There was one problem in Count Clemence’s house: his eldest daughter, Militia Clemence. The count even lamented the huge amount of money he’d spent because she was always sick in bed.

If there was a way for her to get better, his attitude towards her might have improved, but unfortunately, Militia had a weak body, and her frequent illnesses had gradually exhausted her parents’ love.

She had spent more time in her bed than out of it, and stayed in bed sick while other noble children made their debuts in society. The longer she was sick, the fewer people visited, and the more time she spent alone. As an almost-unknown figure, many rumors spread about her.

Whenever he saw her pale face, the count couldn’t say a good word to Militia, and he branded her with insults, such as ‘cursed child’. This led to the count suffering from more gossip, and increased his dislike of her even more. The count, who didn’t want to see Molitia’s blank, white face, confined her to her room.

For Militia, family warmth was beyond reach, and she was completely isolated; if she heard the noise of her family outside, she made sure that she even ate her meals in her room. Her parents’ neglect led to her cold treatment by other family members; although she was the daughter of the count, she was no better than dust.

Everyone was reluctant to interact with Militia. Everyone was thinking, ‘Who knows when she’s going to die?’ Militia agreed with those sentiments because her sickness felt like death to her. But now, breaking countless expectations of her early death, she was old enough for marriage.

Yet the surrounding response was still cold; although she was the daughter of an esteemed count, no one had asked to marry her. There was no need to guess the reason. Count Clemence, looking angry, called Militia to him.

“You worthless thing!” his voice rang through the house.

A child who had been useless since birth still couldn’t help him now. His first child had to make a good marriage for the rest of his children to marry well, but Militia had no chance of achieving it.

“How could I have a child like you!” the count shouted. His sharp gaze pierced Militia, and her unusually white face turned even whiter.

“Why should our family suffer years of this kind of humiliation?”

Molitia’s head sank further because of the relentless scolding of her father, ‘the prestigious Count Clemence’ – that was what they called the count in social circles.

He sought to consolidate his position in politics. Although his position was still unstable, there was a way to fill the gap: with a political marriage. A marriage bond between two families was like establishing a contract; it provided an opportunity to strengthen their relationship and build up their interests.

Philius Clemence, the current count, had done the same. He had married his wife for his family’s benefit. His relationship with his wife was not neglected, but it was also a business relationship. Philius’s views did not differ from those of his parents. Marry, have children and then marry them into excellent families. For the count, a child was just an extension of the contract.

He roughly banged his fist on the desk.

“What’s wrong with my family? How could no one ask for your hand in marriage!”

Militia was also upset; she didn’t even ask him not to marry her off.

The count looked helplessly at his useless child: a bloodless figure with thick lips. He couldn’t see any charm in her.

“I’m glad one proposal came,” he said.

At the count’s words, Militia lifted her head. A proposal. She closed her eyes, thinking that it could be her only way out of this house.

“A letter has come from the Duke of Lee proposing marriage,” said the count.

“The Duke of Lee.. . .” murmured Militia.

The moment she heard the name, Molitia’s face fell. The light that she thought she’d found died out in a single moment. She looked at the count, shaking her head in denial.

“I must have heard it wrong – you don’t mean the Duke of Lee, do you?” asked Militia.

“Yes, I do,” said Count Clemence.

The count’s unhesitating response made Militia feel trapped. The Lee family. A family that was the subject of numerous rumors. The gossip about Militia herself was nothing when compared to that about the Lee family.

There were many nasty rumors about the Lee family, and it was said that although the Duke of Lee was indeed a duke now, his blood was low-class. Moreover, for someone with a duke’s title, his public appearances were extremely limited. Gossip-mongers couldn’t leave such a duke alone. Some said that the duke had the blood of the devil; others said that he enjoyed killing every day and that he couldn’t get rid of the smell of blood.

In particular, the current Duke of Lee had already fought several times on the battlefield where his appearance, a killer drenched with blood, was enough to horrify even his own side; it was a measure of how scary it would be to face him as an enemy.

Marrying into such a family was asking the fragile Militia to die.

“I can’t marry him!” said Militia.

“You can’t? Do you think you have a choice?” asked Count Clemence, his veins popped out. “Do you think there’s anything for you if you spurn this marriage? You don’t want to be sold where you can’t afford expensive medicine, do you?”

“No. No, it’s just . . .” Militia trailed off.

Militia wanted to say that there was still time left, so another proposal might come, but facing the angry count, she could only bite her lips.

“Then what? Are you going to ruin the House of Clemence?” demanded the count.

“No . . . I’ll get married,” said Militia.

She had only one choice as there was only one marriage proposal before her. In the end, marriage was a means to an end for her. The harsh reality of the options made her sad: to be trapped in her bedroom or to be killed, screaming, at the end of a sword.

The count cleared his throat when he saw her depressed look after she had failed to resist the proposal. “Very well. If you succeed in marrying the duke, the prestige of our family will be revived.”

The count had no regard for her well-being. Looking at her father, who was thinking only of the family, Militia sighed.

