The Reason for Discomfort (3)

Marion's fiancé's eyes were hollow when they met hers.

Marion ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stood facing Maxim without saying a word. The servant, Jean, observed the atmosphere between the two in silence before quietly stepping back. His hand rested on the doorknob.

The sound of the door closing echoed, but Marion did not see it shut. Her eyes were drawn to Maxim’s figure as if pulled by an invisible force.

His attire was modest. Whether it was due to frugality or simply a lack of energy to care, she couldn’t tell. Beneath a plain frock coat without any decorations, a red vest with no pattern was visible. And beneath that, a white shirt without even a brooch. It was nothing like the lavish noble attire adorned with all kinds of ornaments that remained in her memory.

She wanted to see his face more closely. Marion studied Maxim’s face intently. Even though she knew it was rude, she couldn’t stop herself from examining his expression and gaze.

Beneath neatly trimmed hair, golden eyes that had lost their light stared back. His eyes had horizontal tails, yet the sharpness in them created the illusion that the corners were slightly upturned. His lips were pressed into a firm line. There was no trace of the usual desire or longing one might see when looking at another person.

What should I even call this? Marion felt flustered. The situation was unfolding in a way completely different from what she had imagined. This fiancé named Maxim didn’t seem inclined to open his mouth at all. If things continued like this, they would simply stand there in silence until their allotted time ran out. Unable to bear it any longer, Marion took the initiative.

She squeezed out what little courage she had left. Her small voice was just loud enough to be heard over the ticking of the clock in the quiet room.

“...”

The lifeless eyes of her fiancé stirred. Maxim’s gaze turned toward Marion. She could feel his golden eyes slowly scanning her from head to toe. His stare passed over her jet-black hair, lingered for a moment on her eyes. He was probably looking at the mask she wore. Marion stopped her hand, which had unconsciously begun to rise toward her mask.

His gaze moved past her nose and settled on her equally stiff lips. It did not go any lower. That brief moment felt unbearably long.

Maxim finally nodded, as if responding to her request. Marion pulled out a chair with nervous hands and sat down. Maxim, who had been quietly watching her, waited until she was seated before pulling out his own chair and sitting across from her.

Without even understanding why she was saying such things, Marion offered him tea. Taking his silence as consent, she poured tea first into his cup, then her own.

Steam rose from the cups. Marion slowly sipped the tea, letting it linger on her tongue. Truthfully, she couldn’t even tell what it tasted or smelled like. She was still far too tense.

The fear-induced tension had not completely vanished, but it had begun to fade. Yet an unknown anxiety continued to tighten around her chest. Marion brought the teacup to her lips once more.

Across from her, Maxim simply stared down at his cup. As if looking into a mirror, his eyes followed the rising steam. Unable to endure the atmosphere any longer, Marion lowered her head.

Marion lifted her head, eyebrows raised in surprise. Maxim had lifted his teacup from its saucer and was taking a sip. It was the first time she had heard his voice. It was lower than she had expected. Having remained silent for so long, his words came out slightly broken.

After moistening his throat, Maxim looked at her. The hostility she had felt earlier had subsided. Now, Maxim truly seemed empty. His dead eyes and lifeless face created a strange contrast with the sunlight streaming into the room.

Neither Marion nor Maxim could bring themselves to speak. They simply sipped their tea, letting time pass in silence. Maxim did not ask about the mask she wore. Marion did not ask about the expression or the look in his eyes.

Marion had no room to feel curiosity toward Maxim. The tension never left her. The fear had not yet disappeared either. Still, whenever she saw him holding his teacup, lost in deep thought, she couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking about.

Shrinking back in fear, Marion lacked the courage to blame Maxim for not speaking first.

It was nearly an hour after they had first shared tea when a long, thin sigh escaped Maxim’s lips. Marion flinched and looked at him. He set his teacup down on the table.

Knowing nothing of the situation, Marion assumed that sigh was a reproach directed at her. He must be disappointed. He must hate her for having such a fiancé. Thinking this, she withdrew her hand from her own cup as well.

She was all too familiar with hatred—so familiar it made her sick. Perhaps this was better. Rather than being sold off to some noble with bizarre tastes, it would be far better to be hated here and have the engagement broken.

When Maxim opened his mouth, Marion squeezed her eyes shut. She could easily imagine what words would come from those parted lips. But what she heard was completely different from the torrent of criticism she had prepared herself for.

Marion slowly opened her eyes and lifted her head. His voice was as cold as his expressionless face, yet it carried a hint of consideration. It was the first act of kindness she had received from a stranger in a very long time.

Kindness was unfamiliar to her. Anything warmer than hatred felt unwelcome. She was relieved that his voice remained lukewarm.

Maxim greeted her with a straight posture. It was the formal exchange of names. Having not done so in what felt like forever, Marion answered with a slightly trembling voice.

Her voice was still small, but Maxim showed no displeasure. He simply maintained his unchanging expressionless face.

Marion clasped her hands beneath the table and nodded. Maxim continued in the same flat tone.

