Chapter 61 — The Queen Consort's Confession
Night session, day seven.
The atmosphere had changed completely.
Fuck. It was perfect.
The first day had been all formality. A mask. Tea. By the third day she'd opened halfway — her daughter, milk. By the fifth, wine. Names. And today, day seven.
I entered the residence.
Elena sat on the sofa, a shawl draped over her nightgown. Lavender. One shoulder left bare.
Ordinarily the shawl stayed fastened to perfection. Today she'd let it slide. The skin of her shoulder showed, the thin strap of her silk nightgown resting across it, her collarbone standing out sharp.
Not a trace of guardedness.
In seven days, this woman had stopped registering me as a 'man.' No — to be precise, she'd sorted me into the category of 'harmless man.'
The result of [Common Sense Alteration]: it is safe to let your guard down around this man.
This wasn't something to celebrate. Get filed under 'safe man' and your allure dies. But there was no need to worry — for now I would let her feel safe here, and inside that safety I would feed the fire slowly. Fire burns hottest in safe spaces. ...Fucked-up logic, but that's my trade.
"You're here."
Elena smiled. Naturally. Not "so you've come" — just, "you're here."
On the table sat wine. Cheese, fruit. She'd even laid out things to nibble. This wasn't counseling. This was...
"Tonight, let's really just talk."
Elena poured the wine. Two glasses.
"Have one too, Do-hyun."
Have one too, Do-hyun. Effortless. No hesitation left in saying my name anymore.
I accepted the glass. A toast — clink.
"What would you like to talk about?"
"...Something hard happened today."
"I'm listening."
"No — counselor mode off. Just listen to me."
Not as a counselor, but as a person. This was the deepened version of the fifth day's "I don't want counseling, I want to talk."
"Of course."
Elena took a sip of wine.
"The king held a banquet today. A birthday banquet. Three hundred gold out of the treasury."
"Is that a great deal of money?"
"Three months' pay for an entire company of knights."
Fuck.
"I walked into the hall and the king had his concubine seated at his side. Rianne. Seventeen at the time. Blonde — but not gold like mine; straw-colored. Young, pretty, a laugh like clear water."
There was no emotion in Elena's voice. Flatness. That's more dangerous than rage. Her feelings had gone numb.
"The king hung a necklace around Rianne's neck. In the middle of the hall. In front of every minister. While I, the Queen Consort, sat right there beside him."
She drank. Deeply.
"Funny. Really funny."
It wasn't funny at all.
"He hasn't come to me in three years."
She stopped. Stared down into her glass.
"The king and I haven't shared a marriage bed in three years."
There it was. The core of it.
"He only seeks out his concubines. Rianne, Sophia, Mireille. Three concubines taking turns in the king's chamber. Me... he doesn't call for."
Elena's hand trembled. The glass wavered, and a single drop of wine fell to the table. A ruby-red dot.
"At first I was angry. I pounded the walls — alone. Screamed into a pillow, because I couldn't let the maids hear."
"Then I was sad. What had I done wrong? Was I getting old? Did I have no charm?"
"And then... I went numb. Ah. So this is just how it is. This is what a Queen Consort's life is."
Three years of emotion eroding: rage to grief, grief to surrender. Not acceptance of loss — erasure of the self. A redefinition of 'I am not a woman.' You could read about this a hundred times in books; watching it happen in front of you still twists something in your gut.
"Your Majesty..."
"Elena."
Firm.
"In this room, you call me Elena. Not the Queen."
Our eyes met. Her violet eyes brimmed with tears, but none fell. Day seven, and this woman still hadn't cried in front of me.
"...Elena."
I said her name for the first time. Exactly as calculated — calling it only once she'd demanded it. Maximum impact.
Elena's eyes wavered. Hard. The instant the name left my mouth.
"Why... why does it feel so different when you say my name."
Words slipping out before she could stop them.
"Being called Elena instead of Your Majesty is different. 'Your Majesty' is a position. 'Elena' is a person."
"...A person."
Elena bit her lip.
"I'm still only thirty-eight."
Her voice shook.
"Only thirty-eight. The concubines are twenty-five, twenty-two, twenty-eight. Younger than me, prettier than me. But I... I'm still..."
A tear finally fell — one, tracing down her left cheek.
Day seven. For the first time, the Queen Consort wept.
That one sentence. The cry of a thirty-eight-year-old woman ignored by her husband for three years. 'I'm still a woman too' — the weight of it. Three years of thirst, shame, rage, and loneliness, all of it packed inside those words.
People get devoured by the roles they take on. Elena, the person, had been swallowed whole by the seat called Queen Consort, and her identity as a woman had been the first sacrifice. Because her husband no longer saw her as a woman, she had stopped seeing herself as one.
And now, these tears were the moment that lost self — the 'woman' — rose back to the surface.
Marisa had been similar. Five years as a widow, forgetting she was a 'woman.' But there was a difference between Marisa and Elena. Marisa's husband had died — nothing to be done about that. Elena's husband was alive, and had cast her aside. The shame of that discard was layered on top. If Marisa's thirst was for want of water, Elena's was for watching water that was never hers.
