The Curse of Handwritten Invitations
The soft scratching of pen tips gliding across premium parchment and paper was the only sound filling the quiet office. Mikhail, Laura, and Josepina sat around a massive mahogany table, each silently absorbed in their stack of documents.
Outside the windows, the grounds were alive with activity. With the soft opening of the Tourism Special Zone fast approaching, the distant shouts of workers and the ring of hammers drifted in on the breeze. The Mikhail Casino, the auction house, the Texas Hold'em tournament—every last venture had been built for this single resort.
Yet what lay in front of Mikhail right now was not some grand blueprint or rosy prospectus. It was simply a towering mountain of invitation cards.
“Ah, fuck.”
Mikhail swallowed the curse that had slipped out and set his pen down. He massaged his aching wrist and stared at the sentence he had just finished writing.
Respected elder brother, His Highness Grand Duke Dmitri.
I pray that the steadfast pillar of the Empire enjoys continued good health.
The handwriting itself was flawless, the product of years of ingrained habit. The real problem was that this particular soft opening had been classified as a private banquet. Imperial custom demanded that every single invitation to a private event be written by hand.
Sincerity. All because of that damned word—sincerity. Sending a printed card would be the same as openly declaring, “You mean absolutely nothing to me, so I see no reason to waste my effort on you.”
The festival banquet he had thrown earlier to promote the Mikhail name had also been a private affair. But back then the guests had all been local bigwigs from the Far East Maritime Province—his own subordinates—so there had been no need for handwritten cards. This time the recipients were the holders of the Eternal Special Membership Cards, members of the imperial family, and every major noble, merchant, and bureaucrat in the empire. Every letter had to be written with painstaking care.
Especially the ones addressed to the imperial family. Those were political minefields. The hidden message he needed to slip between the lines was simple: I’m sending this out of courtesy, but please, for the love of God, do not actually come.
He had to convey it through tiny tricks—slightly altering his usual handwriting, sprinkling in archaic words he never used, or “accidentally” dropping a few blots of ink. What the hell kind of fruity bullshit was this? In a world where noblewomen dueled each other with swords and guns like proper tough guys, this particular corner of etiquette was pure theatrical nonsense.
Keyboard. Hell, I’d settle for a typewriter at this point…
His grumbling eventually led his thoughts all the way back to 21st-century conveniences. Even a fountain pen felt like torture; if they had demanded he use a quill, he would have fled the office under the excuse of an inspection long ago.
“Who the hell invented this dogshit custom?” Mikhail muttered under his breath.
At his complaint, both women across the table turned to look at him at the same time.
Josepina simply adjusted her grip on her pen without a word. Her back stayed perfectly straight, her expression utterly unchanged, as though this tedious, repetitive labor was the most natural thing in the world. Laura, however, was different. She set her pen down and gave him a worried look.
The moment Mikhail picked his pen up again to continue, he slammed it back onto the table.
“God, my wrist hurts.”
The groan that escaped him was completely sincere. Laura rose from her seat and approached without a sound. A sweet, elegant fragrance gently wrapped around him. She glanced over his shoulder at the invitation he was writing, then whispered in a low, soft voice.
“Would you like me to massage it for you?”
“Not a bad offer.” Mikhail tilted his chin in approval. She’s really laying on the flattery thick, huh? He chuckled inwardly. It was such obvious, textbook ass-kissing that it actually amused him.
“All right, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Then… please excuse me, Your Highness.”
Laura gave an elegant little bow, pulled her chair right beside his, and sat down. With movements that spoke of long practice, she took his hand. The instant her soft, warm fingers wrapped around his aching one and began pressing firmly into the pressure points—
“Oh.”
An involuntary sound of appreciation left Mikhail’s lips. He had expected her to just go through the motions, but this was the work of a true professional. Every knuckle, every knot in his palm—she found them with perfect pressure and released the tension.
“You’ve clearly studied this somewhere.”
“Ah, this is…” Laura’s voice took on a faint, different color. Her gaze drifted somewhere far away for a moment. “I used to do this often for my father.”
The smile that touched her lips was different from her usual one—faint, but unmistakably genuine.
“Really?” Mikhail fell quiet at the unexpected answer, simply enjoying the refreshing sensation. “I like it. Thank you.”
It was exactly then that Josepina, who had been working like a silent shadow, lifted her head. Her blue eyes flicked briefly to their joined hands before settling on Laura.
“Chairwoman Laura.”
Her voice carried no detectable emotion.
“My hands are also quite tired from the long hours of copying. I would like a massage as well.”
“……Pardon?”
Laura’s mouth fell slightly open. Her golden eyes trembled with pure bewilderment, as if she couldn’t quite process what she had just heard.
“Then I’ll do it,” Mikhail said with a hint of laughter, taking over before the still-speechless Laura could respond.
“Thank you.”
Josepina answered without hesitation. She pulled her own chair over, sat down, and politely offered both hands. Mikhail was dumbfounded, yet strangely delighted. He took her small, pale hands and began massaging them with the same clumsy motions Laura had used on him.
“A little stronger, please.”
“You’ve got quite the list of demands,” Mikhail grumbled, but he applied more pressure as requested. He watched the faintest trace of relaxation appear on her normally icy, expressionless face. Deciding it was worth the effort, he worked his way up to her wrist and forearm.
“Very refreshing.”
Rare satisfaction colored Josepina’s voice.
“Thank you, Your Highness. I will ask for this again in the future.”
“Sure, sure. Anytime I’m in a good mood, I’ll oblige.”