Maxim’s apology made Marion’s eyes tremble faintly. Both the greeting and the apology were things she hadn’t experienced in so long that her heart refused to calm down.

Marion’s words trailed off. It wasn’t embarrassment rising within her. Instead, her face grew deathly pale. It seemed that any amount of kindness beyond a certain threshold acted like poison to her.

Even so, Marion forced the words out. An awkward silence settled over them once again. There was no more tea left in the pot. Marion unconsciously reached for her cup, realized it was empty, and lifted the teapot—only to set it back down when she found it empty as well.

Knock. Knock.

A knock sounded at the door. Marion hurriedly gave permission for the person outside to enter.

As expected, it was Jean who entered. Marion glanced at Maxim before nodding.

Maxim looked at Jean with eyes that had grown even colder. Seeing his gaze, Jean quietly stepped back.

Jean looked at both of them. Maxim had already risen from his seat and was looking at the servant, while Marion stood behind him in a daze. That awkward, almost comical moment marked the first meeting between Marion and Maxim.

He hadn’t expected anything. No—he had expected something. He had hoped the fiancée waiting for him would perfectly match the image that came with the name Bourdin. He had hoped she would treat him like trash, mock him, and be vain and arrogant.

And Maxim’s expectations were beautifully shattered.

The girl sitting before him could never be the person he had imagined. Beneath the mask, blue eyes were visible. Those blue eyes were trembling with fear. It wasn’t an act. Maxim could easily guess that this girl had been used as a discarded pawn by the Bourdin family.

He had seen eyes like those—hollow and terrified—once before. Maxim slightly dampened the burning hostility within him. He opened his previously sealed lips. The pale, frightened face that appeared whenever he apologized stirred something within him alongside his hatred for Emil Bourdin.

It took him a little longer to realize that feeling was a sense of kinship.

==

Maxim and Marion met again two weeks later at Emil Bourdin’s request. Perhaps because she no longer sensed hostility from him, the fear she had felt during their first meeting was thankfully not as strong this time.

Marion had her first proper conversation with Maxim. It was about the tea they were drinking. Where the leaves came from, whether he drank tea often, what his favorite scent was, and what snacks he liked to have with it.

Even so, the conversation remained awkward. And Marion’s wariness continued.

Another week passed, and they met once more. This time, Maxim’s ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠family had formally invited Marion to their estate out of courtesy. Their third conversation was about the Apparte family’s territory.

Following his father’s suggestion, Maxim took Marion for a walk along the hill behind the estate. Beyond the gentle slope, greener and taller hills rose in the distance. The spring hills were fresh and vibrant, carrying a strong scent of earth. The grass blades were still damp with dew that soaked into Marion’s ankles. The grass covering the hill was soft. Beyond it stretched a dense coniferous forest and mountains.

Maxim watched with bittersweet eyes as Marion looked around in wonder. She slowly matched her pace to his and spoke in a small voice.

Marion’s face was pale. Even though it was spring, the weather was still chilly.

Maxim’s voice had softened noticeably.

After saying that, Marion seemed to think she had spoken too much and quickly closed her mouth. Maxim did not feel the need to respond. They walked along the hill where the wind blew. The distance between their steps still felt far apart.

Their fourth meeting took place another week later. It was an unexpected encounter requested by Marion herself. They drank tea in the same room where refreshments had been prepared during their first meeting. It was two days before Maxim was to depart for his new post.

As usual, Maxim spoke with excessive politeness and few words. While they were having various conversations, Marion seemed bothered by his formal tone. As he sipped his tea, she spoke up.

Maxim raised his eyebrows slightly as he listened. “More comfortably…?”

Marion gave a timid nod. After all, Maxim was four years older than her. The reason he had kept his distance and maintained such formality was partly due to the barrier around her heart and the guilt he felt himself.

Maxim touched his teacup and looked at her. Whenever he stared at her in silence like this, she would lower her head, her cheeks turning pale with fear. Each time that happened, Maxim could barely suppress the murderous intent boiling up toward Emil Bourdin.

As expected, Marion lowered her pale face completely.

Maxim cut her off. Before those eyes could go hollow again, he felt he had to say something.

Their eyes met—Maxim’s golden ones and Marion’s blue ones. For the first time, Marion thought his golden eyes didn’t look cold. She doubted her own eyes. Why did she feel that the first emotion to appear in those once-hollow eyes was concern for her?

Marion stared at him blankly. Maxim looked at her dazed expression and gave a bitter smile.

It was the first time Marion had seen Maxim smile. Though it was a bitter one, that smile was clearly directed at her. The slightly upturned corner of his mouth mixed with the first emotion to appear in those golden eyes, drawing her gaze. Eyes so similar to her own were looking at her with worry.

Why does he look at me with those eyes?

Marion felt a faint tremor. Was it fear? Or tension? She shook her head inwardly. Then what was this trembling?

Marion bit her lip so Maxim wouldn’t notice. Beneath her glove, her right hand—covered in miserable scars—trembled violently. As if scolding herself. That day, more than ever, she resented the burn scars hidden beneath her mask.