Something moved inside me. Not calculation — this was a real emotion.
I pitied this woman. No — pity was the wrong word. This woman was... extraordinary. For three years she'd swallowed all of this, alone, and still run a kingdom. Marisa was remarkable too, but Elena operated on another scale entirely. Marisa held up an inn. Elena held up a kingdom.
...And here I was, sitting beside her, planning to break that woman down. Fucked up. Genuinely.
"Elena."
I said her name again. Elena looked up at me — violet eyes wet with tears.
"You are a woman. Thirty-eight is young. And if you believe you have no charm, that is the king's failure — not Elena's."
...
"If the king doesn't see you, then the king is blind. It isn't that you're lacking."
As I spoke, I asked myself: was this sincerity, or calculation?
Both.
I genuinely found this woman attractive. Golden hair, violet eyes, an hourglass figure — with intelligence and decisiveness on top of it all. Not seeing her was true blindness.
At the same time, I knew these words would rebuild her self-esteem, and that the rebuilding would attach itself to me.
When sincerity and calculation point the same way, nothing is a more powerful weapon. ...And nothing is filthier.
Elena's tears fell again — down her right cheek this time.
"...Thank you."
The third "thank you." But this one was different from the ones before. A "thank you" spoken through tears. A "thank you" with the mask fully removed.
We drank more wine.
Elena spilled out her story, as if a dam had burst.
The political marriage at eighteen. How the king had been decent, at first. The joy when Lizette was born. When the king had begun to change. The first concubine. The second. The third. The ministers' whispers. The rumor: the king seeks concubines because the Queen Consort has no charm.
"That rumor is why I changed my dresses. More extravagant. Cut to show more chest."
Elena glanced down at her own chest. Between the shawl, the neckline of her nightgown dipped low.
She was hot. Honestly, fucking hot.
"Ridiculous, right? What's the point of new dresses when your husband doesn't even look."
"It was an act of self-preservation. Not ridiculous."
"...You really see it that way?"
"I'm only saying what I see."
Elena sniffled. Her nose had gone red from crying. Where had the Queen's majesty gone? After crying, she was just a thirty-eight-year-old woman.
The Queen's mask had come off. Completely.
"I never thought I'd end up telling you things like this."
"Things like what?"
"About my marriage bed. To a man. My royal psychologist, of all people."
Elena gave a small, wry laugh.
"I must be losing my mind. Seven days ago I accepted this as counseling. And now... I'm telling you everything, aren't I."
'You.' A first. Not her formal 'you,' not 'Do-hyun' — just 'you.'
Was it the wine? No — the wine was an excuse. This was the change seven nights of sessions had built.
[Common Sense Alteration]. Seven days of accumulated work, reinforced.
"It is safe to open up to this man." It sank in, warm and slow.
"Elena."
"Mm."
"Talk as much as you like. Whatever is said in this room never leaves it."
"I know. I know, Do-hyun. You're... someone I can trust."
Someone she could trust.
The Queen Consort had just called me trustworthy. That was — huge. Elena trusts no one. Not the ministers, not the maids, not even her own daughter, not completely. A Queen's loneliness is born of distrust.
And that woman trusted me.
The power of [Common Sense Alteration] was great — but so was the weight of seven nights spent faithfully at her side. Technique alone isn't enough. You have to mix in something genuine. I had both. ...Which is exactly what makes me the worst kind of scum.
I asked to borrow the washroom for a moment. Elena gestured toward the inner rooms.
A Queen Consort's washroom. Spacious. An enormous mirror, a marble basin, fragrant soap, towels arranged with perfect precision.
I hadn't come to use the facilities. I'd come to sort out my thoughts.
I looked into the mirror. My face. Twenty-seven. More than fifty days since I'd come to this other world. My face had grown a little gaunt, but the eyes had gotten sharper. Treating fifty soldiers' trauma at the front, then nine women — Marisa, Irene, Rosa, Erica, Helga, Karin, Eva, Sophie, Rine — the experience had piled up.
And now. The Queen Consort.
Time to review the plan.
Elena's emotional state. The confession of 'no marital relations.' That was the signal to move to the next stage. Voicing a sexual thirst meant she had begun to register me as a 'man.' But not yet on a conscious level. She was at the stage of wanting this man to acknowledge her as a woman — without knowing it herself.
Next move: don't rush. Tonight ends here. Pushing right after feelings erupt backfires; the Queen's pride rebels. She could rationalize it as 'a mistake made while drunk' and raise her walls.
Cement tonight's gains. Let "it is safe to open up to this man" take complete root. Then give it time.
I spoke to the man in the mirror. Silently.
Be patient, Kang Do-hyun. The Queen Consort is a marathon.
I went back out. Elena was pouring more wine.
The night had deepened.