The half-forced marriage proceedings went by very quickly, and the hastily arranged wedding day approached. A week before the wedding, Militia attended the last banquet she would enjoy as a single woman.

Normally she would have refused the invitation on the grounds of her health, but this time it was different. She was deliberately sent to the party as the fiancée of the duke to raise the prestige of the family.

As foreseen, no one approached Militia; even the ones who were curious about the news of her marriage to the terrible duke preferred to join their acquaintances, and as the banquet went on, people were busy laughing and talking.

“Huh,” sighed Militia, alone among the sociable people. Everything was progressing without her being able to assert her own wishes, from birth to marriage. At this rate, it was clear that the same pattern would be repeated. She didn’t even have the right to decide on her life-changing event, her marriage.

Militia sighed again. The glittering banqueting hall was choking her, so rather than stay there, Militia turned and found a relatively secluded terrace. The open space was a little chilly, but it let her catch her breath. When she leaned against the railing, the frigid air rose from the marble floor.

Molitia’s body trembled lightly. After tonight, she would be busy preparing for the wedding again. She was sick and tired of thinking about the wedding gifts piled up in her room.

‘I wish I had one thing I could decide,’ Militia thought.

It was then that a heavy overcoat covered her shoulders, keeping the wind out. When Militia looked up, startled by the sudden warmth, she saw a man standing there.

“You’re shivering alone here,” the man said, after seeing Molitia’s surprised look. Militia blushed at his strange behavior; normally, people would just pretend that they hadn’t noticed anything wrong.

“Other people are busy dancing, and you’re hanging around a place like this. You’re unique,” said Militia.

“I’m not particularly interested in banquets,” he replied.

At his words, Militia burst into inadvertent laughter. She had thought that she was the only one who preferred being alone on a dark terrace to being in a gorgeous banqueting hall. However, someone with the same feelings appeared suddenly. With that alone, Militia could briefly forget how boring it was here.

Maybe that’s why. She didn’t know what happened in her brain. Maybe the music behind them excited her, or perhaps the rebellion that she had never shown to her father finally came out. Militia turned to the man in front of her and asked something she never thought she would say.

“Would you like to sleep with me?”

“What . . .?” The man’s eyes widened with surprise at her sudden question. “Did you drink too much?”

“I didn’t even take a sip of alcohol,” said Militia, shaking her head. As someone who often got sick even when she ate only the best things, drinking was forbidden. Her face was slightly flushed from the cold, but she was fine.

“Do you know what your words mean?” asked the man.

“I know,” Militia replied.

If you excluded her frozen fingertips from being outside in the cold, her body was in better condition than usual. Her innocent eyes gazed at him.

“Don’t you like my offer?” Militia asked.

“Ha!” said the man, and clicked his tongue. The casual tone of her voice puzzled him, and his confused glance swept over Militia.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“You’re at this banquet, so your status is obvious,” said Militia.

“Did you just say it thoughtlessly because you don’t know anyone?” the man asked. It was clear to him that she didn’t know what she was saying. He laughed and held her waist. His eyes were clearly mocking Militia. “You don’t regret what you said, do you?”

“Of course not,” replied Militia.

The moment she spoke, her dry lips felt his warm breath. He sealed her soft lips with his, then skilfully teased her with his tongue. His tongue moved actively in her mouth, taking her breath away. Every time his tongue roughly swept her mouth, she made a small, painful sound.

His lips, that had briefly matched hers, moved away. When he saw her smudged lipstick, mixed with saliva, he laughed.

“How do you feel about it now?” the man asked.

His heart moved as he looked at her small, heaving shoulders. The good feelings from when they kissed lingered in his mind, but he wasn’t the type to get emotional. He wouldn’t be fooled by such tricks. He waited for her panting to calm down.

“Yes, it’s still okay,” said Militia.

“What?”

The unexpected answer embarrassed him. Obviously, he’d only thought that she was an ignorant lady who had grown up in a greenhouse. Her innocent eyes were enough to make her look like a virgin, so he’d thought that the kiss would be enough to scare her. He frowned. He didn’t know what to do.

“Let’s stop. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s better not to give yourself away,” said the man.

There was nothing more to consider. The man turned around without hiding the displeasure in his face. As he moved away, he felt a weak tug on the hem of his clothes. When he turned, he saw a determined-looking woman. He didn’t understand what she was thinking, but she seemed a little more desperate than she had before.

“It’s not like that. I am thinking straight,” said Militia, and sighed lightly. Her delicate fingers trembled, “I’m getting married next week.”

The words made him raise his eyebrows, as if asking what she meant.

“It’s a marriage that my parents decided unilaterally. I’ve never even seen the face of my husband,” said Militia. Most nobles have arranged marriages, but very few marry without seeing their marriage partner first. Her sorrowful expression moved him to pity. He had cut off his desire after a short kiss, but in fact, after a brief taste, his passion for her was on the rise.

‘I’ve never done this before,’ she said.

He turned and looked at her. He hadn’t meant to continue, but her words had changed his mind. She wasn’t bad for a short fling. He leaned against the railing with a face full of interest.