze wander around the salon, eyes glittering with poorly concealed greed. At last, she pointed toward the mannequins.
"Those three. It's not *nearly* enough, of course—but I'll be generous."
"*Ah!*"
Juri, who had been holding her breath behind the counter, let out a small squeak.
Idre's expression turned to stone.
"I'm sorry, but that's not possible. I'll refund the amount you paid for the pink dress."
"You're rather slow, aren't you?" The Countess's face flushed the same scarlet as her towering hair. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
"These dresses are custom orders. They already have owners." Idre kept her voice level. "I cannot give them away."
"*Ha!* Owners?" The Countess drew herself up. "I am Countess Soran Otek."
Idre fought to keep her brows from furrowing. She had suspected as much from the red hair—but she hadn't wanted to believe it.
In the Western territories, Countess Otek was infamous. A notorious scandal-monger. A professional troublemaker.
"Countess, I apologize—but I can only return the cost of the dress you purchased."
"*What?!*" The Countess glared at her with undisguised fury.
"Mama, let's be *generous.*" The young lady who had been standing silently behind her mother finally stepped forward, her gloved hand pointing toward the golden gown. A victorious smile already played on her lips. "Let's just take *that* one."
Idre stared at them both, realization dawning.
*This is a scam.*
"I've already told you—these dresses are spoken for. I cannot give them away."
"Do you have *any* idea who I am?" The young lady's scarlet eyes narrowed dangerously. "I am Omanda Otek. One word from me in the right circles, and your pathetic little salon will *disappear.* Do you understand?"
*The daughter takes after the mother,* Idre thought grimly. *The arrogance is identical.*
From her position off to the side, Marin whispered to Juri:
"Is that golden dress mine, by any chance?"
"Yes, my lady. It's yours."
"I see."
The pattern was clear now. The three mannequin dresses had been a feint—a distraction. From the very beginning, they had wanted the golden gown.
And they wouldn't leave until they had it.
*The Duke will be arriving any moment.*
Marin stepped up behind Idre and whispered quickly:
"Just give it to them. I'll pay."
Idre turned, alarm flickering in her eyes.
"I can't do that, Marin. I designed it with *you* in mind."
"I've dealt with people like this before. It's better to get rid of them quickly—easier on everyone's nerves."
"They truly have *no* sense of decency."
The Countess, catching their whispered exchange, let out a venomous snort.
Marin sighed inwardly.
*I wanted to settle this before the Duke arrived...*
She stepped forward.
"I am Marin of the House of Viscount Shuvenz, Countess."
She lifted her skirt slightly and dipped into a curtsy—proper noble etiquette, executed with precision.
Nearby, Idre's expression shifted to quiet satisfaction. She had never believed Marin was a commoner.
"Shuvenz?" The Countess arched an eyebrow. "We had such nobles? Daughter—have you heard of them?"
"Mother, there are *so* many insignificant little families." Omanda's smile was saccharine. "How could anyone possibly remember them all?"
Marin released her skirt hem.
She had no desire to engage in a petty quarrel. She simply wanted these women *gone* before the Duke arrived. She had been prepared to surrender the dress—pay for peace—and watch them leave.
But the young lady's mockery had added fuel to the fire.
The flames were rising now.
"And why exactly is a *Viscount's* daughter interfering?"
"Because this dress is mine."
Omanda's eyes sharpened with sudden interest.
"So you heard everything."
"Yes. I heard." Marin's voice cooled. "And I have no intention of giving up my dress. Take the refund for the pink gown and leave."
"*What?!*"
The Countess's face contorted with rage.
"My dress is already paid for." Marin turned to Idre. "How much was that pink one?"
"Five gold."
"And mine?"
"Fifty gold."
Marin's fists tightened—hiding her shock. She exchanged a quick glance with Idre. *Fifty?*
Idre gave a small, confirming nod.
*One gold coin could support a family of four for an entire month.*
*And fifty?*
No wonder Olive had told her not to look at price tags—not to think about money.
"Did you hear that?" Marin turned back to the Countess. "Ten times the difference. And you still want it?"
Both mother and daughter stood stunned for a heartbeat—then their expressions twisted with even greater fury.
"The price is *ridiculous.*" Omanda's lip curled. "That dress isn't worth half that."
"Fifty gold in this *seedy* little shop?" The Countess laughed. "*Ha!*"
"Fifty has already been paid." Marin smiled—sweet, innocent, utterly unyielding. "So there's no point in arguing. Add the difference—forty-five gold—and the dress is yours."
She tilted her head.
"You're a Countess, after all. Surely paying is no trouble?"
*Punishing troublemakers with money—how satisfying.*
*Money solves everything!*
The Countess's breath came in harsh bursts. She ground her teeth audibly.
"Even a *lowly* noblewoman should know how to behave before her betters. Weren't you *taught* proper respect?"
Marin and Idre exchanged a glance—then both shook their heads.
*When money fails, they resort to rank.*
The arrogance was truly breathtaking.
Idre was noble herself—but only a baron's daughter. Against a Countess, she had little leverage.
*That's why power is necessary.*
And even if it was fake—Marin had such power now.
She folded her arms across her chest, arranged her features into an expression of exaggerated regret, and spoke:
"Since we're discussing *nobility*—allow me to share something as well."
The Countess snorted. *Let's hear it, then.*
"I am the bride of His Grace, the Duke of Vines." Marin held her gaze. "Is that sufficient?"
Silence fell over the salon.
Beside her, Idre clasped her hands together in delight, eyes shining as she stared at Marin.
"Lady Marin... I mean, Lady Shuvenz—*congratulations!*"
"Call me as you always have." Marin's lips curved. "Though it seems those two don't believe me."
"Well—they don't know the details."
Indeed, mother and daughter continued to smile mockingly, as though she had told an amusing joke.
*Perhaps I should get a stamp on my forehead: "The Duke's Bride."*
Meanwhile, Juri crept closer and whispered with barely contained curiosity:
"What details?"
Instead of answering, Idre looked at Marin, eyes bright with hope.
"So—we don't have to keep it secret anymore?"
The Duke wanted rumors of the engagement to spread quickly. There was no reason to hold back.
"No," Marin said. "You don't."
The moment Marin nodded, Idre's shoulders straightened with pride.
*The Duke's bride's dress!* Whatever scheme these two had concocted, the mood in the salon had shifted entirely.
"Did you hear that?" Idre's voice rang with newfound confidence. "This dress is for the bride of His Grace the Duke. Therefore—"
"*This is an insult to the nobility!*" The Countess's voice rose to a shriek. "How *dare* you invoke His Grace's name so frivolously!"
"But we are also nobles," Marin replied calmly.
*The less knowledge, the louder the voice.* Between people of equal rank, the accusation of "insulting nobility" held no weight.
"I will report this to His Grace *immediately!*" The Countess drew herself up, trembling with indignation. "And he will—"
"*Quiet.*"
*Knock.*
The sound of a cane striking the floor echoed through the entire salon.
The Countess whirled around, ready to scold whatever impudent fool had dared interrupt her—
And froze.
Beside her, Omanda noticed the figure in the doorway. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged.
The Duke walked forward, eyes closed, his movements elegant and unhurried. He passed them without so much as a glance—as though they did not exist.