Once the massage ended, Josepina gazed at her own hands with clear satisfaction, then turned to Laura, who still wore a dazed expression.
“Chairwoman, are you not tired?” she asked, as casually as if inquiring about the weather.
“I am… tired, yes,” Laura answered reluctantly, her expression sour.
The moment the words left her mouth, Josepina continued.
“Then… I suppose I should massage the Chairwoman’s hands.”
What exactly that “then” was supposed to connect to, Mikhail couldn’t fathom. Judging by the way Laura’s eyes continued to tremble, she didn’t understand it either.
Four full days. After four days of wrestling with ink, parchment, and the cursed traditions of imperial etiquette, Mikhail’s ordeal finally ended.
He refused to go anywhere near the gleaming top-floor office of the casino. Instead he lay sprawled across the bed in his room at the Grand Duke’s Mansion. His official excuse was recuperation.
“Aigoo, my poor wrist.”
Mikhail clutched the throbbing joint and moaned theatrically. Using his 21st-century medical knowledge for self-diagnosis, he was certain it was a sprain. When an employee complained of pain after days of hard labor, granting appropriate rest was the bare minimum duty of any decent employer. So that was exactly what he did.
Today’s schedule was perfect. He would roll around in bed reading novels until lunchtime. After eating, he would drop by the office for five minutes to hear reports from Laura and Josepina, stamp a few documents, and return to bed. Then a sweet nap. Dinner, more reading, a drink if the mood struck, and sleep. Just thinking about it filled him with contentment.
The moment he stretched and reached for the stack of novels beside the bed—
Knock, knock.
“Your Highness.” Boris’s voice.
“I’m busy recuperating.” Mikhail pulled the blanket over his head.
“It is an urgent report.”
“Haa.”
With a deep sigh, Mikhail sat up. “Fine. Come in.”
When Boris entered, his face was even stiffer than usual. Mikhail felt a bad premonition crawl down his spine.
“A report arrived from the railroad construction team,” Boris began without preamble. “His Highness the Second Prince and Saintess Liliana have reserved tickets on the train bound for the Far East Maritime Province. It appears they plan to arrive in time for the soft opening.”
“What?”
Mikhail’s brain momentarily blue-screened.
He distinctly remembered pouring every ounce of effort into the invitation sent to Clement. He had deliberately misspelled the word “invite,” written it in a noticeably larger script than the surrounding text, and even dropped three blatant ink blots directly on top of it. That was the strongest possible “please don’t come” signal one could send while still maintaining the absolute minimum of etiquette.
Any member of the imperial family should have read the subtext perfectly.
Don’t tell me this guy noticed and still decided to ignore it?
No. Clement wasn’t the type to pick up on that kind of nuance. In both the original novel and Mikhail’s own memories, the man was simply kind and pure-hearted—to put it generously, innocent; to put it bluntly, a little slow.
Maybe he should have written it outright: “I’m sending this invitation as a formality, but please do not attend.” But doing so risked provoking a tantrum from Clement’s maternal family, the Albrecht Duchy—the second most powerful house in the empire.
Clement himself was essentially a walking political liability. Even if he came alone it would be exhausting, but why in the world was the Saintess tagging along?
The answer required no deep thought. Clement had probably never even shown Liliana the invitation. He had likely dragged her along while spouting some naive nonsense like, “My little brother has finally come to his senses and started a new business. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the Saintess could personally bestow her blessing?”
In this world, inviting clergy to bless a newly opened establishment was common practice. The perceived potency of the blessing scaled with the cleric’s rank, so asking a Saintess who happened to be a “friend” was only natural.
Goddamn it! I told you not to come near me!
In the original story, that same oblivious purity had been the key that unlocked the heart of a Saintess who trusted no one. To the current Mikhail, however, it was nothing but a massive, incoming tumor.
When Josepina acted oblivious it was cute because she was beautiful. When a man did it… it was just infuriating.
This fucking sucks…
“How should we prepare the reception protocol, Your Highness?” Boris asked carefully, noticing Mikhail’s sour expression.
Mikhail answered in a voice drained of all will to live. “Treat them exactly like the other guests.”
“Pardon? But he is His Highness the Second Prince—”
“You know as well as I do that Clement doesn’t give a damn about that stuff.” Mikhail waved a lazy hand. “He’d probably enjoy it far more if I personally showed him around instead of getting hit with some unnecessarily fancy reception.”
“……Understood, Your Highness.”
Boris hesitated for a second, then bowed and left the room.
Alone once more, Mikhail flopped back onto the bed like a corpse.
This just got annoying as hell.
A prince was coming—the Second Prince, no less, the frontrunner to become the next emperor. Political entanglement was now all but guaranteed. Since it had come to this, maybe he should roll out the full red-carpet treatment and at least try to win some favor?
His head throbbed.
But then again—
I get to see the original protagonists in the flesh?
When he thought of it that way, it didn’t seem entirely bad. Laura and Josepina were original characters too, of course, but they had only been villainesses and supporting roles. Besides, he had recruited them before the main story even began, so they no longer carried that “characters from the novel” feeling. They were simply his competent subordinates now.
Clement and Liliana, however, were different. They were the male and female leads—the living, breathing embodiment of the original work itself. An opportunity to watch their romance unfold right beside them.
At this stage they should still be in the “friends” phase. That delicious period in every romance comedy when the two leads are slowly getting to know each other. A mischievous grin crept across Mikhail’s face without his permission.
“A love comedy, huh… Not bad at all.”