From the outside, they appeared to be the most harmonious couple.
Susan had been watching them with barely concealed envy. Now she turned to Christine, who stood beside her.
"Lady Christine—where is your fiancé?"
"Over there."
She pointed.
A man with a short green bob stood in the direction she indicated. His eyes were fixed on the Duke's bride.
Christine's expression darkened, jealousy twisting her features.
"Lady Christine." Susan's voice dropped to honey-sweet concern. "I say this for the sake of our friendship—wouldn't you feel *better* if you unmasked that vile woman who is deceiving His Grace?"
She took Christine's hand gently, as though genuinely caring.
Touched by the attention, Christine squeezed her fingers in return.
To gain entry into this circle, she had given these young ladies mountains of jewelry. And yet, at times, they simply ignored her.
Until the Duke's bride arrived.
Now, at last, she felt like their equal.
"Probably so."
Meanwhile, Omanda stood behind them, champagne glass in hand, watching with quiet amusement.
It was perfectly clear to her what kind of intrigue Susan was weaving.
Western social circles were divided into those who followed Susan and those who followed *her*.
This time, Susan was about to humiliate herself. Omanda intended to watch the collapse unfold.
*One must know which targets to choose.*
*This is precisely why it's dangerous for a woman to fall in love.*
Susan, blinded by her feelings, had failed to read the Duke's behavior.
He had led his tired bride to a secluded spot so she could rest away from prying eyes.
And from what Omanda had witnessed at the dress shop, it was obvious: no matter how the bride stumbled, the Duke would cover for her.
Yet Susan was about to provoke such a woman—using Christine's hands, no less.
Omanda raised her glass and smiled.
"In any case, I wish you happiness, Lady Christine."
"Yes." Christine's voice had gone distant, almost trance-like. "I will find my happiness myself. I will make that woman—who *played* with my fiancé—apologize."
Susan smiled encouragingly and pressed a glass brimming with wine into Christine's hand.
Christine accepted it mechanically, blinking in confusion.
"This...?"
"It might come in handy."
Susan's smile was radiant. She squeezed Christine's fingers around the stem.
Christine nodded slightly—then, without releasing her glass, walked directly toward the Duke's bride.
---
## — At the Refreshment Table —
After the Duke departed, Marin struggled to maintain her smile.
*Who knows who might be watching, and from where?*
*I'm hungry. I want to take off these shoes.*
Her gaze drifted, almost against her will, toward the laden table.
Mountains of colorful chocolate. Cakes of every imaginable shape. Canapés—sharp cheese and glossy cherries atop crisp crackers. Delicate salads: sweet whipped cream and roasted cherry tomatoes arranged on chilled cucumber slices. Fresh fruit in tiny glasses no larger than a fingertip.
Marin swallowed discreetly. Since morning, nothing but water had passed her lips.
*Just one? Or will they condemn me? "The Duke's bride, eating in public!"*
Most noblewomen ate nothing at balls. At most, they moistened their lips with wine or champagne.
Young ladies were especially reluctant to be seen chewing—what if they suddenly needed to excuse themselves? An *unthinkable* shame.
Marin forced herself to look away from the table, but images of food continued to flicker in her pale green eyes.
*Think of the Duke's dignity. No other young lady is eating.*
Her stomach growled treacherously. All these thoughts of food had sparked a rebellion.
She gazed down at her midsection with pity—then made her decision.
*Fine. Just one.*
She crept toward the table, hid her hands behind her back, and quietly palmed a small piece of chocolate.
Returning to her spot, she covered her mouth with her fan and placed the chocolate on her tongue.
Rich, dark, full-bodied—it melted instantly. They had brought in a renowned pastry chef from the capital just for this reception.
The taste was so extraordinary that her eyes widened involuntarily.
The trouble was, one piece only sharpened her appetite.
*Whatever happens, happens.*
She had nearly pressed herself against the table, resolved to eat properly, when a voice came from behind her.
"Marin. You look *amazing* today."
The caustic intonation froze her mid-motion.
*That voice.*
The one she had hoped never to hear again.
Her appetite vanished instantly.
Marin drew an unnoticeable breath and turned slowly.
Green hair cut in a sharp bob. Narrow eyes that tilted toward the temples. Brown pupils filled with undisguised greed. Thin, cruel lips.
Gobiem Norman.
A cold, serpentine gaze slid across her face.
"You..."
Marin's expression turned to stone.
*How dare he approach her so brazenly?*
"Long time no see, Marin. I'm Viscount Norman now—my father passed the title to me."
Gobiem introduced himself with evident pride, his stare burning into her.
Marin's fingers tightened around her fan. If she didn't grip it, her hand might have hurled it at his face.
*The Duke was right. There really is something violent in me.*
"No way," she said. Her voice was flat. Icy.
"No way—*what?*"
"Not 'long time no see.' The correct phrase is 'forgive me'—spoken on your knees, with a plea."
"Ha!" Gobiem's lips twisted with contempt. "What did you just say?"
"If you're not going to apologize, we have nothing more to discuss."
She moved to leave.
He stepped into her path.
Gobiem advanced closer, and her body tensed involuntarily.
Catching the reaction, his eyes flashed with malicious satisfaction.
"Have you gotten so high and mighty, becoming His Grace's bride?" His voice dropped to a sneer. "And yet—just recently—you were *begging.*"
Marin regarded him without expression.
He was right.
That was how it had once been.
---
## — The Past —
The moment her father died in an accident, dozens of debt collectors descended upon the house.
He had apparently lost money in a shipping venture—then, in a desperate attempt to recover, had thrown himself into even more reckless investments.
To pay off the debts, they sold everything. They moved into a shack. With no money left, they took whatever work they could find.
Marin went to the estate of Viscount Norman, a longtime friend of her father's, to ask for employment.
An even more opulent outbuilding was being constructed beside the main house.
The two families had invested in the same ship. Her father had been ruined. The Norman household had only grown richer.
The Viscount, citing her dire circumstances, offered her a position as governess to his youngest daughter—seven-year-old Catherine.
Marin accepted gratefully.
From then on, she traveled to the Viscount's estate five days a week.
---
One day, after finishing lessons and walking home through the garden, she heard someone call her name.
"Lady Shuvenz."
"Good day, Young Master Norman."
Marin stopped and watched Gobiem approach.
During her father's lifetime, they had crossed paths occasionally, but they had never truly spoken.
"Take this."
He held out a picnic basket.
"What is this?"
"Food. Catherine mentioned you haven't been eating much lately."
"..."
Marin's face flushed. She lowered her head in silence.
It was especially humiliating to hear this from a peer—a fellow noble.
"Come now, take it. You can't refuse food altogether just because you're poor."
Gobiem took her hand himself and placed the basket in it.
Marin stared at it in confusion. Delicious aromas drifted from inside.
*I should say: don't pity me. I don't need it.*
She bit her lower lip.
She thought of Roenna—pale, bedridden, too weak to lift a spoon.
"...Thank you, Mr. Norman."
The words scraped past her throat. She bowed.
"Oh, come now—no need for formality." He smiled easily. "And call me by my name."
As he spoke, he patted her shoulder—his hand lingering far longer than it should have.
Marin didn't want to say his name. But she was in his debt. She didn't dare refuse.
"Alright... Gobiem."