The Fate of a Bestseller Author
"…D-doesn't it hurt anymore…?"
Opheli asked as she treated the wound on my forehead with fumbling hand gestures.
I gave a half-hearted nod, then glanced around to figure out where the hell I was.
If a normal person brought in an outside guest, it'd usually be a guest room. Hell, I'm not even sure if this is a guest room.
Opheli dragged me here and told me to unpack, so it probably is. But no matter what room it was, it was way grander than my own back in the territory.
Considering the gap between a duke's house and a baron's, that was only natural.
"Lady Quiliar."
"Y-yes…?"
"Do you mind leaving me alone for a bit?"
"……."
"I need to sort out my thoughts."
"…To write?"
"Pardon? Ah…. Yeah, sure."
I didn't give a damn. I just wanted her gone, please.
My head was a fucking mess right now.
"O-okay…. Then call me when you're r-ready…."
"…Sure."
Her wording was a bit suspicious, but whatever.
Once she left the room, I leaned back against the chair's headrest and took a deep breath.
"Haa…."
If only my worries would fly away with that sigh.
This goddamn twisted fate of mine seemed to think even that was a luxury.
Of all people, royalty?
Truth be told, assuming Opheli sent me that pussy print was a pretty big leap.
The Intelligence Bureau was tasked with protecting VIPs, sure—but that was for royalty, not the chief's family.
I'd deliberately avoided mentioning the pussy print outright, and they seemed to be sticking to calling it just a letter and illustrations.
Above all, any woman who'd send a pussy print wouldn't shove drawings in my face right off the bat at our first meeting.
She'd beg for sex, or play hard to get while secretly hoping. Something like that.
It had little to do with social graces, so Opheli probably wouldn't be much different.
…Am I screwed?
If so, all my rationalizations just went up in smoke.
Whether it was the princess or the empress—I had no clue which—it didn't matter. Whoever it was sent me a pussy print out of nowhere, nothing else.
Just the pussy print. That's it.
If it had been Opheli, I could've at least thought she was saying, "I draw stuff like this too, so let's fuck."
But what the hell did they want from me? Sending a lone pussy print—what reaction were they fishing for?
The recipient doesn't even know a name or anything.
Hell, didn't they basically scream "royalty" while sending the letter? Mobilizing the Intelligence Bureau and all.
Did they not realize a royal sending a pussy print could be a massive weakness?
…No way. Is that why?
Did they send it to Sade Zahermazoh hoping I'd exploit their weakness and do something?
…If that's the case, I'm fucked beyond my worst-case scenario.
Before I even get into "I saw a royal's pussy" drama, just ignoring this could lead to who-knows-what backlash.
No response? How dare you ignore a royal's letter? Execution.
Respond? They might play along up to a point, but if they get offended one day? Execution.
Either way, my choices led to inevitable doom endings.
Still, I had to pick a side to survive. Since they sent a letter, maybe reply with one?
But where? Send it to the palace and have them rip it open and come for my head?
…Fuck if I know. Guess I write something first and decide later.
"In a way, this is the tiger's den."
Thinking about it made me chuckle bitterly.
Scheming for survival in a place where one wrong breath could cost my head.
I had no idea how I ended up in this destined-to-die fate, but it felt pathetic.
At least I still had a sliver of hope for survival, so I could keep going.
"……."
Leaning in the chair, I slowly scanned the room.
Something felt off.
I'd vaguely thought this might not be a guest room.
No matter how I looked, it didn't feel like one—it seemed like Opheli's room.
Why would they put me here? That's why I hadn't unpacked.
"……."
Before I knew it, I'd stood up and was wandering the room.
For such a flashy, grand space, there were surprisingly many well-worn items.
Thick books, thin ones—all looked read hundreds of times, edges worn smooth.
The thin ones, like notebooks, were stuffed with papers that weren't there originally.
Probably drawings. She drew that many, so why refuse to be an illustrator?
Just because she wanted to write? Plenty of other stories could've inspired that.
Maybe her sexual walls were more twisted than most in this world.
"…Opheli."
"Yes?"
I blurted it out thoughtlessly and got a reply—nearly jumped out of my skin.
Opheli was in the room, staring at me.
"Can't you make some noise?"
"You didn't answer when I c-called…."
"……."
"A-and… I brought paper for w-writing…."
She lifted a plate she held in both hands.
"…And milk too."
No idea if it was intentional, but her breasts draped slightly over the plate's edge.
Size that made Kiara's look pathetic. Hidden by that messy hair-mop and her hunched posture, it wasn't obvious.
"…Can't you just call it milk?"
"E, hehe…."
No need to flaunt her twisted libido like this.
Just in case, I took the cup and asked.
