Arranged Marriage? Seriously, Father?

"Does an arranged marriage even make sense, Father?"

"......Huh?"

Wait a second. What did I just hear?

A marriage proposal? For me?

I blinked several times. Was this some aftereffect of pulling all-nighters for days, messing with my hearing? Hallucinations right after a manuscript deadline weren't exactly common in the industry...... damn it.

"Father."

"Y-yeah? Yes, go ahead."

"If I didn't hear that wrong."

I spoke as calmly as I could.

"Did you just tell me to get married?"

Father—Albert Ashy—cleared his throat awkwardly, his expression exactly like he was gauging my reaction.

"That's right. Uh, um! Is that okay?!"

I wobbled. The fatigue from staying up all night made my vision sway without warning.

"I'm fine."

I waved off Father, who looked ready to rush over, and sank into brief thought.

An arranged marriage. The kind of event that pops up all the time in romance fantasies. And for a third-rate extra like me, it wasn't even a big deal. As a writer myself, I knew the drill. Third-rate villains were just tools. Disposable props you pull out when needed.

One line for backstory, one line for family politics, and a scream at the right moment.

'Time to start a human rights campaign for extras.'

I wondered if the author of Golden Chains even realized that third-rate extras had red blood flowing through their veins too. Mess with an artist the wrong way, and Germany was the historical precedent.

"Father."

"Wh-what is it?"

"Are you really selling off your son for a few pennies that easily?"

A sharp, icy wind slipped out of my mouth without me realizing. I sounded just like Estelle there.

Father flinched and waved his hands frantically.

"S-sell him off?! That's not it!"

"Then what is it?"

"Well......"

Father hesitated for a moment before speaking.

"It's a promise. An old family promise."

I narrowed my eyes.

"A promise?"

"Yes. A marriage alliance with the Youngston Count family."

Youngston. Youngston?

Lena Youngston?

"...Pardon?"

No way. Why the hell did her name pop up here?

* * *

The moment I got back to my study, I flopped into my chair. I stared blankly at the ceiling. A single fly crawling across the crumbling plaster.

'Descartes invented coordinate geometry watching one of those, they say.'

Instead of earning some grand nickname like that, I had a small realization.

"......Whoa."

The reason Lena caused that mana rampage in the original story...... it was because of me?

I was shocked enough just hearing about it—how must ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Lena have felt?

—

"Lena, you'll have to marry that wastrel Ian Ashy."

—

"Grrrrrr......"

She was lucky she didn't collapse on the spot.

"Whew."

Even putting myself in her shoes, it was horrifying.

Anyway, thanks to possessing this third-rate extra's body, I now understood Lena Youngston's feelings all too well. How she'd always seen Ian Ashy.

A guy with no common sense. The type who'd probably hole up somewhere and die if you didn't look after him. They'd been childhood friends forever, but he never felt like a romantic prospect.

In short.

"Just an annoying bro-friend."

Not quite opposite sex, more like same-sex ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠camaraderie.

Then one day, her family shows up and says—

—

"Marry your bro-friend."

—

No wonder she snapped. Big time.

Lena must've been ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠itching for a revolution just like me. And sure enough, her mana rampage was on an epic scale. Flashy, grandiose. It even had main-villain-of-chapter-1 vibes.

Even if it wasn't entirely her own power.

Anyway. The trigger for creating that villain? This body. Ian Ashy, that's who.

"PTSD hitting out of nowhere."

I recalled that elementary school girl who cried, "I don't wanna be desk mates with him!" Purely a friend's story, of course.

Thud—I smacked my forehead on the desk.

Begone, PTSD.

"Anyway."

I pulled out my pen, dipped it in ink. Black ink spread smoothly across the paper.

Something like that, right?

"Crown Prince has it good."

He stops the rampaging Lena without a scratch, scoops up the saintess, sets the mood. Heroic as hell from any angle. Classic romance-fantasy protag move.

...Meanwhile, Ian Ashy's role here?

Evolution stone for Lena's dark transformation. Fuel to make her rampage.

"Extras are so pitiful I can't stand it."

Romance fantasy from above, trashy morning soap opera from below.

I sighed, rubbing the nape of my neck.

Anyway, I had to play it smart.

"Deeper ties to the main scenario than I thought."

Lena's personal fuel. If I meddled sloppily as "just fuel" and triggered a butterfly effect?

I'd lose my one edge: original story knowledge.

Tap tap.

Tapping the paper, I reached one conclusion.

<Do not stop Lena's rampage.>

Lena had to rampage. Sure, it'd be massive scale, flashy spectacle, chill everyone's spines.

