Lingering Attachment (1)
I returned to my room and stood before the mirror. The reflection showed a complete wreck of a man who had spent days pouring nothing but alcohol down his throat. His cheekbones jutted out sharply from his emaciated face, and heavy shadows darkened the hollows beneath his eyes. One cheek stung for some reason. It looked like I'd caught a shallow cut across my face while crossing swords with the Duke. And now I had to show up at a ball looking like this. Honestly, I looked more presentable when I was rotting away on the northern front. Back then, it was rarer to not have fresh wounds carved into my body.
If the Marquis of Monvern's youngest daughter saw this face, she'd probably burst into tears. Not that I had any intention of getting tangled up with her, so it made no difference to me. I don't exactly disbelieve in love at first sight, but it does sound awfully cheap. Balls, social gatherings, all that nonsense. No matter how far I dug through my memories, not a single pleasant recollection remained.
Richen had always been ashamed and terrified of appearing anywhere with the name Grayan attached to him. The moment he showed his face in a banquet hall, mockery would slither after him like a shadow, and no one ever treated him like a person. Inside the mansion, one wrong word earned him a beating from his father's sheathed sword until his bones cracked. Living under Lione's constant contempt on top of that made his fear perfectly reasonable.
A knock sounded, and the door opened. At least this time Lione had the decency to knock first.
"What are you doing? Change your clothes and clean yourself up. Fix that face."
"......Now?"
"Did you not hear Father? We're leaving right after dinner, so until then... That wound. Did you cut yourself?"
"Your father did it."
"......He's your father too. Whatever. I'll bring the servants, so just get ready."
Lione spat the words and left. Soon after, she returned with several servants in tow. They carried in armfuls of clothes, warm water, razors, and began the work of turning me presentable again.
After washing and shaving, I pulled on a set of neat clothes. It didn't transform me into a proper young master. If anything, I looked like a junkie who'd just crawled out of rehab. No matter how finely I dressed, the exhaustion clinging to my sunken eyes refused to leave.
I traced the cut on my face with a fingertip. The servants had sprayed it with some nameless medicine and covered it with a white cloth. It would heal soon enough. At least that bastard of a family head wouldn't lay hands on me again. A man who ran entirely on honor and pride wouldn't risk tarnishing either.
Fucking Grayans. The name alone made my skin crawl.
I rummaged through the cabinet, grabbed a bottle of liquor and a cigar, then dropped onto the sofa. I bit down on the cigar, lit it, and reached for the glass only to stop. I would be in a carriage soon. I didn't feel like suffering through a hangover on top of everything else.
I boarded the carriage with Lione. At first I thought the Duke had stuck her with me to stop me from bolting. Then it occurred to me that she had reached this age without any marriage prospects either. Given her personality, it was hardly surprising.
The silence inside the swaying carriage was too heavy to be called merely awkward. Our eyes met for a moment. When I saw her open her mouth, I turned to stare out the window. She muttered anyway.
"...A lot of people are going to cling to you, brother. Plenty of women will throw their bodies at you too."
"So?"
"Just saying. No matter how much you deny it... you were born a Grayan."
This distance between us felt exactly right. Close enough to ignore her nonsense and let it slide. I pulled out the cigar I'd brought, lit it, rested my arm on the windowsill, and gazed outside.
"Do you really have to smoke that in here?"
"If it bothers you, get off. You run faster than the horses anyway."
"What the..."
Criminals like me had to ride in carriages. People like the Duke or Lione could reach the destination faster on their own two feet.
"We're family, so I'll overlook it when you forget your place and run your mouth. But at the ball, watch your words."
Lione let out a small sigh and rested her hand on the hilt of her sword.
"Like I said, in the end you're still a Grayan."
I shot her a glare but didn't bother replying. Those were the exact words the old Richen had desperately wanted to hear. Too bad I wasn't him.
I stepped down from the carriage and headed for the mansion. Balls like this were supposed to drag on for days, but I had no intention of staying long. Leaving for the capital right after wouldn't be so bad. Not because I was chasing after the woman who ran off with another man. Simply because anywhere was better than the Grayan estate.