Two bottles in. Elena's cheeks were flushed, her eyes damp, her golden hair spilling forward. The shawl had slid entirely off her shoulders and lay pooled on the sofa — leaving bare skin held by nothing but the thin straps of her nightgown, white and gleaming in the candlelight.
My gaze traveled. Shoulder to collarbone, collarbone to chest. The V of the nightgown traced the line of her cleavage, the silk rising and falling, barely, with each breath.
She was hot. So fucking hot.
A thirty-eight-year-old body, ignored by her husband for three years.
What sets a thirty-eight-year-old body apart from a twenty-something's? It had matured. Marisa had been like that too; Elena was more. If Marisa was 'abundant fruit,' Elena was 'a royal garden kept in flawless order.' She was the Queen Consort, after all — tended differently. Every inch of skin, every single strand of hair, groomed by maids. And this was the result.
She was hot. Hot enough to drive me fucking insane.
But I held back. Not yet.
"Do-hyun."
"Yes."
"Before you go... my shoulders. Do them for me."
The shoulder release. The nightly routine.
I moved behind the sofa and laid my hands on Elena's shoulders.
Bare skin tonight. The shawl had fallen, and past the straps of her nightgown, my hands rested directly on the skin of her shoulders. Warm. Soft.
Elena flinched. It was the first skin-on-skin contact.
"...Your hands are cold."
"It's a cold night."
"Then... hold me a little harder."
What was that supposed to mean? Would gripping harder warm my hands up?
But I understood. 'Hold me harder' was her unconscious translation of 'touch me more.' This woman was starved for touch. Three years without another person's hands.
I pressed into her shoulders — not hard, but certain. [Suggestion]. Warm; it sank in. The muscles let go.
Elena sighed. Deeply. Then tipped her head back, resting it against my stomach.
Her golden hair spilled against my abdomen. Seen from above, her violet eyes peered up at me through the loosened strands. Damp eyes. Cheeks reddened by wine.
...Just her head resting against my stomach and my cock gave an involuntary twitch. Tense the gut, hide the hardening — don't let her notice. Getting hard while a patient leans on you in tears — what kind of animal does that? Fuck. Not a man, a beast. Pathetic, honestly.
"Do-hyun."
"Yes."
"I... I shouldn't be doing this."
I didn't ask what she shouldn't be doing. I already knew.
"Your Majesty..."
"Elena."
"...Elena."
"Mm."
Silence. I could hear us both breathing.
Elena's head rested against my stomach, my hands on her shoulders. This wasn't a shoulder release anymore. This was — structurally — an embrace.
Five minutes. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved.
Then Elena straightened, and my hands slipped from her shoulders.
"Go."
"Yes."
"Come again tomorrow."
"I will."
I headed for the door and took the handle.
Then—
Elena caught my sleeve. From behind.
I turned around.
Elena was holding my sleeve. Her fingers white, gripping hard.
Her violet eyes wavered. A fierce battle raged inside her — the Queen's reason against the woman's heart.
"...Stay a little longer."
My heart nearly stopped.
Then — she let go.
Her fingers slipped free of my sleeve.
"No — go. I'm sorry."
Elena stepped back. Her face was scarlet — and not just from the wine.
"I'm sorry. What's wrong with me?"
Fury with herself, written across her face. The Queen Consort, clutching a man's sleeve — unthinkable. Her royal dignity was reasserting itself.
"It's all right."
"It is not all right. This is... as the Queen Consort..."
"Elena."
I said the name, and she fell silent.
"You told me yourself — in here, you're not the Queen."
...
"I'll come again tomorrow. As promised."
Something kindled in Elena's violet eyes. Relief? Expectation? Or something deeper still.
"...Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
I stepped out the door.
The corridor.
Walking, I looked down at my hand. The sensation still lingered — of having grabbed Elena's sleeve. No — of Elena grabbing mine. The strength of her fingers. The whitened knuckles. The voice: 'stay a little longer.'
And immediately after — 'No, go. I'm sorry.'
This woman was standing at the edge of a cliff right now.
Teetering between falling and holding on. Push, and she would fall — but she had to come over of her own accord. If I pushed her myself, the Queen's pride would shatter. I had to plant the illusion that she had 'chosen this herself.'
Time to prepare the next stage of [Common Sense Alteration].
"I feel anxious when this man isn't by my side."
From here on, I would deliberately modulate the frequency of contact. Some nights, arrive a little late to the session — carve out a stretch of time where Elena would find herself wondering, is he coming?
Intermittent rewards hook people far deeper than constant ones. It's how slot machines devour a person. ...And I was doing it to a person.
I really am a piece of shit, aren't I.
But when Elena had grabbed my sleeve, my heart had truly pounded.
Calculation and sincerity, overlapping again. I wanted this woman — politically, sexually, and... as a human being?
No. That last one was dangerous. Empathy is poison. ...The fact that I had to keep repeating that to myself probably meant it was already too late. Fuck.
I will have the Queen Consort — the highest woman in this other world. According to plan.
Elena. Wait for me. Before long, you'll walk into my arms of your own accord.
'Stay a little longer' was only the beginning.