But this was a romance fantasy. No one dies in the end.

Crown Prince and saintess shine, Lena gets safely resolved.

In other words, I shouldn't butt in.

Stay an extra, be the story's tool.

"......"

Felt like all the extras I'd used were cursing me back.

"Tch."

What could I do? Follow the flow.

Go through with the marriage for now. Then divorce-tech my way out.

Estelle would call me trash if she heard, but it seemed cleanest.

Knock knock.

Right on cue, the door opened with a knock. Dark blue hair, icy sky-blue eyes, impeccable maid uniform.

Estelle.

"How did it go, Young Master?"

She cut straight to it, no small talk—must've been dying to know.

I laid it out honestly.

"I'm getting married."

"...Pardon?"

Short reply, then silence.

I eyed the flustered Estelle. Her lips stayed firmly shut, no sign of opening.

Just "pardon?" That was it?

This was prime time for her signature roast.

—

"For a family to accept trash like you, Young Master—the world's gone mad."

—

Or—

"Planning to defile her on the wedding night? Typical demon spawn."

Something like that.

Her just freezing up without a word was more unnerving.

"......Estelle?"

"Refuse it."

A quiet voice leaked out.

"You didn't agree?"

A tone devoid of her usual chill—unfamiliar.

After the maid uniform incident, I'd gotten better at reading her emotions, which made this even stranger.

Her hands clenched her skirt tightly. Lips twitching faintly, eyes fixed on me, quivering ever so slightly.

Why was she so restless? Did Estelle hate the idea of me marrying?

'Nah, no way.'

Must be all-nighter hallucinations.

Just ask what I wanted to.

"Oh, right. I was thinking marry then divorce. Lena probably doesn't want me anyway."

That instant.

The flicker in Estelle's eyes vanished. That familiar iciness returned.

"What kind of trashy idea is that?"

"Hey, you're hitting too hard all of a sudden."

"It wouldn't work anyway."

Estelle stated flatly.

"It'd disgrace both families. The Youngston Counts would fight tooth and nail to stop it."

"Why?"

"Loss of honor."

I shut my mouth.

Ah. Hadn't thought of that angle.

My head was full of modern contract-marriage vibes, forgot noble face-saving.

Plan A scrapped.

"Guess I'll go with not marrying then."

"......You hate the marriage itself? Even with Lady Lena?"

"Yeah. Hate it."

I answered honestly.

"At least right now. Too annoying, too messy, and highest odds of wrecking my peace."

Plus, a marriage I couldn't divorce? Hard pass from my side too.

Marrying with that mindset was rude to the other party anyway.

"Divorce would be the real rudeness, no?"

"...Fair point."

Estelle stared at me quietly, then let out a tiny sigh.

"Haa...... That's a relief."

"Huh? What'd you say?"

"Nothing."

Her lips curved up the faintest bit as she replied.

"You just smiled, right?"

"Hallucination."

"No it wasn't?"

"Your eyes must be fried from the all-nighter."

Mm. That familiar flavor.

I leaned back deep in my chair, savoring Estelle's roast.

Now, to find another way.

* * *

That evening, Lena Youngston wandered the halls for a while after leaving her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠father's study, unable to return to her room. Her steps uneven, unlike her usual steady gait.

Thud—!

Finally shutting her door, Lena collapsed onto her bed.

"Insane."

Her quiet mutter dripped with disbelief.

An arranged marriage. With Ian Ashy, of all people!

—

"You're childhood friends who know each other well—perfect, right?"

"Perfect my ass!"

She wanted to storm back and yell it at her father.

But pointless. He was sharp about practical matters.

The Ashys wanted something. That's why they were sending her off.

"I was kinda prepared for this."

She knew nobles couldn't marry for love. Everyone around her proved it—even her own mother.

"But still."

Ian Ashy was too much! Way too much!

Lena stared into her mirror, a habit when troubled.

Ian Ashy. Annoying. Needing constant babysitting, total slob kid.

He'd changed a bit lately? But still Ian Ashy.

She'd looked after him out of old familiarity, not because she liked him.

And there was that favor too.

That was all. Really all.

"So why."

Lena stepped closer, peering into the mirror.

Her ear tips were red. Cheeks flushed.

Her whole face felt subtly feverish.

"Why's my face like this."

Lena cupped her cheeks with both hands.

Scalding hot all over.

"Get it together, Lena Youngston."

She muttered softly.

"This is not okay."

In the mirror, Lena Youngston's lips curved up in a sly grin.