There weren't many places where Richen could exist. The name Grayan kept him from sinking to the bottom, yet he could never mingle with those above him either. A Grayan who ultimately fell short of the standard—nothing but trash.
I entered the ballroom immediately. I skipped the dances. Instead I leaned against a secluded railing, looking down at the crowd while I smoked and drank.
Under the chandelier light, couples spun in circles. The music, the laughter, the clinking glasses—none of it had anything to do with me. When was the last time I'd belonged in a place like this? Probably the final dance with my ex-fiancée before the engagement was broken, the air between us thick and awkward.
Then one utterly fucked-up sight caught my eye. Just like you'd expect from this goddamn NTR game.
In a corner half-hidden by a wall, where a drunk and staggering Lione had been left, some man was slipping inside. He stood in front of her, saying something I couldn't hear from here.
It might be nothing. He could be a low-status merchant who'd managed to sneak into the event. Maybe I was overreacting. But the world I'd fallen into was never a decent one. They weren't holding hands or pressing shoulders together, but still...
I had no idea how she'd gotten that drunk. Was I actually worried about Lione right now? Someone like me had no right to worry about anyone.
From a man's perspective, risking everything to sleep with her just once and make sure others noticed could be a ticket to climbing the social ladder. That might be why.
In truth, I believed whatever happened to Lione was none of my business. But it seemed 'Richen' felt differently.
I ground the cigar I'd been biting against the railing to extinguish it and started walking.
The music had stopped for a brief break from dancing, yet the ballroom was louder than expected. Everyone was clustered together, chatting eagerly.
As I made my way toward Lione, people kept glancing at me, but no one greeted me. Well, maybe one.
"W-wait, you're Richen..."
Someone seemed to call out, but I decided I'd misheard and kept walking. It wasn't important.
"These days, chocolates filled with liquor are all the rage in the capital... who the hell are you?"
I approached the man standing in front of Lione, grabbed his hand, and casually draped an arm around his shoulders. The startled man tried to shove me away. When I bent his finger back, he opened his mouth to scream.
"Eughaa... heup... euk!"
Not wanting a scene, I pinned his shoulder, drove my knee into his chest, then pulled him close again until we were eye level. His whole body trembled when our gazes met.
"Grayan. Richen Grayan."
I released him. He stared at me with pure terror before scrambling away. The two women who'd been sitting beside Lione fled as well.
Lione, still half-drenched in alcohol, showed a flicker of surprise before her face settled into the same blank expression as the Duke's. She spoke quietly.
"Why did you do that? I was going to drive him off anyway."
I'd acted on impulse and had no answer ready, so I took a small step back.
"Were you worried? About me?"
"Did I overstep again?"
"......No. Yeah. You did. Someone like you. You're not even the heir."
Favorability has increased.
"Nothing happened. At first it was only women. Then he said he was a merchant selling famous desserts from the capital, so I was just listening. That's all."
It didn't really matter. If the women nearby gossiped about how some man had stayed alone with Lione in a private room for a long time, the rumors would spread regardless. There were always plenty of people jealous of the Grayan name. It was just that the target had always been me. They must have run out of easier prey this time.
"Lione."
"......I know. Thank you."
Even hearing gratitude made my stomach twist. The memory of her smashing my head with a wooden sword flashed through my mind. Without answering, I turned and left.
I escaped the noisy ballroom and sat on a bench in the quiet garden, gazing up at the sky. Away from the heat and lights, the night air felt cool and heavy. Music drifted faintly from the distance.
I'd been blankly counting stars for a while when someone approached quietly from behind. She wore the usual dress—white at the top, fading into a soft blue below. Dark hair with a faint blue tint, and blue eyes touched with violet.
"......Richen. It really is you."
A familiar face. The woman gave a small, troubled smile and continued.
"I heard you'd returned alive... Um. What should I say in a situation like this?"
She wasn't an ex-wife. Calling her an ex-lover felt wrong too. She was simply my ex-fiancée.