"…You didn't put anything weird in it, right?"
"N-no…. Nothing but milk…."
"……."
I stared, and she mumbled awkwardly.
"M-maybe a bit of love for the author…?"
"Don't say cringey shit like that."
…Whatever the reason, as long as she didn't do anything crazy.
Princess Charlene Rogueist Breeze Monde.
The current emperor's only daughter, the imperial family's youngest.
Unlike her diligent brother grooming himself for the throne, she was granted innocent freedom.
But not all freedoms.
One she lacked.
"Romance…."
Love.
Even if her status as the emperor's sole daughter granted infinite freedom, how could someone incapable of love call themselves human?
"…Haa."
She pondered, then slammed the book shut.
"Your Highness."
"Yes. What is it?"
"The delivery agent has returned."
"Took long enough."
"We were silencing the Intelligence Bureau agents…."
"Fine. Just testing. Wish there was magic for quick back-and-forth."
Secret contents had mobilized the imperial Intelligence Bureau.
No one but the recipient could open it.
Not even her head steward right beside her knew.
That fact—that only the recipient would know, unnoticed by those around her—that was the thrill of taboo for Charlene.
…Ngh.
A strange sensation made her hand drift to her lower belly, then she casually picked up the book to play it off.
It was so natural, even the steward beside her didn't notice… or so she thought.
"Your Highness."
"Yes?"
"Are you unwell somewhere…?"
"No, nothing. Why?"
"Your face is flushed."
That odd sensation couldn't be hidden from reddening cheeks.
"…Th-this book is so lowbrow, it pissed me off."
"……."
"Take it away."
"Yes, Your Highness."
The steward took the book and stepped back a few paces.
Seemed distant, but he'd never truly leave.
Just far enough to command the other servants.
This was the consistent environment Charlene had known.
Every move scrutinized.
All ready to die protecting her.
To safeguard the empire's freest person's freedom, ironically, the princess herself had to be caged.
She mustn't love anyone. If loved, it must be the love of all imperial citizens.
The emperor's iron will—no spilling imperial blood—had bound her like a birdcage for twenty years.
What Charlene craved was escape.
From a free yet unfree life.
Princess Charlene had sought, through books over twenty years, to flee her cage-like reality.
"…That's why."
And at the end of that life, she'd found someone who might free her.
"No reply came?"
"…He only delivered it and returned."
"…Tch."
Blaming the Intelligence Bureau's incompetence for no reply, strange sentiments began clouding her mind.
Just recalling what she'd sent made her chest swell like it might burst.
Thump, thump, thump….
Her heart raced like she'd sprinted, refusing to calm.
Gulp—
Only after swallowing dryly did she remember the steward nearby.
And then, she thought.
What if this steward saw the letter's contents?
It'd go straight to the emperor.
Not just him.
Any Intelligence agent seeing it would report immediately.
They lived for the royals.
They couldn't tolerate anything tarnishing royal dignity.
That's why she'd trusted them with the secret—they'd guard it with their lives.
Sade Zahermazoh….
The White Knight's 49 Shadows, Juliet's Night Like Magic.
The mysterious figure who appeared from nowhere, tossing out two works.
Someone who could casually write freer acts than her, the empire's freest.
She believed he would be different.
If he knows it's from me….
Her creativity-honed brain dredged up lewd delusions.
If he realized the pussy print was the princess's.
Appearing like a prince on a white horse, using her shame to steal her from the empire.
Then tormenting, oppressing, humiliating her in every way.
Exploiting weaknesses she didn't know she had, melting her brain with pleasure.
Reducing her to nothing but a "princess," no longer.
Turning her into a bitch who loved only cock, shaking her ass for pregnancy, a mere meat onahole….
"…Ngh."
A tingling jolt in her lower belly made Charlene flinch.
No need to slip a hand under her dress—she knew the sensation, biting her lip lightly.
A place she'd thought only produced bloody clots, not urine.
Since encountering Sade's writing, it kept leaking clear mucus.
Is this the love juices from sex ed? But the princess chasing Sade's freedom preferred another term.
Gotta change panties again because of pussy juice.
What would people think of her constantly changing underwear?
Steward, guards, Intelligence—they'd just see a princess too pristine for any stain.
The more she dwelled, the clearer her fantasy of Sade blackmailing her into ruin.
Thump—
What was Sade thinking now, holding her letter?
Too much devotion from an obsessive fan?
Expecting him to see through her just from the letter—too much?
As anticipation swelled, her indecent pussy drooled shamelessly.
"…Steward."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"I want to change clothes."
Living among those who never questioned her orders.
Charlene secretly harbored the hope that Sade would ignore her status and turn her into a mere female.